Life as a Fifties Housewife

24 Jan

I’m perennially amazed by the things in CityBoy’s apartment:  seven different types of mop (I might be exaggerating but only by one or two), no less than two stand-up air filters and five fans, the giant handyman-sized toolbox he keeps in the front closet (I’m waiting for him to start knocking down walls).

But the thing that amazes me the most is this vintage vacuum cleaner that he still uses to vacuum the apartment.

It resides in the front closet, in many pieces, which need to be assembled in a particular fashion in order to function properly.

There’s even a separate attachment for doing bare floors. The first (and second and possibly even the third) time CityBoy tried to show me how to work it, I was baffled. As much by the solid sturdiness of the thing, as its age and complexity. The main canister weighs a good ten pounds and the heavy blunt silver head of the thing could easily bash in a grown man’s head.

It’s got to be as old as I am, if not older, but it still works up a powerful suction, and I’m forever in fear of sucking up stray electrical cords and abandoned socks. On the odd days when I’m actually struck by the need to clean house (and I would describe it like that, a piercing jolt that demands, The house must be cleaned!), dragging this baby out of the closet and fussing over its plugs and joints and appendages is actually quite satisfying. I feel almost like a proper Fifties housewife (minus the flower printed housecoat, lace headwrap, and smoldering cigarette). I’m thinking about stocking gin and tonic in the pantry next.

Rock on, people.

– Jho


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