After 12 years living in our humble abode, I decided...ok, Jill decided...no, thats not right either. Let's try this angle...The health and human services of greater Illinois would probably have decided, (much better,)that they needed verification that the floor of my garage actually existed, or if the stacked, packed,jammed, crammed and otherwise squozed in pile of you-name-it was simply held in place over a bottomless chasm like some twisted junkyard version of don't break the ice.
Incidentally, for those of you not personally familiar with gene pool recession or trailer speak, the title of this diatribe is "Power washers and stuff." Please, refrain from correcting my grammar, doing so would violate the ZERO COMMENTARY currently gracing the bottom of all of my posts,thankyouverymuch, and where was I? Oh, right, the run on sentence regarding my garage.
A call was placed to Jay, who was borrowing Mike's Power washer. Having never used one before, Jay wanted a lesson in how to use this...this...big bad something-or-other horsepower briggs and stratton gas powered squirt gun on crack. It really is an amazing machine, with one pull of the trigger my testosterone level jumped up 30 points. Theres something very Zen about the ability to strip paint from a concrete floor with just a blast of water, almost as satisfying as cutting steel with fire...oh...oh...don't get me started on that.
After a full day yesterday of Mr. Mom-ing it I needed this. A few hours of emptying the garage by carefully tapping at the edge of the mountain with a big red plastic hammer...-obscure don't break the ice joke-...I lined up both sides of our driveway with neat piles of everything we own and for the most part completely forgot about. (A recent garage sale removed most of the crap, including all of the crap dropped off and left behind from the previous garage sale two years ago. Next time,I'm doing it right...two words...yard fire.)
I got mah boy and sat him down to watch his old man do man stuff. It probably didnt help that I sat him down on his sisters little wicker chair wearing his bike helmet, but who cares...no one could see him behind the mountain of garage junk we once called house junk. It was time to warsh, and i mean warsh with an r. I fired up the 2 stroke engine with one pull, pointed the nozzle of doom at the newly discovered greyish floor and nearly removed all of 11 toes with one shot. After dialing the nozzle down from " Filthy jackhammer" to "girly man" I tried again, this time taking off only the paint, grease, grime, sludge, and yuck that had once held our boxes in place, which I actually considered a benefit in the event of an earthquake.
Luke was proud, if not a little wet. He sat kinda close.
Once I was done, it was time for one more manly-man thing. I power warshed..the power washer itself...thereby adding 3 points to the score I made up in my head for scoring such things as power washing and football and cross stitching.
Maybe I gotta work on my list a little.
Tomorrow...REARRANGING THE KITCHEN CABINETS!
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