WARNING! This post is not for weaklings…then again, neither is motherhood!
There are certain household items that not only deserve my respect, but my apology. One of those is my vacuum. (Another is the toilet, but I don’t really want to write that letter, nor do you want to read it). Okay, back to the apology at hand.
Sorry for what I have made you snarf down. From under-cushion sofa grunge to shards of feces from my darling son — from the depths of my soul, I apologize. I respect you for eating whatever I put in your way and your faithfulness every time I flip the switch. Sorry to be the one to take you like a lamb to the slaughter to whatever nastiness awaits your service.
(Last night, my daughter vomited. I’m a puker, so my husband knows he is always the one who is on vomit duty. When he was handling clean up, he requested the vacuum. “Um, you’re gonna vacuum up vomit?” I said. He plainly replied, “Just the hot dog.”)
“Ewwwww!” Hoover, your job totally sucks.