Are We There Yet? Oh, boy! A new power washer for Christmas Lori Clinch When my husband of many years returned home this evening, he was beaming with pride. “I’ve been thinking about you all day long,” he said as he buried his hands deep in his pockets. Then he smiled wildly, looked at me with love and reported, “And I’ve been considering an expensive gift.” I suddenly went from being a 40-something-year-old woman with bad hair to an 11-year-old maiden on Christmas Eve. “Is it something for me?” I asked as I thought of a diamond necklace and fought the urge to jump up and down. “No,” he said with a smile, “it’s something for us.” Now you can call me a spoiled brat if you want to. But “something for us” doesn’t sound like a fun “something for us” when you’re married to someone like him. He has no tolerance for bling. He opposes any and all glitz and totally bypasses extravagance so that he can go straight for the practical gifts. Instead of fulfilling the desires of a woman’s heart, he opts for hammers, drills, and anything that would effortlessly drive a hardened nail into concrete. Still, I’m nothing if not resilient, so I forced a smile and asked, “Will I like it?” “Oh,” he said still beaming, “you’ll use it all of the time.” See, there we go again. No woman worth her salt wants something that she’ll use all of the time. She wants to wear it, sport it, and show it off to her friends. Women don’t want things they can utilize; they want gifts that they’ll enjoy. After all, how often do you see a woman crawling out from under her 2005 Chevy and sporting a 150-piece wrench set as she says to her close friend, “Don’t you just love these? I got them for Christmas.” But I didn’t want to appear unappreciative, so I kept a stiff upper lip, forced a smile and said, “Well, let’s see it.” With that he pulled an ad from the local lumberyard out of his pocket and with a quick, “Ta da!,” he showed me a lovely picture of a mechanical device that was large, bulky and appeared to plug in. “What is it?” “It’s a power washer,” he said barely above a whisper, and he almost sounded reverent. It was as if he couldn’t believe that a person could actually gaze upon a power washer and not be rendered speechless, and that those who did should do so with the utmost respect. Well, color me smiling no more. I sneered down my nose, furrowed my brow and whined like a little kid going to clean the john as I inquired, “A power washer?” “Yeah, isn’t that great? Just think, you could use it to wash your Suburban. Why, you could scrub down the drive, scour the walks and do any number of things. And I,” he said as he paused for effect, “could wash down my construction equipment with ease. Wouldn’t that be just great?” I’ve never seen a power washer, used a power washer or ever even once in my life said to myself, “Gosh, I really wish I had a power washer.” I’ve longed for a better vacuum, yearned for superior curling irons, and once had a hankerin’ for an eight-slot toaster. But I’ve never, not even once, ever heard of a power washer, much less put one at the top of my “Things to obtain before I die” list. Suddenly, I pictured myself on the driveway in a raincoat and galoshes. I would be sporting goggles and chore boots, and doing my darndest to keep the hose under control while I blasted the mud off my chassis. As any woman with an ounce of experience with the male of the species will tell you, the more we know, the more we have to do. Therefore, if, heaven forbid, I ever got good at running this stinking power washer, it would only be a matter of time before I was power washing the filth off the construction world as well as each and every piece of equipment that man owns. To be honest, I hadn’t been so disappointed in the prospect of a gift since the Great Ratchet Set of 1996. So I stiffened my spine, set my jaw and put my fists on my hips and firmly announced, “I don’t want a power washer for Christmas.” He smiled at me, and winked as though I was simply being coy. Although I tried to be clear and firm in my rejection of his gift, I’m quite certain that at this very moment, he’s somewhere researching spray tips, extension hoses and the ever-loving world of trigger controls. And to think I would have settled for a necklace. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.