Roar!

To get out and pump up my heart rate, I washed and vacuumed my van. It's a job I enjoy only when I'm in the mood and the enjoyment lasts maybe an hour. Then I'm done and wonder why I didn't pay someone else to do it. Oh, yes, money. My husband would keel over to know that I spent $30 on a wash, vacuum, and wax. Which I do twice a year and keep mum.

So I vacuum first, accompanied as always by my dog's excessive, loud barking as if the vacuum an intruder out to destroy everything he holds dear. I'm prepared with my headphones listening to a Today's Hits station on my Amazon Music, every other song a thumping rap with lyrics that make me blush. Who listens to this crap to make it a hit? Yikes, I sound like my parents.

I move to the outside of the car. Rinsing, soaping, scrubbing, rinsing. Again, fighting the dog who now acts as if water is his favorite thing. He jumps, spins, catches it in his mouth. When I fill the bucket, his head is submerged in the spray biting, nipping. He is sopping wet and retires in the sun to dry and lick his wet paws like a cat.

I'm proud of myself for doing this mundane task. Today, I have gotten off of the couch and away from my laptop to do menial blue collar labor. The end is near, the last side soaped and scrubbed. Just waiting for a rinse. I lift the nozzle and push. It gives easily, clicking against its counterpart on the hose, but no water. It is broken, cracked on one side most likely by the sun, or as I drop it in disgust, from that. What now?

A text interrupts me. My daughter in our family group. I whine about my broken nozzle. Explain that no matter how hard I twist the damn thing refuses to budge. The husband informs me he has another nozzle on his workbench. I reiterate the nozzle not coming off part of the text. He suggests a pair of pliers. I say, yes, my father taught me well. Already tried that. He recommends a hammer.

An idea occurs. We have two other hoses, one on the side of the house and one by the pool. I'll exchange my broken nozzle hose with one of those. I trudge to the side of the hose and discover that the hose, nicely twisted on its rack, is attached to the house. With a clip and two screws. Bolted. To the side of the house. What? I utter some choice words when I discover the hose by the pool is also attached. I picture using the hammer alright, but it isn't on the nozzle.

I sit with the dog in the shade. I gripe aloud hoping the male neighbor across the street, who is also taking a break from working outside, will hear me and offer assistance. Then I'm annoyed for thinking that I can't solve this problem without a man. I'm not a pansy.

I twist again. Try the pliers. Damn it. I tell Elliot I am not a quitter and that perhaps the hammer will at least allow me to get out some aggression. I put the nozzle attached to the hose on the workbench and give it a tap, tap. Nothing. I hit it harder. Nothing. I growl in frustration. Drop the hose on the concrete. Step over it and whack it with the hammer. Once. Twice. The nozzle pops right off, falling to the side.

Well, that was easy. I finish the job and then wash the dog while I've got the hose out. He hates this. I tell him it's his own fault. He should have offered assistance with the broken nozzle. Man's best friend better learn who really controls things. I am woman hear me roar!