Write a column and you can clean up
the specific manufacturer because as a serious columnist I would never, ever want to be accused of promoting a product in my column for personal benefit. I will tell you it was one of those “foreign” vacuums, and the ads featured the inventor and company president, a guy who looks like Capt. Picard with a toupee and talks with such a high-class accent you’d think he was about to announce tea and crumpets were being served at Downton Abbey.
About a month after that column ran, a tall box arrived at our door. It seems that the veddy British vacuum inventor had read my column and wanted me to have a “real” vacuum to quell our marital discord.
I was so elated I did a jig on the front porch. It’s not so much that I love vacuums, or cleaning, as it is I am a worldclass, dyed-in-the-wool cheapskate. The only thing I love more than not spending money is getting something without spending a dime.
I called the kids to show off my prize, acting like the dad in “A Christmas Story.” I made my wife keep the major award vacuum in the front hall, just so I could see it when I came home from work. For months and months, I took over all vacuuming, showing off the handy but amazingly effective controls, marveling at how much crud would build up in the (bagless!) chamber, and displaying how I could detach the wand and vacuum the ceilings for cobwebs.
Our kids got used to my constant cleaning, reaching for the remote to turn up the TV as I came in the room, glad that something would drown out my bragging. My wife would stare at me blankly as I sucked away at dirt and grime, silently praying that I would trip over the cord and injure myself.
It’s taken more than a decade, but the gleam is off my major award. The hose has so many holes that it’s more duct tape than ductwork, and the cord is patched with electrical tape. The places I missed give me a little shock now and then.
The entire thing is covered with teeth marks, because our dog, like all dogs, goes insane every time she hears the vacuum start up. The last straw was when the beater brush started making a noise like a wood chipper, which was appropriate, because it was shredding our hall carpet.
So last weekend, my wife and I trudged off to the store to buy a replacement. I stared glumly at the options. At one end of the row were the cheesy portables, the kind you see in infomercials that look like they run on AA batteries. On the other end of the row there were the Dysons (OK, I said it. Get over it). They’re all sleek, efficient and, unfortunately, three times the price of the others. In the middle were models expensive enough to make me queasy but still looked like they’d break down at the first sign of trouble.
My wife, knowing how much I hate to spend money, turned to me and said, in a calming tone, “Quit whining. Nothing’s free in life!”
“Sometimes it is!” I said, defiantly. “Not often, but sometimes!”