I think that we are all capable of accomplishing great things. At least that’s what my parents taught me.

Every day you should appreciate life, they lectured, and do something to improve your mind. Follow your own talent, read something and enjoy each day as if it were you last, they raised a forefinger.

That’s if you have time. What they conveniently forgot to include in that happy thwappy life lecture was that teensy weensy detail called making a living. Taking care of the business of life these days has nearly sucked up every waking moment as well as every ounce of energy. Then if there’s anything left in our brain cells, we might be able to accomplish great things.

Either that, or be independently wealthy and have someone ELSE clean house, grocery shop, do laundry, fill the gas tank, cut the grass…

So I decided that I would take 15 minutes each day to try to accomplish great things. You know, like write a classic American novel, get an advanced degree in nuclear physics, move mountains – little things like that. Saturday was designated Day One for the rest of my life. Fifteen minutes at a time, I told myself. And if all goes well and I live to the age of 146 years old, then I could accomplish great things.

The morning was spent in the car shop – the one that takes my money to get to the job so that I can earn money to pay the car shop.

There was also no coffee in the house. Everyone knows that you can’t accomplish great things without caffeine. One quick store trip and then I couldn’t think straight when I noticed that I was a week behind on my housecleaning.

OK, I’ll vacuum and do laundry, then accomplish great things. But the vacuum cleaner sat in the same spot reminding me that it had no suction. A midget-sized dust mite was safe from a hose that lay there dead. Several trips to the store later for the right size filter, and I was disassembling the thing. With new filters in, vacuuming would be a snap, I thought.

Still no suction. The front room turned into a vacuum cleaner workshop. There were implements to examine the stomachs of snakes for contraband, Phillip’s head screwdrivers of every size except the one I needed and four-letter words that echoed through a hose.

I even recalled my ex-husband who bragged that his vacuum cleaner was from Germany and cost a zillion dollars. It sucks great, he beamed. He even boasted that he could vacuum without bending over to pick up things by hand. His was so advanced and allergen free that he could clean the whole house without once blowing his nose.

Then, heh heh, I ran across another filter that I had overlooked for the five years that I had owned the vacuum. It said “Change every three months, you dummy.” It left yet a new trail of dust bunnies to the trash. The new roaring suction was so great that it nearly sucked up the dining room shears. Then the belt broke. Another trip to the store.

By then, it was late afternoon and I had not spent my allocated 15 minutes.

Sometimes, you have to accept the fact that accomplishing great things means that the car oil is changed and the vacuum cleaner hose sucks.