Last year I wrote a post about painting my mail box or lack thereof. A blind woman would have done a better job. I’m not handy and my husband isn’t either. So slowly, I feel like our house is turning into a dump and I need to do something about it. For starters, in the 14 years we’ve lived here, our house has been power washed once and that was years ago. I decided to take the bull by the hose and power wash it myself.
My friend NC, who lives just a mile away, has graciously offered to loan me her power washer and bush trimmer. So an hour ago, I hopped in my husband’s SUV and headed over to her house. As I rolled up onto their white, unblemished driveway, I longingly admired their impeccably, manicured landscaping. Our driveway hasn’t been sealed in years and stained, thanks to daily oil leaks from my car. When you look at the bushes, they are reminiscent of 70’s grooming, but I digress.
As I got out of the car, I noticed they already had the power washer, the electric bush trimmer and an extension cord, neatly rolled up, laid out for me.
“Ok….I’m a little intimidated with the bush cutters. Do you have manual shears?” I asked while making a cutting motion with pretend, gigantic shears.
“No, I think we got rid of those years ago.” NC said.
Of course they did. After all, Bob Vila and Martha Stewart would never use such amateur tools to maintain their grounds.
“Ok, I need to learn how to use this,” I announced to BC (that’s NC’s husband btw) while eyeing the power washer.
I could see my friend snickering out of the corner of my eye, noticing my hesitation.
“I’m gonna need pictures.” She announced.
“Oh…you can count on that.” I said chuckling.
Demonstrating to 12-year-olds
BC began the demonstration of the power washer. He bent down and pointed to a lever with a picture of a rabbit, a turtle and another icon that I forget.
“So you see the picture of the rabbit?” He asked me.
“Rabbit….” NC said under her breath, chuckling. She was paying homage to a well-known vibrator. I chuckled too as I am a 12-year-old. BC continued, ignoring us.
“So you turn it to rabbit, pull the starter and it will vibrate a ton.”
“Can I sit on it?” I asked deadpan. NC lost it.
“Or sit on it if you want….whatever works. Now you see this poll?”
Poll? Really BC? Now how are we gonna get through this demonstration without childish behavior?
“There are 2 settings on the pole. You turn it like this,” he turned the yellow cylinder counter-clockwise, “to spray. Or to the right to shoot.”
NC giggled and I bit my lip in an effort not to comment on the shooting or spraying.
“Now what about the bush trimmer? I have 3 unruly bushes.” I said this before I had time to think about what I had just said and to whom.
“Wow….3?” NC asks. “Most women only have 1.”
“Well….” BC chimes in surprisingly, “there are 2 arm pits.”
“Hmm, true,” I said, now wondering if I had shaved my arm pits this morning before wearing a tank all day.
As I drove away, I covertly felt under each arm pit and breathed a sigh of relief, not finding any hair. I wish that had been the same story for when I looked down at the stop sign to notice my shorts had been completely unzipped the entire time.