I have become convinced, ever since moving to Canada, that my vacuum cleaner has it in for me.
To start with, it was just generally snarky. It’s never pulled its weight around the house, it complains when it has to hoover the tiniest of stones, and it totally disregards fluff.
“I was made to hoover dust,” it says in a snobby voice. “Not stones, not hair, not fluff. Dust.” And then it flicks its long tail at me, and shits out the offending stone.
Believe me when I say I have tried to reason with it. I’ve come this close to throwing away any dignity and begging it to work. But it wouldn’t have a bar of it. It continues its contrariness and refuses to cooperate.
So now, it is all out war.
I’ve seen it scheming. I have to keep one eye on it at all times; it’s tried to trip me with its cord more than once. And it’s heavy enough that I’m quite certain, if I let it get the better of me, it would push me down the stairs. To be fair, it’s not all one-sided. I’ve contemplated murder. If I gave it a large enough boot to its plastic armored shell, I could break it. Maybe if I fry its circuits. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
In an attempt to keep the peace, Dan has suggested we buy a replacement. This is not an option, however. If the vacuum cleaner dies of anything except natural causes, it will have ultimately won. Why? Because then it will have deprived us of the ability to pay for something we want. Let’s be real—a new vacuum cleaner is never a priority. I can’t knowingly do that to myself.
So, I am at a stalemate. For now, the vacuum cleaner lives a healthy life. Not a cough; not a splutter. I pander to its every whim, picking up stones from the welcome mat and sock fluff from the carpet. But one day, I will have my revenge.