A blaze of glory

For the past few months, my vacuum cleaner has been on the fritz. It's one of those canister types from Sears, with a little mini upholstery attachment that rocks on the dog bed. (Wow - "rocks on the dog bed." How sad is my world?)

Anyway, it short circuited or something a while back and I've been having to bend down to keep the handle nearly parallel to the floor for it to work in "carpet" mode. So every time I bring the handle back toward me, it shifts into "floor" mode for just a second until I start to push it away from me again. For the uninitiated (read: spoiled), this lapse means that the cylinder with all the bristles stops turning, leaving myriad bits of unspeakables buried deep within the carpet fibers unless I double back. Given the frequency with which I vacuum, minus the square footage of hardwood flooring, I've estimated that this deficiency has cost me nearly eight years. Additionally, the alternating decibel level, combined with the flashing on and off of the little headlight, is certainly the cause of my uncanny irritability.

And today the fucking thing burst into flames.

There I was, doing the convoluted vacuum tango in the den, in between lunch and naptime. The Bugglekids were jockeying for position, impeding my progress as they waited impatiently for a turn. (I have this hunch that their interest in housework is inversely proportional to their efficiency.) Suddenly the thing hissed, popped and went up like a roman candle. I checked to make sure the kids still had eyebrows and carted the contraption out to the front porch, which is looking more and more like a way station for battered gear.

"What happened, Mommy?"
"It broke, honey."
"It broked? What happened?"
"It caught on fire. And broke."
"On fire? What happened?"

After a few minutes of the familiar Abbott and Costello routine (we'll be here all week, folks), Bugglegirl moved on. By now, it was potty time, story time, kicking Buggleboy in the chest time, twinkle twinkle time.

Vacuuming time is hereby postponed.