This sucks. My vacuum cleaner, I mean. It is a dust-eating, dirt-swallowing, fur-slurping hurricane of joy and I am in love. I haven’t had this much fun with a power tool since … well, never mind. The point is, spring cleaning is underway and that means spring absolutely has to follow.
Oh, it’s early. Winter will surely slap my lawn with a layer of the white fluff before true spring begins, but that’s okay. The minute I spot my first cluster fly or Lady Bugs having a love-in in every windowsill, it’s game on for spring cleanse. I think of my pewter and orange metallic dream machine, with its stream-lined accessories and memory stretch hoses and I fear nothing.
I should explain how I came upon the new luxury item. It was a surprise, purchased by the Carpenter, who was smart enough to state that this new vacuum was not meant just for me. He knows only too well that such a mistake could mean the vacuum might accidentally suck up everything atop his man bureau (aka his dresser). Lottery tickets, lose change and notes of measurements from job sites gone in one very hasty wave of my new turbo wand. Oh no, just because we have a new house cleaning tool, it would be dangerous to suggest that it was purely for my benefit. Smart man. However, he did know me well enough to know that this new machine would quickly be mine; sort of like a cordless drill has unisex capabilities, but would probably not turn me on. I think I’m beginning to understand the man-power tool thing.
The new vacuum arrived in a grand box that suggested we were now going to be financially destitute. I’m not one to spend money on big ticket items, but I take my vacuuming seriously. I have to. I live with two large furry dogs, a cat, two hamsters, two children and one seriously dusty Carpenter who leaves little poof clouds of gravel ash every he goes, from the front door to the bedroom, where the concrete bits fall to the floor in the heap where he leaves his damp work clothes.
Since our old vacuum had finally coughed up its last fur ball, the time had come to replace it. Needless to say, we couldn’t waste money on some lousy, haphazard machine that could not inhale gravel pebbles and the occasional drill bit. My new vacuum cleaner had to have the motor of a champion; a canister of steel. It needed to be light and manageable. It needed state-of-the-art utensils, with extendable bits, streamlined to fit securely in the cupboard. Why, if it were really good, it would cost as much as my first car and have way more buttons and a digital dash too.
Digital dash aside, it does have all of the above and it cost more than my first car. I don’t care. It’s like when the Carpenter buys a brand name power drill, all yellow and black and sleek looking. I used to make fun, but I totally get it now.
Dust bunnies and stringy cobwebs shudder when my pewter and orange metallic turbo sucker comes roaring down the hallway. I swerve and swoop securely with its round motor that has European engineering. I am driving the BMW of vacuums. No the Jaguar of fine vacuums. No, no, the Porsche of power vacuums.
Fearless and clean, we turn on a dime and then we suck that up, too. Now, if only it could make coffee.