As a kid, I remember the Fuller Brush Man showing up at our door with his little suitcase, immaculately dressed, wearing at least a white shirt and tie, if not a suit. Sometimes even a hat. I loved that guy. My mom would stand at the front door and talk to him, and he was so nice. One time my mom bought me a little pink brush set, kid-sized, with boar bristles.

Then there was the World Book Encyclopedia Guy, same story, except for the kid-sized thing. And the vacuum cleaner guy, from whom my mom bought this little canister thing that looked like a pig. Fun times. These guys were slick, and smooth, and knew how to get people to buy their stuff of course, but I don't know if they attended a lot of training seminars before setting out. They talked about their families, and how they had seven kids to support, or whatever. They may have read "How to Win Friends and Influence People," but they never had Seven Habits, or any of that stuff.

Enter Joe. Well, first enter these two beautiful, sweet, modestly-dressed girls.

"Hi, we're not going to ask you to buy anything, blah, blah, we are just in your neighborhood with our new carpet cleaning system and are wondering if we can clean your carpet for free. We don't advertise, so this is the way we are able to show our product."

"Well, we're going to a concert tonight, so we won't be home." Off the hook? No way.

"Oh, what time do you have to leave?"

"About 5:30."

"What if we came right at 5:00, and were out of here by 5:45, at the latest?"

"Well, I guess that would be okay."

I was just thinking that morning that I needed to get the carpet cleaned, anyway. So since they were going to do it for free . . . this must be a sign.

When Bret got home he burst my bubble. "So we have to listen to some guy's presentation about a carpet cleaner? We're not buying any carpet cleaning system."

"Um, I know that. We'll just let them do it, and then we'll go. Okay? Okay."

Now enter Joe. Possibly the cutest little seventeen-year-old you've ever seen (except for Sean, of course). Earning money for college. Long black, spiral-permed hair, cute little plaid buttondown, t-shirt underneath, clean jeans, and adorable smile. It's his first day on the job. He's a little nervous, and even Bret said later that he was a cute kid.

Joe proceeds to vacuum about six garbage bags full of dirt out of our carpet, which I had vacuumed myself about three minutes before he arrived. Disgusting. Then he cleaned our blinds, mattress (all kinds of dust mites and creepy junk came out), dusted the living room, cleaned between the piano keys, and practically made dinner with the thing. All the time he was working and talking, he was making this little snare drum sound with his mouth. Tccchhh tcchhh tchh, tccchhh, tcchhh, tchh. I started to wonder if maybe he had Tourettes or something. Then he and his manager started with the high tech sales tactics. No pressure, no hype, just the manager calling him on his cell phone at certain times, and he'd step outside to talk so that we could have time alone to discuss. Then he'd do stuff like put our vacuum cleaner out on the front porch as some kind of signal to the manager. I guess we weren't supposed to know what that all meant, but I'm no dummy (see above conversation with the cute and modest girls).

Ninety-five minutes and x-hundred dollars later (the variable x representing many), Darling Joe and his manager were welcoming us to the Kirby family, and assuring us that we would love our new "home maintenance system." Also we would be helping send Joe to Disneyland, which he was very excited about. He promised to send us a postcard.

We made it to the concert in time despite the late start, so that all worked out, but now I don't get my new kitchen floor until tax return time next year. That's okay--now I'll be able to clean it. And I can't get the used BMW I've been wanting to trade my ugly, gas-guzzling van for, but that's okay too, because now I can clean the carpets in the van and it will be beautiful and sexy again. Almost as good as a BMW.

And Joe is thrilled. We gave him his first sale and sent him to Disneyland. Money can't buy that kind of happiness. Or maybe it can. But I just have a good feeling inside, knowing that I can clean my carpets, blinds, mattresses, furniture, hardwood floors (once I purchase the optional attachment), walls, ceilings, fireplace, cars, and it even unplugs clogged drains. What are the odds I'll ever be able to summon the energy to do all that? I mean, the thing still requires human operation. Slim to none. But I have the technology, just in case it ever happens. That's what counts. If Joe sends a postcard, I'm going to scrapbook it.