That changed earlier this week.
The Kirby salesmen came to my house. My sweet, unassuming husband let them in before he realized who they were or what they wanted. They then proceeded to spend an hour and a half sucking God-knows-what out of my carpet. They even spilled some baking soda (which looked exactly like cocaine) on the floor, rubbed it in, and then sucked it up. It came back out brown. After my dad (who happened to be at my house) and I made about a million jokes about drug dealers really needing Kirby vacuums, I looked down at my floor to see 50+ little white circles all covered with dog hair and dirt and an
Then, of course, we listened to the spiel about the importance of a Kirby vacuum and how if we breathe in all this dirt that's in our carpet WE ARE GOING TO DIE A SLOW, PAINFUL DEATH. Which almost made me ask if other humanoids routinely stick their face in their carpet to breathe (however, I guess if you spill cocaine on it ...). I kept my mouth closed, however, and politely listened while my dad made some more corny jokes. While they were going through their speech, Hershey managed to walk back and forth across the little dirt landmines at least five times, effectively undoing all the vacuuming the nice Kirby salesmen had completed for me. Darn it.
Now, THIS lady needs a Kirby.
When they finally made it to the negotiation phase, the nice Kirby man asked me to guess how much I thought it would be to own a Kirby today. I guessed $1,200. Hubby guessed $1,500. So did Dad. Then they handed us the paper. White spots danced before my eyes. I felt like I was going to pass out. Or puke. Or both. The price to own a Kirby today? Two thousand four hundred fifty dollars. I know, right? Now pick your jaw up off the floor and keep reading.
I think the Kirby salesmen could tell by our shocked reactions that they probably weren't going to make the sale. But being
We said no. After a parting shot from Dad about their job really sucking (*heavy sigh*), they packed up and moved on to their next victim.
And then the guilt set in. I mean, what kind of a wife/housekeeper/mother am I? My carpet is filthy. I am letting my loved ones breathe in, heaven forbid, dirt. And maybe, just maybe, a $2,000 vacuum will somehow snap me into that June Cleaver-esque mode we as women constantly seem to strive for. Maybe with a $2,000 vacuum, I can be a domestic goddess and have a life. Or not. But at least my carpet will be clean.
This obsession with cleanliness has gotten much worse since I had Baby T. Intellectually, I know my husband doesn't care if the carpet is vacuumed every day and I'm certain my baby would much rather eat than allow me to have time to do the dishes. However, I still feel like if my houses isn't spotless, I'm a failure.
Are there other mommas out there who are going through or have overcome this? Help!
Caiti
