The Big Vac

Essay by PaperNerd ContributorHigh School, 10th grade October 2001

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That big dark-blue Eureka sitting in the closet hiding underneath her vacuum cleaner cover patiently waits for me to pull her out onto the "boot-scootin" dance floor, so she can twist around the room to check out the dirt sleeping on the carpet. And although Miss Prissy Girl enjoys twirling from room to room, I dislike vacuuming the carpet for three insufferable reasons.

One of the reasons I dislike traveling from one place to the next with her is the cord attitude she has. When I unwind her old electric cord from the two hooks located on the back of her skinny handle, she wiggles her unsteady bottom. This makes it harder for me to keep the cord from knotting up as it falls to the floor. Then, when I walk over to the wall socket to plug her up, she tries to trip me with that tangled stuff. One time I fell flat on my face, because the old, hard rope wrapped itself around my ankle as I was stepping away from it.

I even threatened to throw her in the junk pile if she did it again! In addition, Miss Smarty Pants likes to jerk her frazzled cord out of the wall. She does this on purpose because she knows it slows me down.

Another reason I didlike doing my mad vac chore is the big, yellow, square headlight located on the middle of her wide body that blinks on and off all the time, expecially when I push her underneath the bed or against the side of the wall. Besides being as stubborn as an old mule, she opens and closes her bad eye, so I can't see the dirt that she leaves behind as she skates across the floor. The old gal likes to do this because she wants to save some extra dust to eat the next time I bring her out on the floor.

But, the main reason I despise the vcuum cleaning task is that bomb's loud mouth. She sounds like a thunder-bolt out in a wild, windy storm, and sometimes when she sucks up pennies off the carpet, she coughs like she is going to choke to death. Furthermore, I have never been the world's greatest lip reader. When my son tries to talk to me, I have to turn her off, so I can hear what he is saying. But, by the time she decides to quit making those outrageous, snoring sounds, I am almost deaf when I barely hear him say "later" as he is walking out the door.

Finally, after she has pranced across the room a thousand times, I drag the big vac back into the closet with her cord attitude, her blinking eye, and that loud mouth screaming to the top of her lungs, hoping that I will not have to see her for at least one more week.