When we last left this blog, Deanna was pondering which room to clean first before the impending arrival of the aforementioned parental units, Buick, turkey and booze.
Since then, I've discovered I don't know how to operate my own vacuum cleaner (egad.), have put away nothing, tripped over my own shoes left in the front hall and forgotten during Mollie's tirade, and pondered various homework assignments as alternative means of dawdling.
Operator error when trying to drive the vacuum -- at least I have an excuse. When Dora went on vacation last spring, I got plucky and decided I'd better get the house cleaned up before she returned to clean it. (Rule one of my mother's: always clean for the cleaning lady. Helen thinks this makes no sense.) In trying to snarf up the last of the dirt on the front stairs, I dropped the vacuum accidentally -- down it crashed to the hardwood floor below and split open like Jiffy Pop.
"I'm telling Dora!" Helen threatened pulling the plug out of the wall outlet.
"Not if I get to Wal-Mart first!" I shot back. $120 and an hour later -- we were the proud owners of a knock-off of those yellow, bagless vacuums. I figured out how to turn it on that night and was thrilled that it was quiet enough to use at midnight (in case of messy snacks) without the neighbors in the next townhouse over pounding on the walls. But since, I've not had need to wield the thing and forgot how until this evening.
Darn embarrassing to mutter: "what does this button do?" while Mollie supervised from atop the fire place mantle.
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