No matter how caught up you get in serious issues, it is amazing how the everydayness of life can bring you right back down to reality. For instance, with a burgundy carpet, a blond Cocker Spaniel and a light brown Pomeranian, you simply must remember that your primary intimate relationship is with your vacuum sweeper. Other flirtations, like political campaigns, may come and go but when the political wars are over, you come home to the sweeper. It is sort of like having a mini-affair with a movie star. He is handsome and exciting for a while, but when he leaves you, you reach the realization that the husband at home, though dull, is the one that faithfully brings in the paycheck.
I buy sweeper bags in a approximately the same volume as the mother of triplets buys disposable diapers. There should be a sweeper bag service that works in much the same way that my mom's diabetic supplies are sent directly to her on a regular schedule. If I neglect this most elementary of household chores, a fine covering of pale dog hair spills across the floor. If I let the sweeper sit for a week (which I've never done), I'm convinced you'd no longer know our what color are carpets are. Perhaps, burgundy carpets seen through a haze of Cocker blond are a particularly appealing shade of mauve but I hope I never find out.
I remember once, years ago, when GeeGee told me about a lady who knitted herself a sweater coat from the fur she collected from her Collie. At that time, GeeGee had two Collies and dabbled with the idea herself. But I never, then or now, had the remotest desire for a doghair coat. And even if I did, I failed knitting when I had to take it in high school as a section in sewing class. While other students were moving on triumphantly to capes and bags, I was still stuck on a string, having never learned the technique of how to turn and go back the other way. At the end of the six weeks, when Knitting 101 finally ended, I had a length of pink that I could have used to tie out the dog. The teacher told me I should have got an F since being able to change directions was an essential part of knitting but out of pity, she gave me a D minus. We then moved on to actual Sewing where the other girls completed the class by competing in a style show at the Honeywell Center. Meanwhile, I was still working on the sash of what was eventually supposed to become an apron.
Even now, as I waste my time writing on a blog, the sweeper sits in the corner laying a guilt trip on me.