My Dirty, Winning Devil

Ta da!

It just so happens that I got this brandy-new suck-machine for Christmas, and Vanessa wins for giving me a perfect excuse to ramble on about it. So, Vanessa, send me your mailing address private-like (my email's in my profile) and I’ll pick out some toys for you tomorrow!

Now, some of you may be thinking to yourselves “A suck-machine? For Christmas? Who went and gave her a vacuumy gift like that?”

The answer is: my husband. And the reason is: I asked for it. Do you really want to get all up in my marriage? My anniversary’s on Sunday, after all.

Besides, those of you who’ve been around here for a while might recall how there was no Eurekan love lost for the soul of the old machine.

As you can see, I’ve needed a new one for a while. But, with full awareness of my shopping-skills (as recently demonstrated by assorted cameratic acquisitions), I didn’t dare trust me as The Decider.

So when Johnny asked what I wanted from him this year, I – instead of rolling my eyes and seething that he ought to know what to get without having to ask because he loves me, damnit – I said: “You know, Honey, I really could use a new vacuum cleaner.

“But,” I added “You’re on your own from here.

“I don’t want to offer advice or opinions. I don’t want to have to pick it up. I don’t want to have to place the freakin’ order for you off the internet. If you’re getting it, then you are getting it, and all I want to do is unwrap the thing on Christmas Day. I promise you, no matter what you choose, I’ll like it fine.”

My husband: I love him, but he sometimes needs a bit more hand-holding than does the average bear.

Of course, I almost instantly regretted my request. I had, over the years, bought and returned more than one vacuum already, because the fact is that I can be particular. Some of them don’t have nearly enough suction; some don’t have the right attachments; some scratch up the hardwood floors even though they say they won’t; and some just shoot the dirt around, leaving you with little bite-marks on your ankles.

Besides, what the hell kind of Christmas present was a vacuum cleaner, anyway? My father got one for my mom the first year they were married, and they damn near divorced over the fallout. They powered through the roadblock, so to speak, but even forty years later the very thought of it can still set my mother off. (Needless to say, she gets really, really good presents for Christmas these days.)

But, see, Mom hadn’t asked for her big orange Hoover with all the jigsaw-piece attachments. And I had. Mine ain't an orange Hoover, it’s a blue Dirt Devil upright, but it’s still got its share of parts for hard-reach corners.

I used it for the first time on Saturday, and do you want to know something? It works!

It doesn’t hurt me, or the floors. It doesn’t need a kick once in a while because it made that noise again. And I don’t have to get on my hands and knees to use it, either. Well, except for the tricky bit under the record player.

Which, hm. Looks like that bit could use another go.

But anyway, my Dirty Devil works just like a vacuum’s supposed to. Even to the extent of getting the cat hair out of the Persian rug my Lady handed down. And do you want to know what else?

That rug is cool!

Although – and I hadn't noticed till I snapped this with my brand-new camera – it, too, could obviously benefit from one more suck.

I am digging this new camera. Thanks I Love Upstate for turning me on to the sale – and Mom for paying for half of it!

In fact, because I’m digging it so much – and because Johnny’s away overnight so I’ve nothing else to do (well, and that’s not true either, but him being away gives me an excuse to procrastinate my real projects for another day) I’m going to go ahead and make an attempt to show all of your requests before I go to bed tonight. I don't know if I'll make it, but I'll try.

So keep tuning in!

But don't forget: only Vanessa actually wins.