With trepidation, I poked my head into the mudroom, where the Dog’s crate is kept, and saw my sweet, sweet Oreck lying on a pile of dirty clothes (Does it seem like we have dirty clothes everywhere in our house??) with its guts spilling out. Nooooo!!!!!! The cry could be heard blocks away. Not my Oreck! Not that darn vacuum that I have taken after getting scolded by the Oreck dealer religiously for yearly tune-ups to keep up my 21-year warranty! Not the vacuum that I’ve had to perform major surgery on to extract a bushel-full of dead pine needles after an especially traumatic Christmas tree experience.
My next thought—what the @*$^! happened to it?!
And then my eyes drifted to the Dog, sitting nonchalantly in the corner of the room. Oh, he would’ve been whistling if he could. And then I remembered—the vacuum had been standing up next to the crate, where the Dog had spent his day. And apparently the Dog didn’t like that.
And so he decided to show me how much he didn’t like that.
And now my vacuum looks like this.
Keep in mind that this actually looks better than when I first arrived at the scene. The Dog had not only chewed through the cloth outer bag, but also the disposable inner bag, so dust, dirt, and numerous other unmentionables were scattered about the room. Since then I have replaced the inner bag so I can at least somewhat vacuum my floors, although I’m pretty sure the HEPA filter isn’t keeping out any of those allergens with a big hole in the bag that’s supposed to keep them all in.
Now, you have to understand how important an appliance like a vacuum is to me. If you have three boys and a dog (Melody??), you’ll understand.
Oh, I’ve gone the cheap route. I’ve tried out (and returned to the store) model after model after model. The only one that could stand up to the debris of my family is the $700 Oreck.
The only thing I haven’t liked about my Oreck is the dealer I have to “deal” with. I lovingly refer to him as “the vacuum Nazi.” Remember Tony, the obsessive mechanic who stole Jerry Seinfeld’s car because he didn’t think Jerry was taking good enough care of it?
Yeah, that’s him, but instead of wearing the mechanic’s gray jumpsuit and standing at the service window, he’s standing in a vacuum showroom on 5-inch-thick plush carpet wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a white “Oreck” polo shirt left unbuttoned so a hint of his chest hair can peek out just below his thick gold chain. And instead of yelling at Jerry for not changing the oil enough, I’ve got the vacuum Nazi chastizing me for having the audacity to try to change the belt myself or accusing me of various other vacuum crimes. “You’ve run this over something wet.” When I try to tell him that no, I wasn’t trying to vacuum out the fish tank or anything, he looks at me with his beady eyes and says in his sing-songy, condescending tone, “Yeah, you have. I can tell.” I’ve also been told, “Tell your husband NOT to try to unscrew this part himself! DON’T TRY TO FIX IT! How many times do I have to say it?”
Yeah, I really don’t have disdain for many people in my life. I try to find the best in everyone. But the vacuum Nazi? I just can’t do it.
Yeah, he’s gonna have a field day with this. I’m fairly certain he’s going to fight me for custody after he turns me in to the authorities for “appliance abuse.”
Maybe we’ll just replace all the carpet with hardwood floors…