There I was, on my day off Wednesday, standing triumphantly in the sun on the top of the family travel trailer, pressure washer gun in hand, feeling like a god.
I was soaking wet and giddy with excitement.
There’s nothing like the feel of obliterating stuff – dirt, moss, scum, bug guts – using a device that shoots a jet of water at 1,900 pound-force per square inch. I accidently turned the nozzle toward my leg and nearly bored a hole in the top of my bare foot. (I guess I should have read the “how to strip flesh from the bone” part of the user manual first.)
Pressure washers are nothing to trifle with. When I cracked the user manual I was greeted on the first page by a list of scare-the-poop-out-of-you hazard icons and warnings.
Still, pressure washers are awesome! You can blast small children into orbit!
And I owe my new-found joy to my wife, Jacque, who had the foresight to give me one last Christmas.
“Every summer, you ask for a pressure washer, so I got you one,” she said, oblivious to what an awesome Christmas gift it is.
Maybe it’s a guy thing.
Of course with great power comes great responsibility. A responsibility, that is, to wash anything and everything in sight. The trailer. The sidewalk. The side of the house. The fence. The dog.
My 9-year-old daughter, Alia, arrived home from school in the middle of my pressure-washing blitz.
“Cool!” she said and immediately went inside the house. She reappeared a few minutes later dressed in clothes that could get wet.
“Spray me! Spray me!” she yelled.
“Okay, but it’s going to hurt,” I said.
A second later she picked herself off the ground at the far end of the driveway, and had another brilliant idea.
“I’m going to run right at you and you spray it in my face!” she said.
Now, being the kind, gentle father that I am, I turned the pressure washer knob from “kill” to “maim,” and honored her request.
Both of us were soaking wet and laughing when Jacque checked on us. She just shook her head and went back inside the house.
Alia wanted a turn at using the washer. She grabbed the gun, squeezed the trigger with both hands and aimed the nozzle at the side of the trailer, annihilating a mossy section in seconds.
“Whoa!” she said, with a huge grin. “It’s like using a machine gun!”
That’s my girl.
I could tell from the look on her face that I was going to have buy her her own pressure washer. Hey! Forget squirt guns. The two us can spend the summer months pressure washing each other across the lawn, onto the roof, to the next street. If I get two power washers, Jacque can join in the fun!
Meanwhile, I think I’m going to corral all of the plastic outdoor furniture and blast them with the power washer. It’s addicting!
Hmm. Maybe I should upgrade to a commercial pressure washer. Maybe Fred Meyer will hire me to clean their parking lot.
What other uses might their be for pressure washer?
Sticky kitchen floors?
What about you, readers. Do you need anything pressure washed?
Oh come on.