"Well life has a way of turning out different though, don't it?" - Matthew McConaughey, Reign of Fire

Before

After

Quote of the week: “That makes The Mrs. feel all stabby,” said The Mrs. on Saturday night, after I told her I had to shag my hiney into work on Sunday, after being there on Saturday, too. Talking about herself in the third person – that makes John scared.

To make up for The Mrs. feeling all stabby, I went to Home Despot® to buy a power washer. I’m aware that power washers might not make every woman’s knees weak, but The Mrs. had even suggested I get one two weeks ago. I said, “No, too expensive.” Then I realized that The Mrs. was encouraging wanting me to buy dangerous power tools. I made a note to lower my life insurance coverage amount.

In Houston, all the parts of the exterior of the house get an alien fungus growth on them. If the alien fungus growth gets too thick, the alien fungus can focus its fungus mind on you and make you do bad things, like, well, heck. What would a fungus do for fun? Sit around and spore all day?

Anyhow, this green stuff, that The Mrs. calls “algae” tends to form on the north side of the house (no direct sunlight) and under the eaves in a spot or two. Since our house is clad in vinyl made from sweet, sweet oil, the fungus doesn’t eat it, but rather just sits there, mocking us with its greenish hue.

I was wondering (idly, which is the best way to wonder, really) exactly what I was going to do to remove the fungus. I could have The Boy do it, but realized he was getting just a little too big to duct tape to the end of a stick to do the high spots.

Then one day I was driving home (in the sunlight – a rarity) when I noticed that a guy was pressure-washing my neighbor’s house. Immediately I began to worry that my neighbor was gagged and tied to a chair in his foyer, while this person commandeered the exterior of his house for his own tawdry pressure-washing fun. After calling 911, the police explained that my neighbor had hired this stranger to pressure was his house to get the gunk off the side. I tried to explain my neighbor must be under the influence of the mind control fungus, but they looked at me oddly and drove off.

Anyway . . . I realized that this would take the gunk off the my siding, (saving my mind from the fungus whilebeautifying my home) and that they sold pressure washers at Home Despot©. But, if you read the first paragraph you probably saw all of this coming. Anyhow, an explanation of how a pressure washer works is in order. You hook a hose up to it, plug it in, and water shoots out the other side at 1800 psi (roughly the recommended inflation pressure on Angelina Jolie’s lips). The 1800psi is generated by the pressure washer through a series of 1800 elves that eat electricity and shoot tiny squirt-guns into the hose at the same time. 1800 psi is enough pressure to rip paint off buildings, rip oil off of concrete, and rip that smile right off your face if you touch it to your skin. Also, not so good for the skin.

So, to make The Mrs. think about me without having a stainless steel cooking knife, or even a (+4) Dagger of Stabbiness, share her mental image, I was forced to buy a really cool power tool. I know, I know, it’s rough being me, but someone has to do it. I had to fire Matthew McConnaghy McOnnahey McDonaughey McConaughey because he just wasn’t me enough. An aside, don’t you think Matthew had a heck of a time in kindergarten? Heck, probably took him ‘til middle school to figure out how to spell that beast of a name. What kind of parent names their kid Matthew?

Finally I got home with the power washer. I unpacked it, flipped through the instructions, and set it up. The Mrs. came outside as I was testing it on a patch of concrete embedded with dirt. She then stole it from me and proceeded to clean our concrete patio (30’x30’).

I then realized I had essentially given a knife made of water to a woman who admitted feeling a bit stabby. I can’t complain, though. I was sitting in the shade on a hot spring day. Watching The Mrs. work, all stabbiness gone from her demeanor. With a cold near-beer in my hands.

Ain’t life grand?