I think it runs in the family. My grandmother used to love to tell the story about how my dad used to run around with his hands over his ears screaming “Mean motor! Mean motor!” whenever she cranked on her Kirby. I grew up with this grandma a great part of my childhood, and that same evil vacuum terrified me as well, with its creepy face gleaming in the moonlight at night, just “staring” at me. I’ve hated vacuums as long as I can remember.
I have never owned a vacuum. In the 10 years I lived on my own until my fiance came along I never had a vacuum in my house. I’ve had roommates who have brought in vacuums, and I would lock myself in my room while the motor was running until the noise subsided and I could come out of hiding again, making sure the evil beast was locked away somewhere where I couldn’t see it.
If I knew my fiance was planning on bringing in his own Kirby into our home, I probably would have left him. That FACE, it’s back!!! And here he is teaching me how to use the bastard, and I’m thinking, ha ha, right- he even leaves the beast in the living room where I have to turn it around so it faces the wall and use it for a coat hanger to ease my trepidation about the THING being in my house.
The thing is, I hate vacuums because they hate me. I assume, being a vacuum, they are designed to suck up everything in their path, including socks, dryer sheets, rocks, etc. Then I am rewarded with plumes of smoke, a screaming machine, and I crap my pants and run from the room with the monster growling on its side, the brush thingy rotating madly. I think my vacuum is going to kill me.
I’ve tried to make nice with the Kirby. I’ve tenderly changed its bags, I’ve picked up the things it doesn’t like to eat before using it (only because my fiance lost his mind when he had to fish a tube sock and a caramello wrapper out of the rotator thingy), I’ve gingerly wrapped the vacuum cord back on the little hooks instead of just yanking the cord out of the wall and throwing it like a lasso at the vacuum (again, only because my fiance caught me doing this and proceeded to show me “what the damn hooks are for”). I still can only vacuum for about 5 minutes at a time (with earplugs in), but the stupid vacuum continues to glare at me with that evil face, and I glare right back.
I hate you, Kirby!!! I hate you! There, I said it. We can never be friends. You don’t clean my floors quietly, and you don’t eat the precious gifts of candy, rocks, pennies, and string that I provide for you. You don’t like to be pushed around when you’re off unless you’re in neutral, and being female, I always forget to do this for you. You don’t put yourself away in the closet where I would like you to hide, instead you just stand there and “stare” at me all damned day. You scare my dog, you make my cat claw up my legs. You clang when I try to use you to clean out the litter box. You don’t like to soak up my many coffee spills. You stink when your belt breaks- your bags are expensive. You only want GOOD things, like hair and dirt and leaves- talk to me when you can learn how to fold laundry and do dishes. Maybe then, Kirby foe of mine, we can get along.