Here is a very fascinating story which I’d like to share with you because it just happened a moment ago and if I don’t write it down I’ll be extremely annoyed and grouchy for the rest of the day. Yes, I treat this blog as a free therapy session. No, I don’t think it’s a problem.
So anyway, A. is at the home improvement store, and he calls me and goes:
— I’m so sorry, but I need you to do something terribly unpleasant for me.
— Sorry, I know it’s bad, but it’s not urgent, you can take your time.
— Oh God, what is it?
— I need you to check the vacuum cleaner and tell me the number for the bag.
Backstory: our vacuum cleaner is old and weird and has some strange bags which are difficult to replace. A.’s been trying to figure them out for a while, and while trying to get the bag out, he broke the lid, so now the vacuum cleaner is wearing a sturdy duct tape belt and has an overflowing bag inside, long past its due replacement date.
So I groan and mutter like Muttley, but I do get to work: take the vacuum out of the closet, wrestle the hose off, unpeel the duct tape, force the broken lid off, haul the bag out, spraying everything with dust (the place having been cleaned top to bottom hours before), turn it around—there’s no number. No identification whatsoever.
— Listen, I say to A. over the phone in an irritated voice, listen, there’s no number, where inside am I supposed to look?
— You don’t have to look inside! I just need the model, it’s supposed to say on the vacuum somewhere.
— Then why the duck did you tell me to look in the vacuum?!?
— I never said in it, I just asked you to check it out.
Well, I think to myself, “Oh, son-of-a-b-b– son-of-a-b-b– son-of-a-b-b– uh, gun. Heh, heh, heh. You thought I was going to, uh, say son-of-a-bitch, didn’t ya?” (source) Then I get back to work: stuff the overflowing bag of dust into its slot, spit out all the dust that got into my mouth, put the broken lid on top, slide it into position, fasten it back to the vacuum with duct tape—
Wait, no, I’m not doing any of that. I did squeeze the dust bag in, but the rest will be for A. to sort out when he comes back. Maybe next time he’ll skip the doom and gloom and not make the task of walking to the closet and looking at some numbers sound so daunting that I’ll assume I need to dismantle half the apartment. Rassum-fassum-rassum Rick Rastardly.