Introducing our house

     My mother and I share a house, a stereotypical Midwestern 1950s brick ranch.  It retains a number of original features, some charming (hardwood floors, sandstone fireplace, crown molding) some not-so-charming (the original kitchen cabinets, cooktop, and wall oven are still here), and some downright odd (the bathroom is pink.  Very, very, tiled-four-feet-high-up-the-wall-plus-all-the-fixtures pink.  Apparently it was all the rage when Mamie Eisenhower was in the White House.)

We are not going to our graves with "Wish I Had Done More Housework" on our tombstones.  

I am standing in the kitchen, examining a long-lost soft binoculars case Mom has just fished out from under the couch.  It sports some remarkable dust bunnies and triggers this conversation:

Me (after wiping it off on my old jeans leg):  "You found it! Great!  What do you think...should I vacuum it?"
Mom (not really paying attention): "Probably."
Me: "Where's the vacuum cleaner?"
Mom: "I dunno."

And then we start laughing hysterically.   We, the dopes who can't remember where a basic household appliance might be found in a not-terribly-large house.

Brooms are just easier.