The Curse of the Kirby

Although it's been more than five years, since I've worked (in the official capacity of getting a regular paycheck) I simply can't stand the thought of myself as a housewife. And you'd have to have an IQ below 30 to call me a housekeeper -- there are stacks of laundry, towers of toys and crumpled artwork strewn around most every room.

There's just nothing in the nomenclature that's palatable to describe my role in this season of my life. Even the well-intended domestic goddess curdles on my lips. It's true that my life right now revolves around playdates, preschool and pudding snacks, but through my part-time writing/marketing career for home, I've managed to cling to the essence of me -- sans family. Right?

Well, standing at attention in my downstairs hall closet is a machine that almost claimed victory over my struggle to remain a post-modern woman and my resistance to falling into the 1950s housewife trap. My nemesis? A Kirby vacuum cleaner.

It was the end of a long day and I was rinsing dishes when someone was frantically rapping on our door. My husband, answered and before I knew it there was a charming Jamaican woman standing in the family room and offering to clean our carpets -- for free.

Just look how much dirt I pulled from your carpet, she beamed. Between her thumb and index finger, she dangled a test filter that revealed a layer of caked dust -- proof of the filth we'd been wallowing in.

Next she juggled hoses and attachments while rattling off how easily and quickly the all-powerful Kirby would clean baseboards, upholstery, draperies, ceiling corners and more.

I panicked. I'm supposed to actually clean the baseboards? A wave of shame stuck to me as I stared glassy-eyed at the titanium beast, standing upright with a promise to make me an A+ housekeeper. I fell face first for the ploy.

After painful negotiations, phone calls to managers and a for-you-only-tonight special, we became the proud owners of a Kirby vacuum cleaner. The price? $800 -- and my last shred of dignity.

The next morning,I stuck the beast in the closet and cried. Is this really who I've become? A stretch-pant-wearing woman who spends more money on a vacuum cleaner than on her wardrobe?

Since then, I've hired a maid. She cleans our house once a month, and no matter how far down on the job I've fallen between her visits, never once has she pulled out a soiled vacuum filter or shoved a dusty Swiffer under my nose to prove what a piss-poor job I've done at cleaning my house. I adore her.