Monday, February 7, 2011

Cuz Mom Needs Tools Too


When Husband walked through the front door, the box and panels of Styrofoam strewn on the floor proved that the vacuum cleaner standing in the middle of the living room was brand new.

He called, “What is that?”

Mom shouted her reply as she climbed the stairs to put baby down for his nap, “Isn’t it awesome? I got it on clearance. $200 instead of 3!”

Husband’s briefcase fell from his hands as he shut his eyes and mouthed the words, TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS? He quickly examined the handle for the embedded diamonds, the canister for the self-cleaning button, the USB chord that would allow you to download your favorite iTunes to play while you worked, but as far as he could see, the paycheck guzzler looked as plain and basic as the vacuum his mother had—except this one paraded colors that could blind a hawk. He read the labels still decorating the exterior. It only promised to do what every other vacuum promises to do…SUCK.

Mom pranced into the living room, clearly still on her bargain high. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it.”

Husband decided not to start any debates with himself about whether or not to say what he was thinking: “Don’t you already have like 4 other vacuums?”

A moment of silence preceded the lecture.

“I have a sweeper for the kitchen, a canister vac for the cars and now I can demote your mother’s heirloom to the basement just for the throw rugs that are down there. The new vacuum will eat those right up.”

“I just don’t understand why you need so many vacuums when they essentially all do the same thing. Especially not for another $200.”

Her glare could have made Mike Tyson whimper, and he winced as she began disassembling the vacuum to repackage it.

“Honey. If you think you need it you can keep it. I’m sorry.” Without another word, she dropped the Styrofoam and left the room.

That Saturday, Husband looked forward to releasing his work stress. He was going to put tools in his hands and fix something. Whistling like the eighth dwarf, he strutted through the garage to his tool shed and opened a cabinet to choose his best hammer to finally get all the family pictures hung on the living room wall.

His jaw dropped when only a single 16-lb sledge hammer with a 36” hickory handle, which he used once to bust out the old cement stairs of the front porch last summer, stood propped on the shelf with an index card:

“Couldn’t understand why you needed so many hammers when they all essentially do the same thing.”


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