I hate vacuum cleaners, Dirt Devils, Hoovers, Bissells, Eurekas and especially Dysons, with that sexy English guy, James, who totally gives me goosebumps even though he's expounding on dust riddance procedures. His evocative explanations of centrifugal forces and ball technology are a dangerous combination of Professor from Gilligans Island and Heath Ledger in some oversexed British film that I can't recall the name of. I don't care how much money he makes as a vacuum cleaner magnate. He missed his calling as a 900 number operator. If only Lavalite could have HIM as a spokesperson.
About a month ago, during a physically laborious cleaning session, I decided to hurl myself into the world of test driving vacuum cleaners, the same sensible methodology one would use in purchasing a new car. Over the squeak of the wheels and billows of smoke exhausting from my 15 year old Eureka Bravo! (the Broadway version of vacuum cleaners), its hum more like a constant train whistle, never faltering from rug to rug, I said "enough is enough!" rather I coughed it, glancing out the window to see my next door neighbor wearing ear plugs. I'm not sure, but I think it was because of my noise polluting, non sucking vacuum cleaner that was only a year shy of a social security check. To be honest, I'm not sure how old it is. It was left here from the previous owners, like an ornery pet that comes with the house. Since I already needed a new vacuum and am extraordinarily cheap, I said "come to Mama." Now, 18 months later, it's dying of emphasema from inhaling too many dust jackals over the years.
In researching vacuum cleaners, I scanned Consumer Reports, Amazon product reviews, stood on the vacuum aisle at WalMart in slack-jawed wonder for a full hour at all the models, attachments, hoses, brushes, amps, pistons, glass packs, mufflers, and pet brushes. In desperation, I allowed the Kirby vacuum people come do a demonstration and clean a rug for free. You should NEVER let those people in your house. They won't leave. In fact they're still here and they're terrible houseguests stealing the remote control, using up the toilet paper and leaving drink circles on tables. They say that the Kirby can clean all that up, but I've yet to see it do anything.
No joking. DON"T LET THOSE PEOPLE IN YOUR HOUSE. THEY'RE DANGEROUS! I don't care if they offer to clean a rug for free and give you a botox, a tummy tuck and a margherita on the rocks, slam the door in their faces, nicely, firmly, as Jesus would possibly do when faced with persistant, pushy vacuum salesmen from Gallilee.
But I digress and this post is getting too long. I finally decided to buy the Eureka Boss, which was prized Consumer Reports "Sucks the Most" award (a good thing for a vacuum, but nothing else) On the site it says "in duels, outcleaned Dyson by 45%." In "DUELS"
I'm picturing the great vacuum cleaner duels of the Old West. It's high noon in the boomtown of Dusty Floor Gulch. Two upright vacuum foes, one in a white cowboy hat, the other in black, slowly approach each other, meeting in front of the Berber Saloon. Their cold stares mean business. They'll settle it once and for all, leaving two swept trails, one obviously victorious, eat off the floor clean, while the other limps away leaving cat hair, crumbs, and lint in its path for town folk to see.
They shake hands, or rather, 12 amp cords. Turn and take 10 paces. Then, pilot lights a'blarin' and spin brushes vibratin', the contest is on. It takes only 30 seconds for Dyson to fall, that blasted ball technology failing him again. While The Boss, sounding more like John Wayne than Bruce Springsteen, yells Eureka!!!!! and all the town-folk come out to cheer and celebrate. The Boss sucks up the praises as well as the 45% left over by his rival.
ANGELA BUYS THE BOSS
Last night, so convinced that the Boss was the Bravo's best replacement, I trecked out to WalMart with the to purchase my new vacuum. After all 523 consumers and a well respected magazine can't be wrong. Yes...they actually can. Every blasted one of them. FOOLS! I tell you.
After wrestling with a trunk-sized box bound with Fort Knox brand security tape, styrofoam packaging and a vacuum cord longer than an elephant's intestine, I finally finished putting together my new vacuum. It was all sleek, shiny and dark red, not frivolous bright red, but the "I mean business, I've got work to do here" kind of garnet red. I plugged it in, giddy with excitement. I even checked to make sure there was plenty of dog hair on the rug so the vacuum wouldn't feel un-needed. I felt all over searching for the on/off switch. As my index finger found it, my heart beat faster. This was the moment I'd been waiting 18 months for. "Click" I turned it on, no earplugs needed. Yes, good. Tilting the handle back, I guided it across a particularly furry area of the rug. Forward to suck, then back to see the results. Okay, obviously it needs to warm up. Forward, then back. Freakin' Gawd! The fur is all still there on the rug. Not even tousled by a slight breeze, not even combed. What's wrong with this thing? I read the directions. Everything's there, in its place. Why isn't this thing working?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Forward with more force, white knuckles, bearing down... then back. Nothing. Okay, it's back to the Vacuum corral for more consumer testing.
At this point I decide that I need vodka more than a vacuum. They both start with V, close enough.
