KA-BOOOOOMMMM!!!!

What did I ever do to the Bissell Vacuum Company? Hmn? What have I ever done to anyone to deserve this fifty-six-year-long fight with carpet cleaning and carpet shampooing appliances? And, more importantly, how is Bissell allowed to design, name, produce and sell a "pro" vacuum cleaner that works as well as me shaking a stick at the pet fur on my wall-to-wall apartment carpeting? EH?
I am all sweaty and mad.
I always get sweaty and mad when I vacuum. My mom used to make me clean the house with an old "floating" globular Hoover when I was a kid. It flung particulates everywhere. My dad was a matchstick shredding, tobacco-shedding, ash-spreading slob. I bump walls and furniture in completely unsublimated rage to this day, thanks to him – less the coughing, thanks to air filtering. I have had many vacuum cleaners of greater and lesser worth over the years, but I suspect the entire world would agree with me when I say that the MINUMUM REQUIREMENT from such a machine would bloody well be SUCTION.
I am, today, finally admitting that I am broken. Broken, hopeless and forlorn.
"Oh," you say. "Dyson!" you say. I hate that Dyson guy. He is so smug. He sells $700 vacuums. $800 vacuums. And a pet fur specialty vacuum that I can order from amazon.ca for $900. I wish he would have devoted his life to perfecting a toaster, because I have to toast my bagels and bread in two steps to get them right. And I love my toaster. No one understands the need for perfect toast, so I work around it.
But vacuum cleaners? Vacuum cleaners should be easy! Jets in reverse! Make stuff GO AWAY! There are flippin LEAF BLOWERS destroying everyone's piece of mind all over the damned place! Men LOVE THEM! Turn the motor the other way!!!

Why are there useless $100 vacuums and divinely perfect $700 vacuums and nothing but wretched gambles in between?

I knew it wouldn't be easy. It is never easy. The cat and dog take off to the furthest walls. The cord gets yanked to its utmost length. I push the power button. Dust and fur go in and then
SONOFA
that infuriating sliiiiiiiiithhh sound when a glob of dog hair throws the vacuum into a state of shock and I have to shut her all down, open the hatch, pull out the tangle, shut the hatch, click the canister back on, plug in the machine, touch the floor and
SONOFA
that infuriating sliiiiiiiiithhh sound when a glob of dog hair throws the vacuum into a state of shock and I have to shut her all down, open the hatch, pull out the tangle, shut the hatch, click the canister back on, plug in the machine, touch the floor and
SONOFA
that infuriating sliiiiiiiiithhh sound when a glob of dog hair throws the vacuum into a state of shock and I have to shut her all down, open the hatch, pull out the tangle, shut the hatch, click the canister back on, plug in the machine, touch the floor and
SONOFA

KA-BOOM!

I'VE HAD IT!

If I were one half of a millimeter closer to being a slightly different kind of person, there would be an assortment of busted pieces of a crappy, useless household appliance littering the little concrete paved patio six floors below me.
As it is, I see Walmart, the retailer I hate but can actually afford, has a highly rated Hoover in stock. I haven't had a fight with a Hoover for a long time. Shark was okay to me for a while. Bissell makes me cry. My Bissell "Pro Heat" "power steamer" sits here beside me in the living room. Dead. It lead me along for two years. YouTube advises I open it up, as I might be able to discover a part that I might be able to remove, order, and replace.
I am, at heart, a simple consumer. I wish to purchase a thing and use it for a reasonable length of time that I measure in years and years. I don't want a noisy pile of plastic, wheels, and tubes to exude heat and not ingest anything remotely resembling household dirt.
I am not going today, but when I do, please, little Hoover, please, be good to me.

Lights! Camera! Ding!

My new life is posing some scheduling challenges. I slept a lot yesterday, and so set three alarms on my iPhone this morning to make up for Saturday’s slothing. Which is unfair to the humble sloth, really; as far as it’s concerned, it’s moving like wildfire.

Mornings aren’t a problem for me, anyway.

I have been accustomed to waking at 5:30 or 6:00 a.m. That’s all been shot to hell since the decision to pack up, get out, and sell the house. Then I installed what are virtually blackout curtains over my bedroom blinds here at the apartment, and if the dog could let himself out and then back in, well, when would I get up? And why?

So Captain New Life in Sarnia has set an after-breakfast agenda:

Some kind of outing BY MYSELF. Usually in the car. Then some kind of tiny chore at home. Then blawgg. Then to the leash-free dog field. In the car. Then maybe pick up something I forgot earlier. Then home to a snack instead of lunch, a tiny bit of unpacking or a very tiny chore, some reading, and a pre-supper perambulation with dog. A final walk with dog before shower and bed and a couple of hours reading. Repeat.

The lights were on in the parking garage this morning.

I have lived here just over two weeks, and today I could see quite clearly the entire interior of the parking garage.

I could see all the lines. I could see where many people do not actually use the lines or the pillars as guidelines. I could see how it was that I dinged my beautiful car a week ago trying to park, obstinately, where two separate people made it pretty much inevitable that I would graze a pillar.

I don’t feel so bad about the ding now. Which is the second ding. Much less painful than the first ding, which got the ding trauma over with. With the lights on, with the rotten parkers all around me, I cut myself some slack.

I went to Dollarama for a grabber stick. Now I can put baskets full of spices and such way up on top of my kitchen cabinets and have more room in the cupboards. I went to The Frills of No. I didn’t buy much. I’m at that stage in the house selling process where the money set aside to live on until closing is very, very sparse, and where the bills and debts are monstrous. Some people can’t sleep under that kind of stress. I can sleep all day, apparently.

There’s an unreality – a surreality – to my days since I decided that I could lift the house off me. My calculations offer an extremely modest, thrift-dependent, small-contentments kind of life, with all sorts of options for volunteer or paid activities as yet to be decided. In the meantime, the sums written against me are so uncharacteristically high that my only real response has been hilarity.

When I parked the car to bring in my groceries, the garage lights were out again.

Moving along, doing my best, enlightened on occasion.

Sprinkle of chagrin.