A few years ago during a family reunion my sister-in-law began most conversations asking, “Do you do windows?”
Unable to find anyone who did, she sighed, “I guess I’ll have to go home and wash them myself.”
I don’t do windows, but they do get done. When the church has a slave day to raise funds, I take advantage of the slavery and have the teens over to wash the windows.
I don’t do lawns. With a houseful of bored children, why should I push an atrociously loud lawnmower in the hot sun?
And I don’t do carpets either. When my mother assigned work to us I always swapped jobs until I was cleaning the kitchen.
I’ll take a dirty, dish-stacked kitchen any day over a dusty carpet. At least in the kitchen I can see that I have made a difference when I am through.
But vacuum a carpet? Wash a window? It’s frustrating to work so hard and see so little change.
It was different for my sister. When I swapped with her, she vacuumed that floor until it stood at attention for three days afterward.
Mostly though, I do not like vacuum cleaners. I have tried several of them over the years. The shop vac was awkward, loud and blows a dusty residue. The canister vac – wet or dry – follows me like an awkward puppy. And the upright version whacks everything as I try to wrestle it into position.
When I vacuum, I’m on guard the whole time. The monsters have magic cords. As soon as I plug in the cord, it goes to great lengths to stretch across my path, tripping me when I least expect it.
Picking myself up, I vacuum to the outer edge of the room. As I reach that one last corner, the cord shrinks and unplugs itself.
Dangling the plug in my hand, I walk around trying to remember which place reaches far enough so I won’t have to relocate when I change rooms but someplace where the cord will be away from my feet.
My husband grew up in a different culture than I did. In his culture they taught very young children to develop an affinity with cleaners. In his culture, he learned to be on such good terms with vacuum cleaners that they actually allow him to totally disembowel them when they suck up the wrong stuff.
When he vacuums a room, he knows the vacuum cleaner’s language, the way to stroke the monster and communicate neatness and order. The room stays that way for a week afterward.
He continually reassures me it is a very easy thing to do, but I don’t believe him.
As often as I can, I yield the task to others, especially my children. Like I did the other morning when I asked (told) one of them to vacuum.
Ten minutes later the roar stopped abruptly. The machine was broken and my husband was not around to soft-talk the thing into being fixed. I had not patience with it.
I loaded all the pieces, the parts and accessories from it and another vacuum cleaner (long since gone) into the car and traded it all in. The newer version is lighter, makes a bit less noise and doesn’t wrestle with me as much.
And I have every intention in the world of sharing this wonderful purchase with those who have not yet reached their 20s. Particularly if they have a slave day to raise funds.