Can't Wait to Say "It Sucks"

Then only time you're allowed to say something 'sucks,'" is when you're talking about a vacuum cleaner. 

I usually didn't proclaim that statement on my lengthy list of "the rules" at the beginning of each school year. 

Instead, I simply waited until someone uttered "THAT SUCKS" in class and pounced, making it clear that the phrase had only one acceptable use in my mind.

Vacuum cleaners. 

The warning may have gotten a chuckle, but it generally had little impact at a time when "THAT SUCKS" worked as the preferred protest for just about anything my students did not like. 

So, it was a difficult rule to regulate. Still, I did my best to maintain a high level of decent discourse and a sense of comfort for all who entered my classroom.

In fact, occasionally some students had to step OUT of my classroom for one-on-one reminders of appropriate language. 

I hated the phrase as a school teacher and hate it now, even though it's pretty mild considering the language we hear coming out of our country's leaders.

I'll be the first to admit that on occasion I can have a potty mouth when horses get out or a dog eats the furniture. 

Another reminder students often heard was "there's a time and a place for everything" and that it's important to  control what flows from our mouths in any setting where a higher level of decorum is expected.

All that said, I must say that here at the Lovestead, I'd anxious for the moment when I can proclaim, "It sucks!"

True to form, I'm referring to a vacuum cleaner, a Dyson at that. 

Bill bought me a new Dyson this past summer.  It's the kind with the bubble look at the bottom. 

After limping along for some time with a crossbred vacuum cleaner, made up of two different Dysons, this week, I finally had to tell Bill that my concoction was doing more exhaling than inhaling.  

Oh, it would pick up the dirt, but for some reason the dirt would blow out the back end. 

Took me a while to figure this out, but once I turned around and saw the long trail of hair, dirt fuzz, sand and other stuff, it was obvious that we needed a new machine.

So, when Bill brought home the new model in July, I felt like a liberated woman with my new vacuum cleaner that sucked so well one could eat off the carpet.  

This week, however, the machine has taken on a problem.  The hose, used for getting in corners and under couches, does not suck while the actual floor vacuum does. 

After a day of examining the innards and even finding the Dyson manual, which showed me more efficient ways of checking out the parts, I went from employing my potty mouth to feeling sense of pride.  

The manual showed me where the filters were located and explained that they simply needed to be washed with cold water and left to dry for 24 hours. 

I assumed that since I'd found no "blockage" in the hose, clean filters would get things back to normal and that hose would start sucking again. 

So, yesterday when the 24 hours had ended, I confidently grabbed them, reinserted them into their respective vacuum cleaner homes and fired up the machine. 

Pride cometh before a fall, and, oh what a fall there was, when the hose still refused to suck. 

That's when I announced to Bill that this machine must definitely have a problem.  After I explained all the tinkering I had done and the ends I'd gone to "secretly" on Friday to find a Dyson vacuum cleaner repair place.  

I did this secretly because all Bill needed to hear, after other equipment failures of late (a plumber is coming Wednesday to check out a toilet that won't stop running), that yet another utility to keep the place going had gone down. 

Well, yesterday, it was time for him to know.  So, after my dissertation on the Dyson, he decided to take a look. 

Plus, there was untapped part of the machine where manual showed "eyes" looking at it to check for problems. 

On Friday, I could not find a small enough screw driver to open that part, so Bill found one and checked it out too.

For a while there in the living room, it looked as if Bill and I were having a dance with the Dyson as I'd lift it off the kitchen island, start it up, pull out the hose and see if it was working.  

When it didn't, Bill would put his hands out to grab the cleaner and check out another area.

At one time, for some reason, I had gone to the floor to examine something on the machine followed by tinkering while Bill was doing his thing. 

"Plug it in," he said.  

The first time he said that I was still down on the floor.  

As is customary at this age, I had to roll to a spot near the kitchen island and pull myself up. 

During subsequent attempts to find the problem, I beat him at the punch.

"Will you go plug it in?" I'd ask from the floor. 

We actually got along pretty well while manhandling that Dyson, but we never found the problem. 

Bill told me he had sent in the warranty.  So, I said that when I had time, I'd go to the website and make sure. 

Well, Bill headed off for town, and I couldn't get the Dyson out of my mind.  So, I took a picture of the sticker on the vacuum cleaner, went upstairs and found the website.

By golly, Dyson has a chat option, so I thought maybe someone at the other end could help with the problem. 

Benjamin, the chatting techie from Chicago, was very nice and polite and even said he liked my name. 

First, though, Benjamin needed the serial number.  

"If you don't mind, I have to go downstairs to the vacuum cleaner," I typed.

"Take your time," Benjamin responded. 

So, I went to the garage, wrote down what looked like the serial number, came back up, typed it in and soon Benjamin responded.

"Can you verify that number?" he asked, noting that it didn't match any of his records. 

"I'll go back to the vacuum cleaner," I typed. 

Soon, I arrived back upstairs, having found one incorrect letter, again typed in the serial number for Benjamin.

"It doesn't match either," he responded, adding that they couldn't do anything unless there was a match.

"Let me try one more time," I typed. So, back down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen and back to the garage.  

This time I carried the vacuum cleaner to a spot in the garage with better lighting and noticed a second letter that was mistaken. 

I copied it down, as well as the model number, ran back upstairs and told Benjamin my Fitbit was sure recording a lot of steps.  

This time was a charm.

"That's the one!" he wrote back.  I could almost feel his glee or relief through my computer screen.

Progress, short-lived.

"Okay, now we're going to test the parts of the machine," he said.  

I then wondered if there was a hidden computer inside the vacuum cleaner that would relay to the folks back at the office what was wrong----kinda like our satellite feed. 

Well, we haven't progressed that much, I soon learned.  

No, the vacuum cleaner had to be sitting next to me at the computer while Benjamin would type off sections to check, sections Bill and I had already checked and double checked.

And, it wasn't THAT easy when we had teamed up downstairs.  

I could not imagine myself at that moment going back downstairs (even if it did mean more Fitbit steps), manhandling that vacuum cleaner, hauling it up the stairs without tripping over the cord or myself, setting it down next to my computer and disassembling it once more, bit by bit, as Benjamin typed instructions. 

"If you have my information for the warranty and the serial number and the model number plugged in to your system, could we put this project on hold?" I asked.  "I have a busy afternoon ahead."

"Sure," Benjamin said. "We have your information and whoever is on duty next time you check in can help you."  

And, so, after all that, my Dyson hose still does not suck.

 I've decided that the next time I sign up to chat and troubleshoot the hose problem from my computer with my vacuum cleaner by my side, it will have to be a rainy day with a few consecutive hours open on my schedule.

And, when that day comes, if the kind expert in Chicago can walk me through the hose problem, I will proudly proclaim, "That sucks!"

And, that is all. Life goes on and faulty equipment, designed to make our lives easier, will continue to disorder our days. 

Sometimes I think living in a cave would be a lot easier.  

  Happy Sunday.