I need a new vacuum
The older I get, the more changes I begin to notice about myself. There's the obvious stuff, like the perpetually aching back and the gray hairs that keep cropping up. But even more shocking are the less visible changes.
If some one came to me 15 years ago and said I could have anything in the world, I may have chosen a huge mansion, endless supplies of cash, and front row tickets to Blind Melon. If someone asked me that question today I know for sure what I'd answer: I want a really good vacuum.
When I say really good, I mean suck a golf ball through a garden hose good. I want a vacuum that sees Capri Sun straw wrappers and laughs. I want a vacuum that grew up in the hood, had a momma who smoked crack, a daddy who was never around and wouldn't think twice about shanking you if called him a sissy. I want a vacuum that shows up ready to rumble, ready to rock out with his balls out. I never want to have to pick up paper bits, Barbie shoes or, for fucks sake, thread again.
My construction yellow monster gave up the ghost yesterday so I borrowed my mother's dainty little toy vacuum. I think this thing was an asthmatic, lazy bastard in a previous life. All it did was look at the Cinnamon Toast Crunch on the floor, sigh real big and say "Could you get that for me?".
I've tried my friends' high end Dyson. It's nice and sucks like a cheerleader under the bleachers, but it's a little too delicate for what I have in mind.
I need the Marlboro Man of vacuums.
I need one I can ride hard, smack it's ass and put it to bed wet.
I will admit that I am a vacuum murderer so I need something tough enough to look me in the eye and say "Bring it, Bitch!"
Do they have that at Target?