Apocalypto-Millennialist Vacuuming Free Pass

          I had a very scary dream a week ago. It was set in a remote Ozarks apocalypto-millennialist compound and contained, in addition to the apocalypto-millennialists, a cannibal, zombies, four dim teenagers of the sort who always end up dying horribly in these scenarios, and me (obviously slated for Horrible Death no. 5).  I'm pretty sure George Romero is thinking about optioning it.

There were fewer horses in my dream, but otherwise, this is a very accurate representation of the
general level of screaming, panic, and bloodshed. Notice that nobody is even attempting to vacuum.
Woodcut for "Die Bibel in Bildern", 1860, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld

          It frightened me awake, this dream did, and then I had to get up and check to make sure all the doors were locked.*

          When I went back to bed, I was in no hurry to get to sleep, on the chance that this dream was still lurking in my subconscious, waiting to spring the blood-soaked second act on me the minute my eyes closed. So I tried to keep myself awake by going over my chore list for the following day.

          It happened that my chore list included a fair amount of vacuuming. If you read this blog regularly, you will know that vacuuming is The Housework That Dare Not Speak Its Name around me. I hate vacuuming more than congress hates the president. I hate it more than Manolo Blahnik hates Birkenstocks. More than the Wicked Witch of the West hated water.

          And I found myself thinking as I lay there avoiding sleep, "You know, if I were being chased by apocalypto-millennialists, zombies, a cannibal, and perhaps George Romero, I wouldn't have to vacuum tomorrow." And it is a measure of my hatred for The Housework That Dare Not Speak Its Name that I began to build a scenario in which the bare possibility of apocalypto-millennialists, zombies, a cannibal, and George Romero released me permanently from vacuuming duty. Because if you're potentially going to be Dead Person no. 5 at any moment, with the attendant gore and carpet destruction, what, really, in the grand scheme of things, is the point of vacuuming at all ever?

          And on this cheerful thought, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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*When I told him this, K accused me of not being a good Missourian. A good Missourian, he pointed out, would have gotten out her AmbushMaster 3000 Suburban Assault Rifle ("Now in pink!!! For the Ladies!!!") and squeezed off a few hundred rounds at random shadows, in addition to checking the doors. I'll be sure to do that next time.