So today was a massive clean-up/wardrobe switch-over day. The clothing switch had to be done, because Summer marched off in a strop about two weeks ago and is unlikely to come back. She's too busy flirting with the Southern Hemisphere right now. The average temp in my little part of the world has varied between 12 -15 degrees C lately, so the short-sleeved shirts and summer weight clothing is now bagged, vacuum-sealed, and tucked away for the next few months.
The cleaning part... Let's just say that I'm not domesticated, shall we?
I cook. I love to cook, and I can do some pretty good things with food. I'll dust down things when I start tripping over dust-bunnies, and the kitchen and bathroom are kept clean, but in general, vacuuming my bedroom is something that happens to other people, or when the carpet moves. It is not my idea of a fun way to spend a couple of hours.
Vacuum-sealing the clothes bags was an experience: I had a few fun moments of getting the long pole thinga-ma-jiggy that apparently is an integral part of the handle to detach. The first bag had a hole in it, but it took me awhile to realise I was attempting to vacuum the oxygen-system of an entire room using an object not really designed for that.
By this stage my cousin was supplying a very entertained audience of one.
The second one ended with me jerking the hose nozzle while it was over the vacuum lock, and wondering why the vacuum went from making a satisfying WHOOOOM noise to ACK-ACK-AAAACKKKKKK! Turned out I'd somehow managed to get the top of the vacuum lock attached to the nozzle, and detached from the bag itself. *sigh*
Stacey took the vacuum away from me, got the lock off, patted the vacuum until it felt better, and helped me with the other bags.
Eventually three bags were done, whipped into a suitcase, and said suitcase zipped into submission before I could do anything else too strange in that area.
Then I tried to vacuum my room. Stacey took a seat on the stairs so that she could watch, or rescue the Dyson if I abused it too badly, or possibly take notes for What Not To Do.
Stacey: You need to undo the cord.
Me: *pause* I knew that.
(Two minutes later, I am still trying to get the blasted cord off the hook. Stacey is trying not to laugh, and is turning red.)
The Dyson handle at this point is upright. Even I know that to use it a slight angle is required. This being a Dyson, there are about 8 yellow buttons in various places on the infernal machine, none of which seem to make a difference in angle when pushed, prodded, or sworn at.
Eventually I pushed a button that I still say I'd tramped on repeatedly by then. The bottom of the cleaner promptly folded up like a traumatised porcupine.
Me: ...
Stacey: Go on.
Me: Is it dead?
Stacey: *unable to talk due to strangled whooping noises*
Then I pulled a muscle in my butt moving drawers out of the way. It's made sitting down this evening an experience.
So, to summarise my findings for the day:
* I appear to have discovered the fabled hidden graveyard of the lonely single sock. This shy, retiring species has decided that the bottom left corner of my bed, right where the duvet hides them, is the ideal final resting place. Either that or they've started a breeding programme.
* Throw away moist dusting wipes are really cool. For some reason the cheaper versions from the 99p store are tougher and smell better that the more expensive brand.
* Vacuuming over your toe by accident hurts a surprising amount.
* Looking pathetic while doing housework can result in unexpected aid and assistance from your house-mate. Granted, you get laughed at hysterically during said aid and assistance, but it's still a bonus.
*Dyson do not have a switch ANYWHERE on the bloody model that says "On/Off". Nowhere. Also, if you start frantically pushing every yellow button in sight in the hopes of finding the one that makes the machine go Vroom, things fall off it. Your house-mate at this moment in time will be pointing and laughing, having lost the ability to speak several minutes ago.
* Housework is something that will keep happening to other people.
The cleaning part... Let's just say that I'm not domesticated, shall we?
I cook. I love to cook, and I can do some pretty good things with food. I'll dust down things when I start tripping over dust-bunnies, and the kitchen and bathroom are kept clean, but in general, vacuuming my bedroom is something that happens to other people, or when the carpet moves. It is not my idea of a fun way to spend a couple of hours.
Vacuum-sealing the clothes bags was an experience: I had a few fun moments of getting the long pole thinga-ma-jiggy that apparently is an integral part of the handle to detach. The first bag had a hole in it, but it took me awhile to realise I was attempting to vacuum the oxygen-system of an entire room using an object not really designed for that.
By this stage my cousin was supplying a very entertained audience of one.
The second one ended with me jerking the hose nozzle while it was over the vacuum lock, and wondering why the vacuum went from making a satisfying WHOOOOM noise to ACK-ACK-AAAACKKKKKK! Turned out I'd somehow managed to get the top of the vacuum lock attached to the nozzle, and detached from the bag itself. *sigh*
Stacey took the vacuum away from me, got the lock off, patted the vacuum until it felt better, and helped me with the other bags.
Eventually three bags were done, whipped into a suitcase, and said suitcase zipped into submission before I could do anything else too strange in that area.
Then I tried to vacuum my room. Stacey took a seat on the stairs so that she could watch, or rescue the Dyson if I abused it too badly, or possibly take notes for What Not To Do.
Stacey: You need to undo the cord.
Me: *pause* I knew that.
(Two minutes later, I am still trying to get the blasted cord off the hook. Stacey is trying not to laugh, and is turning red.)
The Dyson handle at this point is upright. Even I know that to use it a slight angle is required. This being a Dyson, there are about 8 yellow buttons in various places on the infernal machine, none of which seem to make a difference in angle when pushed, prodded, or sworn at.
Eventually I pushed a button that I still say I'd tramped on repeatedly by then. The bottom of the cleaner promptly folded up like a traumatised porcupine.
Me: ...
Stacey: Go on.
Me: Is it dead?
Stacey: *unable to talk due to strangled whooping noises*
Then I pulled a muscle in my butt moving drawers out of the way. It's made sitting down this evening an experience.
So, to summarise my findings for the day:
* I appear to have discovered the fabled hidden graveyard of the lonely single sock. This shy, retiring species has decided that the bottom left corner of my bed, right where the duvet hides them, is the ideal final resting place. Either that or they've started a breeding programme.
* Throw away moist dusting wipes are really cool. For some reason the cheaper versions from the 99p store are tougher and smell better that the more expensive brand.
* Vacuuming over your toe by accident hurts a surprising amount.
* Looking pathetic while doing housework can result in unexpected aid and assistance from your house-mate. Granted, you get laughed at hysterically during said aid and assistance, but it's still a bonus.
*Dyson do not have a switch ANYWHERE on the bloody model that says "On/Off". Nowhere. Also, if you start frantically pushing every yellow button in sight in the hopes of finding the one that makes the machine go Vroom, things fall off it. Your house-mate at this moment in time will be pointing and laughing, having lost the ability to speak several minutes ago.
* Housework is something that will keep happening to other people.
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