Ecru: A is for Adult.

Sometimes, I hate being an adult.

Sure, I like all the things that come with being an adult, you know: R rated movies, driving, being able to make my own decisions about stuff.. blah blah.

There are a few things I hate about being an adult, which I suppose could be summed up by suggesting that I hate the responsibilities of being an adult. For instance: I hate buying groceries and paying the internet bill. I also hate getting my ass out of bed at a ridiculous time so the neighbours can watch me chase down the garbage man in my footie pajamas and I hate buying things to clean my house with. In fact, I don’t even mind cleaning the house – just buying the shit to do it with. This brings me to today.

Today, I set about cleaning the house like a good adult, I cleaned the bathroom, ran the dishwasher, wiped down the counters and cleaned the sinks and then as my final task for the day (before sitting down to copious amounts of eggnog and the BBC) was to vacuum. (Or, after all these hours of the BBC - hoover the place from top to bottom.) 

So, I get out the vacuum and spend the first few minutes brushing the dog and cutting his nails (so I can just suck it all up and not even worry about the 14 lbs of dog hair in the living room) and being to assemble the pieces together to get on with my adult responsibility of not living like a hoarder. 

The next portion of my time is spent taunting the dog a little bit (because I have to have fun too) and then get on to the actual vacuuming part. Plug the sucker in, turn on the switch and the vacuum begins to make terrifying noises, which not only terrify the dog, but also scare me. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re expecting me to tell you some hilarious story about how the vacuum exploded and there were not 14, but 25 lbs of dog hair everywhere and we all had a good laugh and so on.

No.

The vacuum that I inherited has always been a bit scary – and temperamental to say the least. Sometimes it would suck.. and awkwardly, sometimes it would blow. (That’s what she said.) Usually a good kick and we’re off to the races, but for the most part it does the job and sits in the closet for another week. Today, I gave her a kick and she is still making scary noises. Alright, at least I left this part last – so, for the most part people would think I’m an average house keeper, minus the dog hair that creepily looks like I’m saving to make myself a new dog. So I turn it back on and look at it, somewhat expecting it to just come out and tell me exactly what’s wrong with it, when I notice that the vacuum as a ‘Performance Indicator Light’ – whatever that means. So, I note my performance with it, thinking I’d get myself at least a 9.8 in the Hoover Olympics when a thought occurs to me that there may be something stuck in the tube to prevent it from sucking. (That’s what she said.)

I decide to pull the stupid thing apart, and figure out what on earth could be preventing massive amounts of dog hair from being tornadoed into a small bag, made of material I can’t quite put my finger on. After pulling apart the vacuum, getting down on the floor to get a closer look (I guess my eyesight isn’t what it used to be) the dog has his nose in it (‘What a grand adventure!” Dog thinks excitedly, “She’s conquered the roaring Beast!”) and we discover that the bag is simply full. 

FULL. 

How is this possible? I mean, when I was less than an adult the fridge would fill itself, and the bathrooms would clean and organise themselves, and the vacuum would simply vacuum upon command.. no maintenance required. Alas, being an adult means changing the vacuum bag. Alright, I can fix a toilet I broke; I can fix a vacuum I filled. 

I wander over the supply cupboard and pull out the plastic bag that contains the weird blend of crap the vacuum bag is made of to discover, to my dread – the bag is empty. We have no vacuum bags. And I have some serious vacuuming to be doing. Noting the price tag on the empty carcass of a container, I pack the plastic bag into my purse, pull on a coat and avoid looking in the mirror as I head out into December bitterness just to avoid scaring myself with the state of my hair.

I pull into the parking lot, only to discover that I forgot that it is ‘Holiday Season’ and people are at the mall en masse. Much like my Father, I hate everyone and everything when it comes to shopping – other than shopping itself. I would shop at Wal*Mart at 2am all year round to avoid the hordes of people shopping. Alright, I will prepare myself to fight off enthusiastic-holiday-sweater-stretched-over-massive-humans to get the bags and get the hell out. 

I begin by parking in Narnia, because frankly – parking at the mall at 2pm on a bitter December Sunday is impossible. After I fight frost-bite, dehydration and a pack of angry wolves I come through the wardrobe and arrive at my destination: Sears. I hate Sears (but we can talk about that another time) and with shoulders set back, elbows out and line-backer mentality I prepare to elbow old-ladies and tackle their elderly husbands who can’t hear my when I say ‘Excuse me’ or see my when I wave my arms at them and finally get up the oddly small escalator (What is this, an escalator for ants?!) and make it to the vacuum section. 

Before any sales person attacks me with perfume, or pots or candle holders I should buy my dear Aunt Mildred, I whip out my empty vacuum bag bag, and aggressively show it to the sales man:

“This! *points at bag* I need these. I don’t know where they are, but I am prepared to pay you handsomely for them if you give me exactly what I want and let me purchase it right now without asking me any ridiculous questions or trying to sell me any warranties. I guarantee to you that I will be your best customer. I will even leave quietly. If you do not help me, next time I will come unprepared, try to describe to you my need for vacuum bags, show you a vague hand motion about how big they are and what a strange shade of beige they are - I will then tell you I can’t remember the kind of vacuum cleaner I have but will insist it’s a company that doesn’t exist, or exists and doesn’t make vacuum cleaners. I will then tell you the colour of the vacuum cleaner because that should directly indicate which bag I need, and THEN I will demand to speak to your manager about how unhelpful you are. Give me the bags, and your day will end well.” 

He looks at me and shuffles away quickly to return with my desired vacuum bags and then looks at me squarely in the face and says to me: 

“Would you like one package or two?” 

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH 20 VACUUM BAGS AT THIS VERY MOMENT IN TIME? NO, I DON’T WANT TWO PACKAGES. I DO NOT HAVE THAT MUCH VACUUMING TO DO THAT I AM GOING TO REQUIRE TO HAVE ON HAND, 19 BACK UP BAGS JUST INCASE I FILL THE FIRST ONE. I WANT TO PAY FOR MY 10 BAGS AND THEN LEAVE THIS AWFUL PLACE. 

I quietly pay for my bags, come home and finish the vacuuming.

The point of this (other than avoiding ulcers that I mentioned in my earlier works), was to suggest to you that I hate running out of supplies and then having to buy them to clean my house. What I hate more than that, is running out of things I need in the Christmas Season and then being required to hip-check old ladies buying their kids slippers and stocking stuffers just to buy 9 more vacuum bags than I needed in the first place. Because I’m not here to ask you about the quality of this bed-in-a-bag, or whether or not you think my Niece would like this cat sweater – no. I want to park reasonably close to the door, not stand in a line-up where we wait long enough to have picked each individual dog hair up by hand faster and then to avoid stupid questions about my plans for the holidays. I’m doing what every normal person is doing:

 Eating-Napping-Eating and Family Time.

Needless to say, I finished vacuuming and I am now sitting, comfortably filled with Nog and pictures of the BBC are dancing in my head.    

Today I chose the colour ecru, because if I had to pick what colour the vacuum bags are.. that would be it.