If You Say This Has Never Happened to You, Either You're Lying or You're the Real June Cleaver

I hate it when this happens.  And it happens a lot to me.  Like today:

Scenario:  You're vacuuming the house, said act not having been done for over a week.  Black dog fur, once single strands drifting about, has now morphed into giant fur ball tumbleweeds, flying away angrily from the exhaust air of the vacuum cleaner, accumulating in nooks and corners, hoping to hide from its inevitable fate.

Eventually, every last bit of dog fur, rawhide remnants, potato chip crumbs (from son's bedroom), and some scary unidentifiable bits (including what may have been a bloated tick) are suctioned away into oblivion.  You have one room left.  That room would be the dining room, which is where your old-woman-dog loves to sleep in the afternoon sun.  And because of this, the dining room is extra gnarly with big, nasty clumps of dog fur clinging to every surface and every foot of the chairs and table legs.

And then it happens:  The vacuum begins making its sickly wheezing sound that can only mean one thing.  The vacuum bag is full.  This wouldn't be a problem if you had bought one of those fancy Dyson vacuums, but you didn't, so no need to dwell on what-ifs.  You go to where you keep the extra vacuum bags.  And you find...an empty package.  Damn, another moment to dwell on what-ifs.

Hurl-worthy.

End scene:  You, up to your shoulders in a large black trash bag, grumbling very un-ladylike phrases, pulling out enough s**t from the full vacuum bag you just wrestled from the belly of the machine, so that you can finish this task that is beginning to take as long as Odysseus took to get back to Ithaca.  Hopefully you don't come across the scary bits or that ambiguous tick-thing.

Next time write down vacuum bags on the errands list of things to pick up, dummy.