Big D Does It For Me

I’ll do anything to avoid it. I feign ignorance as I tiptoe by
it—back and forth, back and forth—throughout my days,
but I know it’s there. Lurking behind the hall closet,
tucked under winter coats and random stuff I have
nowhere else to store.

It’s the dreaded V—the vacuum. Give me dog slobbered
and kids’ fingerprinted sliding glass doors to clean or
heaps of laundry to do any day. Heck, I’d rather scrape
soap scummed showers or load the dishwasher than
unleash the electrically powered beast.

Truth be told, I’ll avoid most chores at any cost. Unlike
many writers who rely on them to divert them from their craft,
domestic drudgeries are actually quite conducive
to my trade and have served me well.

Dishes. Dog shit. Dirty windows. So sorry they can wait,
I have a brilliantly comedic column to compose.
Deadlines are fast approaching!

My name is Liz. I’m a suburban housewife/mother/writer
and I confess, I am domestically disabled and—-dare I
say it?—-I am damn proud of it.

How did I get this way? Simple—15 hours of brain
surgery, rearranging your upstairs furniture and
screwing your skull back together, has a dramatic life
altering impact on someone. You wake up one day with
enough titanium in your head to sink a battleship and
proclaim “Chores, schmores,”—-the latter also being fun,
albeit a bit messy, to eat. Life suddenly has more
meaning. (Forgive my brain tumor survivor drum I have
to beat every so often to keep the masses aware.)

But that all changed one day, when an equally
domestically disabled girlfriend showed up at my door.
She popped open her car trunk to unveil the Holy Grail
of all vacuums—the Dyson. I’d heard about this elite V
class in the past, but thought nothing more of it.

At first, I thought it was a practical joke. But she wasn’t
kidding as she easily hoisted the box and carried its contents into my dust bunnies' ridden house.

“I promise you’ll love it!” she shouted as she bolted out
the front door.

It was just me and the beckoning box. But I already
owned a V. Where would I stash this one?

Well at least I could take a look, I reasoned. No harm in
that, right?

I’d tried Oreck’s, Hoover’s, Dirt Devil’s, Bissell’s,
Kirby’s, even my husband’s Shop Vac. They had no
staying power—they were all just flings.

But I immediately sensed the Dyson was different. I
guess I could take it for a test drive. After all, I could
always chuck it in the recycling bin or pass it on to one
of my other domestically unchallenged girlfriends.

I plugged Big D in and we had lift off.

Big D gently caressed corners and easily glided back
and forth. Its hose extended beyond reach to places I’d
never explored before. Under tables. The stairs. Even
the hardwood floors. It was quiet and not overbearing
like the others. And when it was done with the job, I
easily popped Big D’s top and disposed the contents
into the trash. No leaking, messy bags to contend with.
It was mess and muss free.

EUREKA! Yes, Big D does it for me!