Destructo Mom

It all started innocently enough. In a burst of maternal servitude I found myself cleaning my son's home this past week. Not the superficial push the vacuum around the furniture and run a sponge around the sink kind of cleaning, but the hard core hands and knees kind. The kind that shrivels your fingers and causes your skin to peel following 4 days in hot water and Spic & Span. (I'm really not such a good mother, just trying to make amends for the whole birthday debacle of two years past.)

I moved through the house with confidence. After all if one gets to be my age, raised two children and a husband and hasn't become an expert cleaner there is no hope. When I reached the basement steps I knew there would be challenges. The carpet leading to the "Man Room" down below had obviously been neglected for quite some time.

The old Hoover was awkward and hard to handle. It's prime had long since past and it was held together with a bungee chord. The stairway was indeed a challenge. It was a balancing act fit for a circus. One hand busily operating the hose, the other managing somehow to keep the old girl upright. Then something went terribly wrong. A loud bang which awakened the neighbors three blocks away was followed quickly by a cloud of dust and debris that encircled me much like the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. I had done the old girl in.

No worries. Home Depot was just around the corner. Before you can say destructo mom I was back with a shiny new Hoover. Fresh out of the box it held the promise of a clean house. Soon I was back to work, the shiny new Hoover humming away by my side. I tried out the attachments zipping along the baseboards with a song in my heart. And then the improbable happened, another loud bang. This time accompanied by sparks and smoke. My very own pyro-techno show followed by the pungent odor of burning rubber. I had killed it. The brand new, shiny blue Hoover less than 1 hour old was dead.

I won't repeat the very ugly and unkind words that spewed forth from my lips. I demanded that it rise up and clean. But the severed chord with the frayed and burnt edges wasn't budging. I railed about poor design and substandard construction. The Hoover remained silent.

About this time the men in my life began to assemble. There was laughter. I shed tears. There was more laughter. Two vacuum cleaners destroyed in the space of one single hour on a Sunday morning. It must be a record.

My suggestion to you if you need some domestic assistance...call Merry Maids. You can't afford me.