I changed my sheets and lugged them and the contents of my hamper upstairs to the laundry room. I piled all the clothes that had been on the floor onto my bed. I’d figure out what was wearable and what wasn’t later.
I gave it a rueful glare. Who was I kidding? That shit was going to wind up right back on the floor within a couple of hours.
Fuck it.
I straightened up the bathroom and Windexed everything, dragged all my trash outside, then went in search of the vacuum.
In vain.
I looked in every goddamn room of the house, including the closets. All I could find was a handheld brush and dustpan and a little handheld vacuum. Neither was really going to cut it.
I was headed back downstairs to stare at the workshop space of my cave in despair when I ran into my father, literally.
“Watch yourself,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Dad, do we have a vacuum?”
“A vacuum?”
“A vacuum. You know, it’s that thing that sucks up dirt.”
“Hilarious,” he said dryly. “I think we may have a mini vac around here somewhere. Why?”
“I need to use it,” I said slowly, thinking this should be obvious. What, was he thinking I wanted to make art out of the vacuum?
He furrowed his brow. “For what?”
I knew he’d been thinking that. “For its intended purpose,” I said.
“Which is . . .?”
“I’m not making an Oreck sculpture, Dad, I just need to vacuum the basement.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Did you spill a lot of glitter or something down there? I don’t understand.”
“You’re not funny,” I said.
“Well,” he said, and folded his arms.
We stared at each other for a moment.
“I’m cleaning my room,” I said finally.
His facial expression changed from bemused to surprised to amused and then back again.
It wasn’t hard to guess what he was thinking.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?”
Labels: january brings few faces
