Light Hearted

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You know those long weekends we dream about? The kind where you kick back with a cold drink, soak in some sun, and wonder why we can’t have Mondays off every week? Yeah… mine wasn’t quite that.

We had a four-day weekend thanks to Easter Sunday, and I had grand plans. Rest. Recharge. Maybe even catch up on that show I’ve been pretending to watch. But instead, I found myself deep in the trenches of suburban warfare: Spring Cleaning Edition.

It all started innocently enough. Mowed the lawn on the lowest blade setting to give it that crisp, just-thawed spring look. Felt like I was giving it a nice spa day after winter. Then moved on to cleaning the weeds out of the vegetable patch—because what says “I’m a responsible adult” more than prepping soil for tomatoes you may or may not remember to water?

But the real beast lurking in the backyard wasn’t the lawn or the weeds. Oh no. It was The Patio.
A mossy, greenish, slightly spooky patio that hadn’t been cleaned in over 20 years. It looked like it had been quietly auditioning for a forest documentary—“And here we see nature reclaiming human architecture…”

So, like any sane person, I requested quotes from professionals. Reasonable ones too. But the cleaner couldn’t come until next week, and—let’s be honest—some men just can’t wait. (Yes, I’m “some men.”)

I did what any impulsive DIYer would do. Drove to Lowe’s, found a pressure washer that cost a quarter of the quote, and said, “How hard can it be?”

Spoiler alert: Pretty hard. Also very wet.
I turned that pressure washer on and instantly felt like a Ghostbuster—except instead of trapping ghosts, I was blasting two decades of grime off bricks that probably hadn’t seen sunlight since Y2K. The before-and-after pictures of the patio? Chef’s kiss. It looked amazing. Like HGTV called and asked if they could feature my yard.

But the real transformation? Me.
I went in as a man. I came out as a mud sculpture.

My shoes were unrecognizable. My track pants? Brown. My face? A mix of sweat, dirt, and something that might’ve been moss. Honestly, if there was a “before and after” of me—you’d think I lost a bet and got tackled into a swamp.

And of course, Vani wasn’t at 100% either—she’s been sick the last couple of days, so she got front-row seats to this pressure-washed spectacle from the window, probably wondering if she should call for help or just quietly film for Instagram.

In the end, the yard looks great, the patio is ready for summer hangouts, and my ego is only mildly bruised. But next time? I might just pay the pro. Sit back. Watch someone else get splattered while sipping something cold. That, my friends, is the real dream.