Such a Chore

Why is it the seemingly simple things can be so difficult? Those every day things that we all do, those chores that come with just existing. Beds have to be made, furniture has to be dusted, trash has to be taken out, and carpets have to be vacuumed.

Ah, there’s the rub. Vacuuming. I’m the world’s worst vacuumer. And no, I’m not going to use the obvious description, I’ll just say that I stink at it.

It seems easy enough. Push the machine around the floor and violá! Clean floors for casual seating. But it’s not that easy. It has to be set for the correct height; otherwise I either don’t pick up enough or I feel like I’m pushing a tree stump around the room. Plus, apparently there are rules about whether I can use the bristles on certain surfaces. I’ve been warned and threatened not to use the “bristle setting” on the area rug and the pseudo-wooden floors. First, I had to figure out if our vacuum even had an option for not using the bristles. And it did! Go figure.

So, once all settings are correctly set, then I can start the actual work of vacuuming. Seems like the easy part, huh? But no. Because vacuum cleaners come with an electric cord that is something like 200 feet long. Well, at least it feels that long as I’m trying not to back up on it or trip on it or get it tangled around my ankles as I walk the room. I swear it’s alive—some skinny snake with a sneaky cat mentality that wants to get under my feet.

Of course, when I am trying to get to that last quarter of the room, that’s when the cord some how shortens to 2 feet. As I head into that corner, I can feel the resistance as I try to stretch to that last little bit. Then it comes unplugged and I have to find another outlet before finishing. Or not. I mean who’s going to notice, really?

That’s the scary part, though. There are some neat-freaks who would notice; they would notice that the tell-tale vacuum tracks stop before that corner. I had a friend who’s mother actually had a pattern she would expect her daughter to do while vacuuming, and she knew when she didn’t do it because the pattern on the floor wasn’t correct. That’s just wrong on so many levels.

But the artwork that is vacuuming patterns is nothing compared to the things I’ve had to dig out of the vacuum cleaner. Why is it that I can vacuum over a little leaf 20 times and still have to bend down and pick that stupid thing up because the vacuum cleaner won’t suck it up. Yet, go anywhere near a shoe lace or a sock, and I’ll spend the next hour dislodging it from the bristles. I’ve turned many an ankle sock into a tube sock. It’s a gift, really.

And don’t even get me started on using the accessories. I’ve hit myself in the head so many times from trying to suck cobwebs out of ceiling corners that now I just say “Hello Charlotte” and move on. Besides, changing the machine into hoses and tubes is a lot like work.

So, I hate vacuuming. It’s only fair—it obviously doesn’t like me, so I don’t like it back. Luckily, my hubby doesn’t seem to mind, and if I put it off long enough, he’ll get fed up and do the vacuuming. He seems to actually enjoy it. And I’ve noticed that there’s always a lovely pattern in the carpet when he’s done.