Wash Me, Baby!

When hubby told me he was going to rent a power-washer, it left me scratching my head. You see, I am mechanically-challenged. For example, once I realized what a screwdriver was, especially which end is the "tool" part, I was overjoyed. Alas, when I tried to use it, my hand-eye coordination orientation thingie didn't work right. If you can imagine a blind person trying to place the screwdriver tip into the screw, that would be me, hopelessly stabbing at everything in sight.

So, when hubby told me he was renting a power-washer, the obvious question in my mind was to wash what? Well, let me tell you, he washed everything outside. The siding, the sidewalks, the picnic bench, the patio...The man's eyes glazed over while holding the hose, searching for new targets. (I hope he doesn't read this; he'll kill me--lol) To be truthful, I stepped out of sight for fear he would want to wash me next!

"Lift up and bare your arm pits, baby! Let's give 'em a wash!" I could picture myself spray-propelled across the yard and splat against a wall like a squashed bug. Yep, I hid out from the guy. I'm guessing this must be some kind of manly ritual. I won't even go into the Freudian aspects of this. He was still out there in the yard after dark, a lonely figure in the moonlight, looking for stuff to clean.