I'm not a brainless twit,

I just play one on TV. It was the Sunday morning routine as usual, mopping, dusting, vacuuming and nudging away at the infinite heap of laundry. Just smartening up the house in preparation for another week of anarchy and chaos. Besides we’ve had non-stop rain, and we all know what that means: mud, dirt and leaves stuck to the bottoms of shoes and deposited on the tile flooring. Bracing myself for half the lawn to be on my floor, I scrubbed it to a suspicious shine. I know I LOVE it when I clean things in order for them to get dirty. It’s what I live for. I finally understand why my mother could often be found dazedly walking in circles muttering what sounded like she-devil incantations. I’m with ya now Mom.

But I sincerely enjoy what my vacuum does for me. By the time I’ve made a pass through just one room, I’m giddy. Giddy I tell you! I get to be the tyrannical god of the feeble dust world with my giant whirring sucking machine, and nothing will get in my way! Not even a lego. "I’m sorry honey; I have no idea what happened to Polly Pocket’s ¼ inch pink strappy sandals. Or your entire set of marbles." If only they could see the horror that is their mother as she fiendishly wrings her hands and cackles in the depths of her bedroom closet. Like Gollum purring while fondling a Dyson, you can find me there after I’ve just vacuumed.

My husband wanted to buy this, and I fervently disagreed with his claim that it would somehow make my life easier. "No you fool; getting minuscule shards of revenge by sucking up their toys makes my life very easy. And no, I haven’t seen your ipod ear piece anywhere."

Here’s where the brainless twit bit comes into play. My beloved vacuum wasn’t sucking today as well as I normally expected it to. Small insignificant objects that were normally sent flying up the tube of revenge were holding fast to the carpet. Hmmm..three passes over a dead fly and it’s still there? Must investigate. What I did next can only be rationalized in two ways: either a) I’m masochistic or b) I’m masochistic. What else could explain the act of sticking one’s foot under the spinning brushes of the carpet attachment to test the sucking intensity? Son of a *****! Just as the skin of the first three toes on my left foot started ripping itself free with a burning pain I can only compare to ruptured hemorrhoids, I yanked my bright red foot away and chucked the vacuum handle across the room.

I hobbled into the living room, defeated and disgraced. I tripped over a pile of Barbie accessories on my way out. I think they laughed and pointed at me.

There is no moral to this shameful tale of revenge and agony, only three throbbing toes and a dirty carpet.