By Bobbie Glasheen
I find myself in a difficult relationship and need to call Saul about beginning divorce proceedings. It’s my vacuum cleaner. We suffer irreconcilable differences, this machine being bigger, more powerful and decidedly more intelligent than I.
There is a precipitous drop up at the end of Howland Drive and I might just drive him up there and run the bozo off the edge. The only problem being that although the cord is a good half-mile long, it will never get us that far.
We were brought together by Patty Perez who felt we were ideally matched. She should have married him. Not me. He lives in the closet until absolutely necessary and emerges all steamed up and ready to go.
I feel faint, but forge ahead with plugging him in and kicking the red pedal. Wowza. What a racket!
When fully engaged, he sucks the pictures from the walls, devours soup ladles, car keys and even small dogs. We reel through the house. He leads the way and I cling in terror to the handle. That is hard to do inasmuch as we are talking a tall, tall vacuum cleaner.
This is not the first time I have been outdone by a machine that plugs into the wall. Consider the sewing machine, the “mix-master” and the hair dryer, all specifically designed to destroy my already fragile ego. Did I write fragile ego?
Any machine sold under names like Airspeed, Power-Lifter or Helix should be avoided. Next time, I will stick with Mighty Mite. Is there a vacuum called simply the Mite? And then there is the euphemism of all time ... “Make Cleaning a Breeze.” If cleaning is a breeze then I am Cyd Charisse.
Why am I wasting my time and yours prating on and on about vacuum cleaners? We have more important things to think about, hopefully. Perhaps this is escapism at its best, or worst.
Pretending that my vacuum cleaner is a giant cog in world affairs saves me from having to think about really important matters. Like poll averages. Water districts. Or cupcakes.