I have arms, legs, and a back, but no body at all, and the person in charge of a meeting is named after me. What am I?

I have a face and two hands, I run without any legs, and I strike without ever hitting a thing. What am I?

Rub my ancient kind and a genie appears; flip my modern kind and the dark disappears. What am I?

I always tell the truth but flip it left to right, and breaking me is said to cost seven years of bad luck. What am I?

Opening me indoors is thought to bring bad luck, and I only ever open when the sky begins to cry. What am I?

I have teeth but never eat, and the right one turns a stranger's house into home. What am I?

A new one is said to sweep clean, a witch is said to ride one, and my job is chasing dust into a pile. What am I?

A nursery rhyme calls me short and stout, and I pour my heart out through a single spout. What am I?

I sing out the moment I am ready, and calling me black is the height of a pot's hypocrisy. What am I?

I run on nothing but suction, and in Britain a brand name became the very verb for my job. What am I?

I take pale bread and hand it back golden, I pop without a bang, and I am the classic gift for a new home. What am I?

I hum all night, I guard a light that hides the instant you shut my door, and I am the coldest spot in the house. What am I?

Walking beneath me is said to be bad luck, and I lift you higher step by step though I am no staircase. What am I?

I am forever lost down the back of the couch, and whoever holds me rules the whole television. What am I?

I blow a hot little storm on demand, and I must never, ever join you in the bath. What am I?

I give my whole life away as light, shrinking as I work, and burning me at both ends means wearing yourself out. What am I?