Grime & Punishment
I have a strained relationship with vacuums. And it sucks. Even so, with every new one, I’m hopeful. Maybe this vacuum will glide easily room to room without scuffing the walls? Perhaps it’ll weigh less than a Prius? Perchance it won’t need incessant emptying nor require schmancy bags, filters, and belts, oh my? I even dared to imagine it might clean well. A person can dream.
Buying a new vacuum is akin to getting a haircut. If you’re like me, you have grandiose ideas of looking fabulous, but end up looking about the same, but with less hair. Ditto with vacuums, you purchase and use the highest-rated one and your floors look about the same, but sometimes with more hair. Not sure who said high expectations are merely the seeds of disappointment, but whoever it was surely had dirty carpet and a mullet.
My unease with vacuums began in childhood when my dad carpeted the kitchen and the bathroom. An unsanitary nightmare that got worse. As a kid, I longed to interrogate the big guy, “Does the toilet itself need carpeting? And, while we’re at it, why do you have a rug on your head?” You know by the fact I’m alive, I held my questions. The word toupee never exited my mouth, even though for years our toilet was better dressed than I was. Warmer too.
My sister cleverly created a game to get us rug rats to help around the house. Of all the chores, vacuuming scored the most points, 50! I’d literally fight to drag that metal Electrolux around and faux-vacuum. We never changed the bag, so it picked up zilch. Exactly what my points were worth.
Rainbow vacs were the next big thing. At the time, a marvel of technology based on trapping dirt in water. It was given its colorful name with this catchphrase, “Now your home can be fresh as a rainbow.” Pretty sunny language for an appliance that was revolting to empty. What does one do with sludge stew?
Over the years, I’ve hefted all kinds of vacuums, from uprights to canisters, Hoovers to Eurekas. So the day Jeff, a Kirby salesman, showed up at my door, I was ripe for vacuum redemption. “The holy grail of vacuums? Why, yes sir, get in here!”
In my defense, we had just moved into a large house that seriously needed deep cleaning. Besides, our Kenmore vac was on sick leave. When Jeff displayed that die-cast aluminum 1950s-looking behemoth, believe me, I was skeptical. “Does he think I’m going to buy that?”
Why, yes I did. Twelve hundred smackers. Do not judge. I had to. Jeff scared the crap out of me by vacuuming my mattress and emptying the contents on a white piece of paper. People, this is why I drink.
Turns out that Kirby was indeed amazing. For a while. Because no matter how great something sucks, if I’m habitually balancing a mammoth hunk of aluminum on my hip halfway up the stairs while its hose once again is stuck at the bottom, the bloom has fallen off the rose. And me off the stairs. I heard the Kirby has an attachment that sharpens knives. Now, I’m afraid of it.
Our next home had central vac. Insert choir of angels here. All my vacuum woes were gone. Then, my husband excitedly showed me a Roomba. Thanks, Costco flyer. He was smitten. Clearly we did not need a robotic vacuum. That is, until he added, “If we get it, I’ll do all the vacuuming.” To which I yelled, “Get in the car! We’re going to Costco!”
I was snookered. He’s not vacuuming, the Roomba is. Truth is, long ago I had the epiphany that if we want more men to vacuum, there needs to be a riding one. I know, ahead of my time and sexist. Anyway, in my household, the robot vac took care of that.
Hubert Cecil Booth was the man who probably coined the term “vacuum cleaner.” Granted, it was a big improvement over his previous model, a horse-drawn vacuum affectionately called “Puffing Billy.” I don’t know what that guy was smoking.
Well, nature may abhor a vacuum, but not as much as me. Thank goodness my husband loves his Roomba. He just bought a second. This one empties itself, while the older one just sits there. Reminds me of myself. After all, nothing happens in a vacuum.