Yesterday I sent Scrunch outside to play with her Papa and I finally sat down with a sponge, a bucket of soapy water, the duster, and my dust pan to clean my vacuum. For almost forty-five minutes I lovingly removed every part. I washed, rinsed, and laid them out to dry. I removed all the loose strands of string, yarn, and embroidery floss from the roller brush, and cleansed all the cleaning tool bristles. You should worry about how truly happy I was for those forty-five minutes.
The women in my family have a slight problem when it comes to the vacuum. By problem I mean obsession. My mother wears them out. Regularly. She has more vacuums than t.v.s. I know incriminating vacuum stories about my aunt that I do not have permission as of yet to share.
As a child, I was schooled in the art of vacuum tracks and as an adult nothing reduces stress and anxiety more than seeing those tracks across my living room floor. It's weird, I know. Weirder yet is that we might all end up with matching urns.
The family that vacuums together, stays together. Or something like that.
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