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Friday, May 6, 2011

Backyard Terrorism

The new face of extremism.
The fact pattern was this:

A vivid memory I have from childhood is washing and waxing the car with Dad.  My poor little CAWH hadn't had a bath since the summer of 2009.  Really.  Majestad had a some girls' movie night to head over to on Friday.  (I get weepy just thinking about how much estrogen was in play, there.)

I took out the slide rule and Scotch-tape and squished all that together into an idea.  I declared that Jack and I would wash the car.  Wile E. Coyote, super genius, move over, dude.  See, babysitting minutes burn like a raging grassfire, ending with the benefit of a glossy car.  "Sheer geeeenius, that's what it is!"

I thought about jumping in the old faded-by-dangerous-chlorine-levels swim trunks.  Nah, I mean, there's no way I'm getting wet.  First, it's not that hot outside.  And besides, we're only going to be spraying off the car for what, 2 minutes?  Not necessary.  Jack is giggling and grinning at my abject stupidity as we walk out the door.  His brain is about to spontaneously combust when he sees the galvanized bucket stuffed with all sorts of leaky bottles and unsafe chemicals.  And then there's the ultimate prize:  the spray nozzle capping the end of the hose.  

Have I mentioned that he is absolutely obsessed with water?  And waterhoses?  And sprinklers?  Guess that's par for the course if you're 2.5ish.

I let him use the SPWAY GUN on the end of the hose to get the car wet.  About 1,200 pounds of crud and dirt fall off the car, along with a body panel or two, a llama and an old paisley loveseat cushion.  Jack's a steaming mess of giggling incoherence by this time.  Having a BLAST.  I get the thing soaped, and just at the moment when I discover that my car is, in fact, black not gray, I immediately feel a cold jet of water, right square on my butt.

The little water jihadi got me with pinpoint accuracy, and is just dying with laughter over his marksmanship.  Furious, I grab the gun and soak a stripe right across him.  He squeals, roars, and then convulses with more laughter.  I pop him again (on the rump) again for good measure.  Little turkey.

Needless to say, when the hard work started, dude bolted and let me finish it myself.  He comes by that honest.  That's probably what I get for using 35 year-old Turtle Wax.  He knew better.  Anyway, the two of us came in late (took a long time to figure out legal status of the Guatemalan family I found living in my trunk), and fried up potatoes, sausage and eggs for a dinner that would appall every woman on the planet.  Jack inhaled it.

Holy war makes you hungry, I guess.

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