So today, I let two strangers into my home. Vacuum cleaner salesmen. Or rather, one salesman and one trainee. It only occurred to me after I had let them in that maybe it wasn't such a good idea, since it was just me and D.D. at home. I'm afraid I was only paying half-attention to the spiel, the other half of my brain trying to remember the number for the police while simultaneously planning either a hurried escape or a lunge toward the knife block in the kitchen.
Anyhow, it was a cool vacuum cleaner, if I had *an extra grand plus change* for a household appliance to suck hair and kitty litter off my floors. It came with so many attachments, I'd probably have to devote a whole closet to the beast. One attachment had a brush for cleaning between the coils of the radiators, but I bet that Swiffer brush doo-dad can't run more than five bucks, no?
My favorite attachment, though, was introduced with a flourish: "For the man." It was a tube with what appeared to be a cloven hoof on the end. My brain re-engaged and went into overdrive at that point, trying to figure out *how* it was to be used by said man. Hygiene? Personal grooming? My guesses were getting wilder and more graphic; it must have shown on my face, because he hurried to explain that it sticks to the wall where *the man* is drilling a hole, to suck up the bits of plaster and sheet rock that are knocked loose. Of course! Because only *men* know how to use a drill. Riiight!
Needless to say, we didn't get the vacuum cleaner, although I did let L.H. be the one to turn them down over the speaker phone at the door when they returned later. Yes, I am a chicken. I've decided from now on to just pretend I'm not home if L.H. is not here and the doorbell rings, because I'm obviously incapable of turning away polite but potentially murderous door-to-door salesman.
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