Dear Mom,
I am a murderer.
I have killed a fine old family friend, one that's been with us for over ten years and rarely complained about anything I asked them to do.
The vacuum cleaner is dead, long live the vacuum cleaner.
I really don't know how I killed it. I mean, maybe it was old age. What is the ratio of vacuum cleaner years to human years? Seven, like a dog? Ten, like a cat? Twenty, like a bad relationship?
There was a strange muffled fart and then a burning smell.... followed by complete panic on my part when I forgot how to turn it off, yanked the cord out of the wall fearing fire, and was terrified by the obvious demonic possession as the vacuum cleaner continued to run.
I'd unplugged the television.
Once I'd calmed down (love you, Jose Cuervo!) I got out my trust itty bitty screw driver and took the vacuum apart to see if I could figure out what was wrong and fix it. Other than the horrible burnt smell and so much hair in it that I could weave a llama, nothing looked really out of place. Being such an expert on vacuum innards, of course I could spot something awry immediately, huh?
Tomorrow, a cure for cancer and world peace.
But no hoovered pins, no inhaled mice, no mangled wirey bits. So I put it back together and looked at it a while and then called GM1 and told him we needed to get a new vacuum. Considering this one was over ten years old, he wasn't surprised. Most appliance and machinery only lasts about five years with me. I am the Black Plague to small appliances' European peasantry.
The main thing that determined a new vacuum on the horizon was the extra three screws and two little ring things I had after I reassembled it. I had no idea where they went. Oopsie.
So now, I have no vacuum, GM1 insists on going with me to get a new one and that means we have to fit it around his schedule, and THAT means maybe next month. The dust, lint, crumbs, and ick are piling up and will be knee deep by then. It really sucks.
Or in this case, sadly doesn't.
I will keep you updated until I drown in carpet crap.
Your dusty daughter,
LA