Power-Wash

Just spent four hours power-washing my back deck. Then I power-washed my back deck furniture. And then I power-washed the brick walkway on the side of my house. And for an encore, I power-washed my cement front steps.

You know what? I enjoyed it.

Now, I don't have a blue collar bone in my body. I don't say that in a snobby way; it's embarrassing to constantly have to ask my buddies or my brother or my stepfather to help me out with simple household repairs and maintenance. In fact, the power-washer nearly brought me to tears on two separate occasions: the two separate occasions I attempted to put it together and get it operational.

Finally, early this afternoon, I was able to apply a simple piece of common sense to the power-washer and was able to get it working. Four hours later, I sit here typing this, enjoying a well-deserved beer, exhausted.

One thing I don't like about it is that you have to hold the trigger for the gun nozzle in all the time you're using it. It's a safety device, I get it. But man is the lower part of my right hand, from my thumb to my wrist, throbbing sore. I don't think I'll be able to hold a pen tomorrow.

So, if I disappear one day with what little money is in my checking account, have the detectives search southern California and focus specifically on power-washing companies. There you might find me, with the name "Kunu" on my driver's license, making a modest living power-washing decks, foundations, and brick stepping-stones, working on my tan and enjoying the fresh air.