No discussions about my internal organs this time, promise.
No, this time, it’s about the pre-historic power washer that we donated an internal organ for rented from the local home improvement store. It was gas powered. It was heavy. It was awkward in every possible way. It made more noise than a jet engine full of dinosaurs flying over a volcano during an earthquake in the middle of a tropical storm. Oh and, while it worked, it didn’t seem to work quite as well as I had thought it might. I was expecting Power. Tear the lining of the deck and drive holes through the posts kind of power. Not the case.
And, despite using it in the middle of a regular work day with a little bit of notice, I’m pretty sure it pissed our neighbours off.
Especially when my sad attempts to keep the blasts of filthy water on our deck weren’t all that effective and a small flood spread onto their adjoining, staged-for-selling deck.
The sudden flurry of activity to pick up their carpet (who the hell puts carpet on an open balcony with a known tendency to flood after a small rain shower – even if you’re staging?) and get their mop and water bucket kind of gave it away.
Oh, and then we received confirmation of the rumours: the mythical Quiet, Powerful Electric Pressure Washer exists!! It does not bear a tank of spontaneously combustible liquid! It blast dirt easily with a single sweep! It doesn’t lead to 16 chiropractor appointments to put your shoulder socket back together after trying to start the motor! It doesn’t wake every sleeping babe within a 42 block radius of your house! It doesn’t cost a kidney to rent for a day!
Because, damn it, our friends own one!
I’m chalking this up to one of those bullshit life-experience things because, seriously, there has to be some good in it, right? Okay, other than the clean deck and clean railings (that we now have to sand and paint).