it's the story of our vacuum cleaner. it's a big heavy clunker of a vacuum, with a long hose and a huge canister. we've had it for as long as i can remember.
let me start off by explaining, that everyone has that one household chore they abhor. sister 1 hates doing dishes. sister 2 dislikes ironing and folding laundry. and i don't like vacuuming. maybe it's the model we own, but in my mind, i associate vacuuming the house with lugging a very large, and unwieldy machine up a flight of stairs, squashed toes, and smashed feet. did you know that if you hit your ankle bone with a metal piece that it's really really painful? like seeing-stars-wanting-to-yelp-very-loudly-painful
as far back as i can remember, there's always been something wrong with the vacuum. they guy who fixes it is practically on speed dial, and at least once a month when my mom goes out, she leaves last minute instructions, "if Mr. L calls, tell him he can come by to look at the vacuum, the broken piece in question is by the front door."
i compare it to the story of the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. for anyone who doesn't know it, the Tin Man was once a regular woodcutter who accidentally cut off his arm, and got it replaced with a tin arm. (i think there was a beautiful girl, and evil witch, and a cursed axe in the story too) the same thing happened with the rest of his body over time, so that at the end, he was completely made of tin. after all the years of being fixed and replaced, i don't think any part of the vacuum cleaner is of the original one that we used to own.
i think my mother has a sentimental attachment to the monster, because i for one, wish we can get rid of it. i think vacuuming on my hands and knees with a Dustbuster would be more pleasant at this point.