It happened just before Christmas and it isn't belated grief that has made this posting come so late. Rather, it was the complete feeling of freedom from lugging around the sheer weight and inconvenience of dealing with the recently deceased. Or maybe I'm just in denial...
My vacuum cleaner gave up the ghost and didn't bother to tell us it had done so.
The only reason I found out about it at all was the fact that I had loaned it to my sister prior to Christmas for her to tidy up before the family descended like locusts upon her home for the annual Christmas feasting and conversation.
She called to ask me somewhat concerned "Does your vacuum always make this much noise?" I assured her that "Yes, it does, but it works just fine."
She called me back a few minutes later to assure me that the vacuum did NOT work just fine and, in point of fact, had indeed passed on... slipping away from us to that great vacuum cleaner heaven in the sky.
I was appalled!! I used this SAME vacuum cleaner to clean the floors of my home all the time and now I was left to ponder just what level of filth I have become accustomed to accepting as "clean"?
Imagine my horror.
Even when I pronounced my home clean, neat and tidy after dragging the ten-ton behemoth through the home to suck up dirt, pet hair, cobwebs, dander and debris... the sad truth is that my beloved elderly vacuum was simply rearranging it to a neater dump.
Why on earth do I ever invite people over???
I'm quite certain that thought always crosses THEIR minds as they see the tragedy unfolding before them and are helpless to do anything until the time comes for them to make a speedy getaway to somewhere less cluttered and filthy.
OH MY GOSH!!! I just realized... I had BRAGGED about how well this cursed vacuum cleaner worked only days before I loaned it to my sister! Now, she either thinks I am the president pro tem of the local "Liars Club" or a certifiable lunatic. Either way, it doesn't bode well.
So, while on the phone today with my gal pal Billi Jo, we were discussing the relative merits of whatever new machine I shall consider to replace the "not so dearly departed", we talked about vacuuming over the same spot repeatedly only to see the little dust cup fill over and over with wads of pet hair. It kind of makes me wonder why our pets aren't all walking around butt naked since they seem to lose so much every stinking day!! Why on earth don't they all look like a Mexican Hairless by now??? But I digress...
The reality of it is that I want to have a vacuum that is truly lightweight but has the suction power of a jet engine on steroids. I want people to think that my house never accumulates dirt, dust, dander or pet hair. I want it to clean the room at ten paces while I'm sitting in a chair holding the hose out at ten paces! In short, I want Better Homes and Gardens to make my home the poster child of the month for beauty and cleanliness!!
I think I need to lie down now as I have worked myself up into a lather just thinking about it.
All I know for sure is that I should never be trusted to loan out household appliances ever again. What I assume is "normal functioning" is actually the death throes of a machine whose prime has come and gone without me ever taking notice of its demise. It's a cautionary tale.
In my defense, mechanical and electrical things are not my forte anyway. They don't speak my language and likewise I am a wanderer in a strange land when it comes to understanding theirs. And Lord knows there are not any "Your Vacuum Cleaner For Dummies" books out there. I know, because I looked. So there.
Now, I am left with the odious task of searching for a suitable replacement. But how can I be trusted with so momentous a decision?? After all, I let its predecessor pass away on my watch without so much as a by your leave. Is there some sort of legal penalty for this? Have I doomed myself in some way?
As Billi Jo says "Oh, the vacuum tragedy!" She kindly offered to let me use hers if only we had beaming technology. I'm sure Scotty wouldn't be amused at the return trip of a corpse instead of a vacuum cleaner. Even the replicators of the future can't reanimate the dead.
So I am determined to do one of two things: (#1) either find a vacuum cleaner that does what it says and perhaps has some sort of early warning system that tells me in plain language that I am in the process of killing it OR (#2) simply hoping that dainty little cleaning fairies will do the job for me.
I'm thinking that option #2 isn't going to happen. Sad, I know.
Is there a maid service that simply shows up to vacuum? Do they have reasonable prices? And, more importantly, will I be held liable for killing THEIR vacuum should the pet hair and general crud around my home overtake it?
These are questions I am determined to answer in one form or fashion.
But not right now.
Now, it is time to mourn the passing of the vacuum. Even if we are a bit late in doing so. I'm sure wherever it's soul is (do they even HAVE souls?), it will appreciate the gesture.
Farewell Dirt Devil! We hardly knew ye...
January 27, 2010
January 26, 2010
What in the holy Hannah is going on in here???
I'll admit that my approach to housework is extremely casual. I do not believe in being a slave to the house. If the health department has not been called in to quarantine the place and condemn the house entirely, then I'm good.
The floor IS mopped, the counters are reasonably free of clutter, or at least as free as they can expect with a college student, a genealogy freak and a part time culinary 'expert' making the counter a wasteland for various projects.
But this morning, sometime between the breakfast and saying goodbye to Jared for the bus, our resident canine tried something new.
She was rinsing her feet in her water bowl.
DO WHAT???
Just what in the holy Hannah is going on in here, dog?!?!?!
There was water all over the floor in front of her bowls and her feet were wet up to the hocks, ankles, wrists... whatever the heck it is you call that part of the dog's leg.
She didn't appear to be too unhappy that I discovered her 'fancy footwork'... until I got out the mop.
She hates the mop. It removes her 'artwork'.
Gypsy views her muddy paw prints, soggy dribblings and fur as a 'shared blessing'.
I believe, if given the choice, Gypsy would carpet every room in the house with 'tumblefurs'... you know, those little wads of dog fur that get under every piece of furniture and which, without "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!", would overtake the entire house.
It goes without saying that in her vision of household perfection, she would have a dedicated area to toss her dry food around. She has this habit of trying to 'bury' her food and as a result, despite endless hours of trying to correct her behavior, I sweep up bits and kibble from the area around her bowl. Too cheap to toss it out, I pick out the bits of fur and other detrious that is in the dustpan and redeposit the food in her bowl for later eating, which actually DOES occur.
But today, I must admit, the foot rinsing caught me off guard. It's not like she never gets bathed. She does. We have a lovely set of mismatched towels just for her.
Apparently, running the fenceline barking violently at the neighbor dog and showing him just how 'tough' she is made her tootsies a little hot. So she rinsed them.
In the absence of any other plausible reason for why her feet were all comfortably drenched in the cool and previously fresh water in her bowl wasn't forthcoming. Those of you who have dogs know what I am saying... they just aren't real newsy when it isn't in their best interest. And despite all of my training and Rick's training and Thomas' training to this little girl, she knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em in the communications department.
I'm sure that we will make up later on. Right now Gypsy is sulking. I had the nerve to clean up her 'art work'.
Get over it, little girl!
When the National Gallery calls for an exhibition, then we'll talk about it.
But in the meantime, I'm left to wonder why, on a day when the temperatures hover in the 30degree range, it seemed like such a good idea to rinse her feet in the water bowl.
Some questions may just never get answered in this life.
Maybe I should apply for a government grant to study the phenomena... they did give a multi-million dollar wad-o-cash to someone to study cow flatulence...
The floor IS mopped, the counters are reasonably free of clutter, or at least as free as they can expect with a college student, a genealogy freak and a part time culinary 'expert' making the counter a wasteland for various projects.
But this morning, sometime between the breakfast and saying goodbye to Jared for the bus, our resident canine tried something new.
She was rinsing her feet in her water bowl.
DO WHAT???
Just what in the holy Hannah is going on in here, dog?!?!?!
There was water all over the floor in front of her bowls and her feet were wet up to the hocks, ankles, wrists... whatever the heck it is you call that part of the dog's leg.
She didn't appear to be too unhappy that I discovered her 'fancy footwork'... until I got out the mop.
She hates the mop. It removes her 'artwork'.
Gypsy views her muddy paw prints, soggy dribblings and fur as a 'shared blessing'.
I believe, if given the choice, Gypsy would carpet every room in the house with 'tumblefurs'... you know, those little wads of dog fur that get under every piece of furniture and which, without "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!", would overtake the entire house.
It goes without saying that in her vision of household perfection, she would have a dedicated area to toss her dry food around. She has this habit of trying to 'bury' her food and as a result, despite endless hours of trying to correct her behavior, I sweep up bits and kibble from the area around her bowl. Too cheap to toss it out, I pick out the bits of fur and other detrious that is in the dustpan and redeposit the food in her bowl for later eating, which actually DOES occur.
But today, I must admit, the foot rinsing caught me off guard. It's not like she never gets bathed. She does. We have a lovely set of mismatched towels just for her.
Apparently, running the fenceline barking violently at the neighbor dog and showing him just how 'tough' she is made her tootsies a little hot. So she rinsed them.
In the absence of any other plausible reason for why her feet were all comfortably drenched in the cool and previously fresh water in her bowl wasn't forthcoming. Those of you who have dogs know what I am saying... they just aren't real newsy when it isn't in their best interest. And despite all of my training and Rick's training and Thomas' training to this little girl, she knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em in the communications department.
I'm sure that we will make up later on. Right now Gypsy is sulking. I had the nerve to clean up her 'art work'.
Get over it, little girl!
When the National Gallery calls for an exhibition, then we'll talk about it.
But in the meantime, I'm left to wonder why, on a day when the temperatures hover in the 30degree range, it seemed like such a good idea to rinse her feet in the water bowl.
Some questions may just never get answered in this life.
Maybe I should apply for a government grant to study the phenomena... they did give a multi-million dollar wad-o-cash to someone to study cow flatulence...
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