Recently I’ve been called a witch. Not because of my nose, that’s too straight and regal. Not because of my unique laugh, that’s too melodious and angelic. And not because of my broom, it has pink flowers and kittens stenciled on it and is quite inappropriate for flitting to coven meetings. No, my witch-like attributes are all due to my ability to fold fitted sheets. Apparently having perfectly folded sheets, instead of rolled up balls of wrinkled fabric, is a magical talent. Well pish-posh on that. Folding sheets properly is just good old fashioned spit and polish. (Minus the icky spit part.)
You know who really is magical? The hubby, that’s who. Yesterday, I told him that I was about to attempt to vacuum my house. Probably for the last time, because my vacuum cleaner is FUBARed! It does this thing where when I turn it on, it works for approximately seventeen seconds, then it turns itself off. However, if I hold the handle and the hose at precisely the perfect angle, then it works for thirty seconds before turning itself off. Perfect angle–yeah right—it may explain the screaming you heard.
So, while I’m sitting with my coffee and reading the latest Stephen King book, hubby retrieves his big ole bag-o-tools and the vacuum, and begins to tinker. I explain the issue to him and tell him I think it’s one of two things: 1. Because of the holding and angles, and the whole turning on and off business, it’s a short inside the plastic hose. Or, 2. The dammed thing is possessed and we need an exorcist. Either way it’s screwed. He grunts, pulls out his cyclops-ratchet and barnswallow indicator and goes to work. I hear clipping sounds as he snips wires, ripping sounds as he pulls things apart, and gnawing sounds as he chews through the cover. Soon, the table is filled with bits and pieces, handles and hoses, clamps and buttons, harbingers and banshees. I sigh. It looks like I won’t be getting another clean out of this vacuum.
Twenty minutes later the vacuum cleaner is together, looking suspiciously like it had never been dismantled by rabid fairies. And when the switch is engaged, it works, and sucks away like some kind of loud sucky thing. And here’s the rub—it doesn’t matter what kind of angle the hose is at, it keeps right on working. Hubby is a friggin warlock!
Now if he knew anything at all about formatting, I might consider promoting him to Gandalf status.