Tag Archives: dyson animal

Whoops, in a Vacuum

Is this a job for a repair shop or the genius bar?


Sometimes I feel like God does things to me just so to provide material for this blog. I should be grateful. But this time I think He’s gone too far.

have to blame God, because honestly, I don’t know how else this could have happened. I mean, yes, I was vacuuming near my computer. Which was, yes, on the floor. And did, OK, have earbuds plugged in to it.

But really, Dyson, is your suck that strong? I am awed anew.

And super bummed.

And hoping that you–or Apple, or both–have generous warranties. And a good sense of humor.

The Return of The Prodigal Dyson

I finally get it. It’s not about keeping up with the Joneses. But it is about keeping up with their appliances, which are infinitely superior to ours.

After spending a few days with my newly purchased Dyson Animal I have found myself sucked (sorry) into a spinning vortex of new-appliance longing. Because this thing, this beautiful, perfect thing, (the cheapest model of its class, mind you), is so far superior to our old Electrolux it brings a tear to my eye. It is as if I am in the presence of the divine. Or, at least, a purple, plastic, lesser deity.

I have, for the last three days, been vacuuming recreationally. I have vacuumed where normally I would nap, or enjoy a cup of tea, or peruse the latest New Yorker. I have vacuumed and re-vacuumed, then vacuumed again: floors, rugs, chairs, window sills, my bed, my desk, the air. I have seriously considered vacuuming the dog. (I didn’t, only because I learned that Dyson makes a special head for this purpose. Far be it from me to approach such an undertaking with the wrong appurtenance. But look out, Mina. Your day is coming!)

My suspicions have been confirmed: Those other appliances the Joneses have that I still do not? The Mieles, Wolfs, Vikings, Sub Zeros, et al? They are as amazing as I suspect. They would make cooking/washing/drying more pleasurable, graceful, easy, eloquent, meditative, and even musical. Owning them would bring, if not joy, then at least massive satisfaction. Our current appliances would look like pathetic, rattling relics in contrast. Because, let’s face it, they are. I’ll go further. They suck. They suck hard. So hard that, if they were a vacuum, they’d run circles around a Dyson. But they’re not. They are a lame, spray-painted furnace of a stove, a Victorian-era douser of a dishwasher, a lumbering fabric-hater of  a washer/dryer. And my days of celebrating their quirkiness, their “vintageness,” their good-old-fashioned “quality” are over. From now on I will cast away my rose-colored glasses and see these items for what they are: clumsy, inept, off-colored dinosaurs to be replaced at the earliest opportunity. Probably never. But, hey, one can dream.

My husband, on the other hand? He likes the Dyson fine. He admires its traits. He is glad we got it. But when I suggested throwing away the Electrolux? He looked at me like I was insane.

“No way! Someone on Craig’s List will want that.”

The crazy thing is, he’s right.

But it won’t be me.

The Dangers of Splurging

Made the much-dreaded trip to Bed Bath and Beyond today. It turned out to be not nearly as painful as expected. For me. MJ wasn’t so lucky: I clocked her on the head with a new Dyson Animal Vacuum Cleaner while attempting to wrestle it into our cart. She was fine after the initial shock. I think she enjoyed the trip.

Alas, her Dyson-related injuries didn’t stop there. I was so excited/titillated/horrified by how much money I’d spent — even with a 20% off coupon — on our new appliance (and — ahem — a few other items) that I lost track of her at the playground later. For one second. During which time she fell down some steps.

OK, I’ll be more specific. And truthful. At the moment she fell I was texting. I know. I hate parents who walk around the playground gaping stupidly at their iphones while, nearby, their kids hover at the jaws of death. It is totally irresponsible. And selfish. And reprehensible. And today, I was that parent.

What was I texting, you ask, that was worth endangering my dear girl’s neck? Something crucial? Something life-altering?

Something to my husband: “Got the vacuum! Also Xmas lights $2 a box!”

A short missive. But not short enough. MJ took her tumble just as I was trying to find the $ symbol on my phone. (Because no, I do not have an iphone. In that one way, at least, I am better than those other parents. I do my texting on a piece of crap). Fortunately, she was unhurt. Other than a scrape on the head. OK, two.

I’ll be honest again, though. I was really worked up. If she not fallen at that particular moment the text might have continued:

“Got more wrapping paper, too. 70% off! It’s Santa Claus and cookies. We’ll use it for acquaintances. Whose opinions don’t matter.  Also peppermint bark for the postman. To go with his tip. For which I hope you have cash, because I do not, and I promised it to him three days ago. With a card. Which I also don’t have. Does anyone like peppermint bark? Anyway. It was cheap! Got more clothespins, too. I am all about hanging the clothes to dry. Even though the clothesline is in a concrete wasteland near the trash cans. Smells. Still, saves energy! Also an ironing board. 20% off! I will press all of your shirts now. They will no longer hang about in twos and threes — melancholy, wrinkled ghosts reminding us of our failures. Those days are over. And the doghair in the rug days, too. Over! And the days where we don’t tip our postman. OVER! And — ”

And I could’ve gone on. Anxiety makes me verbose. Luckily for Mike, I didn’t. Luckily for me, MJ doesn’t have a concussion. Luckily for MJ, I splurge like this once a year. Maybe twice.

Next time I’ll bring a helmet.