When It's Good to Suck.

As Mitch has shared, I got a new vacuum on Friday.  It was one of those purchases that emphasized just how old and boring I have become, not so much because I bought a vacuum, but because of how happy the vacuum made me.

You see, I spent all of last week in some sort of weird haze/funk.  (Matt called it a "faze," but that seems too close to "phase" which is an actual thing.  And "hunk" doesn't work, either, unless I want to make people think something drastically different.)  I wasn't sad or upset or anything, but I was eating like shit, and I got drunk twice without planning to do so, and I just never felt "with it."  And the house was a mess and I just couldn't muster up the energy to do anything about it.  Plus, I couldn't find my tweezers, or my fingernail clipper manicure set thing, or Mitch's Kong, and it was really starting to anger me. 

Nothing major, of course, but just off.

So I was explaining my haze/funk to Cassie on Friday afternoon, and during our conversation she told me about their new vacuum.  She went on and on, praising the vacuum, quoting reviews, and providing anecdotal evidence of how awesome it is (i.e., "Hugh says the mop water isn't nearly as dirty as it used to be.").  We discussed how, perhaps, purchasing the thing would help me to escape my haze/funk, and Cassie advised me to buy it.

And I did.  (In fact, I didn't even go home from school before I went to Target and snatached one up--they were on sale for $99!)

For two days all I did was vacuum, and think of other things to vacuum.  Matt would be all, "Want to watch another episode of Breaking Bad?" and I'd be all, "Ummmm, can I vacuum the sunroom first?"  He'd be all, "Want to cook dinner?" and I'd be all, "Ummmmm, sorry.  I'm busy vacuuming out all of the window sills.  Check out this suction!"

What do all of these things have in common?

Oh yes, they're all things I retrieved when I pulled out the refrigerator to vacuum the coils. (Martha says this should be done twice a year.)  It was disgusting.  Look at it.

Is that cocaine?

Was there a murder that took place under our refrigerator?

Is that a receipt from 2005? (Mitch's first birthday, to be exact.)

Why did the people who lived here before us buy so much bologna?

And why did I pour about two cups of straight ammonia onto this mess (after vacuuming it, of course)?  Why didn't I think to open the windows?

So, high on ammonia fumes, I continued on my maniacal vacuuming endeavor, forgot to eat, and cleaned the shit out of the house.  I found the tweezers; I found $49 in a bag I haven't used in months; I found Mitch's Kong; I found a pair of shoes I haven't seen in since last summer; I cleaned out the refrigerator; I organized all of the closets; I packed up stuff for Goodwill; I cleaned the bathroom; I did all of the laundry; I reorganized the bookshelves; I dusted.

But I never found my damned nail clippers.  (Matt probably threw them away, fearing that if I had nails that were too nicely manicured that they might attract Seth Meyers or George Clooney.)

This place is sparkling, but I look forward to it getting a little messy again, you know, so that I can use the vacuum some more.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd, I'm old.