My Buddy

The New York Times Wirecutter column writers test all manner of things and tell you which ones they think are superior. It’s dangerous reading, because I find myself discovering all kinds of things that I thought I could live without, but now, 2000 words later, I suddenly find I must have.

The Trader Joe’s Hyaluronic Acid Serum ($9.99) was a good deal and my skin certainly is more moist (I SAID WHAT I SAID, JONNA) and radiant. Well, not exactly radiant, but it does help, and it’s only $10, so I call that a success.

Then there are the larger items. I snort and roll my eyes through their columns where they suggest my next handbag or pair of loafters should cost $750. The $100 socks they loved, while I’m sure are comfortable, will not be nestling in my underwear drawer next to my Bombas. But they do get me to shell out some money every once in a while.

Enter the robovac. Look, I’m a lazy sow, and I have been working a lot of hours, so I was under eminent threat of a dustbunny takeover. The dustbunnies were looking more like, in the immortal words of author Florence King in her classic Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady “slut’s wool.”

So Black Friday sales arrived, and a week later, so did my little carpet-cleaning friend. We had a rocky start, where he refused to charge for a bit and kept turning on and off repeatedly, playing a merry, tinkling tune each time. We worked through our issues and soon he was off and whirring around my 900 square foot home.

The surprising part was that I developed such feelings of tenderness for my little vacuuming buddy. He seemed so tentative and lost and easily flummoxed. My heart started opening toward my plastic friend.

The bentwood legs of my Ikea Poang chair and the stand for my desk have proved the be his nemeses – he high-sides onto them and sits and spins, wobbling precariously, until I come and lift him off. Half the time he beelines straight back to the obstacle that just derailed him. I know, little buddy, I know. We don’t always do what is best for us. Me, I bought cheetos the other day, knowing that they are my kryptonite.

I can hear him clunking around in the other room and I start to worry. Is he caught? He can fit exactly under the bathroom shelving unit, but he can’t always extract himself. Is he ok? Is he doing a good job, or is he going to have to be sent out on his mission again tomorrow?

He reminds me of myself, bumbling into situations, trying to be helpful, and causing havoc where I didn’t mean to. I don’t always know where I’m going or what I’m doing. Sometimes I just need a friend to gently lift me off the ledge, even when they know I’m likely to go right back to where they rescued me from.

Happy Holidays, y’all. I hope you are warm and happy and surrounded by love.