Black and white. Up and down. Tom(eh)to. Tom(ah)to.
Such are my kids. I think part of evolutionary biology should be studying the frequency that siblings are completely different from one another. Many reasons, I suspect ( extremely amateurish and anecdotal "science" to follow):
1. Diversity. If both my kids were total dorks, neither one of them could perpetuate their genetic material. Presumably the dork will attract a dorkette and they will contribute smart nerd genes to the pool. The non-dork might attract a (short) hottie and contribute good looks to the pool.
2. Parental quality. Having children with distinct personalities, polar behavioral tendencies, and requiring completely different discipline methods keeps parents on their toes. Evolution doesn't want you to get lazy and let your second batch of genetic material wind up neglected and unable to cope in the world. We can only hope that there is some health benefit for the parent.
3. Sanity. Perhaps this is the sole health benefit for the parent. If one child enters into a phase of completely irrational, drive you up the wall behavior, the other child generally falls into line. Until he doesn't. Then he's driving you up the wall while the first one moves along without incident. If children somehow synced themselves, then all hell would break out, and parents would be committed at alarming rates.
I announce these non-scientific conclusions based on recent 'spring' cleaning. While I discovered the aforementioned treasures in E's room, I found nothing of the sort in S's.
S's room was much more like him--lacking mystery or a pensive side. It was straightforward, pretty much what you'd expect from a 5 year old boy whose room hasn't been cleaned out for 6 months.
Treasures? No. Contraband. Candy wrappers, lollipop sticks, greasy foil potato chip lunch bags. Even a grotesquely solid sippy cup of milk. (Cringe.)
Well-loved and meaningful books/toys/stuffed animals? No. Legos and Hot Wheels, though well catalogued in the kid's head were stashed, crammed, forgotten under/over/on top of everything else.
Dirty socks? Yes, everywhere. Under the bed, dresser, toys, rug, everywhere.
So different was my experience in both kids' room, that I wandered back into E's room just to confirm that reality. One boy, emotional, sensitive, secretly imbuing objects with meaning and feeling. One boy, straightforward, sneaking that which is forbidden, playing with and promptly forgetting, toys.
While E's bedroom required a special jar of loved things, S's required none. While E's bedroom yielded only a single bag of trash, S's yielded 2. It's not scientific, but it does quantify things a bit.
The most interesting part is which elements of myself I see in each one. Which brings me to evolutionary biology point #4:
4. Murder prevention. If each child retains personality traits or physical resemblance to each parent, each parent is far less likely to strangle that child at any given time.
Showing posts with label Cleaning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cleaning. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
To toss or not to toss
First of all, as I write this at 8 in the morning, it is dark, dark, DARK outside. Really...all the lights are off in here and it could be the middle of the night. Which I hate, but I do love the rain.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.
I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.
It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)
My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.
I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.
It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)
My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Conspiracy Theory
They're out to get me. It's a plot. A conspiracy. An evil league of evil doers completely set on two things and two things alone: making me insane and destroying my worldly posessions.
Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?
M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.
See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?
They must have been planning. For a long time.
How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?
I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...
Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.
I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?
M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.
See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?
They must have been planning. For a long time.
How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?
I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...
Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.
I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, August 2, 2010
It's SO FLUFFY!
Yes. Shallow. Yes. Consumerist. Yes. Expensive. Probably. Unnecessary.
I know. But I've spent a bunch of moolah this past month on kids' rooms, kids' school supplies, kids' uniforms. And now that they'll be headed back to school next week (could the whole summer have already passed?), I've been thinking about totally extraneous and expensive crap I think I'd like to have.
1. iphone. It's not my birthday, and I'm not eligible for a phone discount until January. But it's shiny. And cool.
2. ipad. It's even less necessary than an iphone. I have fantasies of my kids being able to use it to watch movies & play games on the road...and it's big and SHINY.
3. To get rid of my guest bedroom clutter. OK. True, not actually a thing, but if I could get rid of that crap, I would be able to get new carpet, and a new dresser, which is really what I'd like to put in there.
4. All-matching kitchen utensils. Lame. I want my kitchen to look like a TV studio kitchen with all the organized stuff and beautifully labeled whatevers, and the nice crock filled with whats its.
5. Really chic sunglasses. Like what's standing between me and chic is eyewear.
6. Size 8 pants that actually fit. Shut up.
7. Free, painless plastic surgery. I want it tucked, hiked up, sucked out, and plumped. Now.
8. A piece of mirrored furniture. I love that stuff. I don't want a roomful or anything. Just one piece. So beautiful. Could actually statisfy wish #3, too.
9. All the super cute clothes I looked at at Nordstrom's BEFORE I fell.
10. Some one to come to my house and help me ruthlessly declutter. I am sick of stacks of papers, despite inboxes/outboxes/bins/baskets and all other means of attempted organization.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some Internet shopping to do.
I know. But I've spent a bunch of moolah this past month on kids' rooms, kids' school supplies, kids' uniforms. And now that they'll be headed back to school next week (could the whole summer have already passed?), I've been thinking about totally extraneous and expensive crap I think I'd like to have.
1. iphone. It's not my birthday, and I'm not eligible for a phone discount until January. But it's shiny. And cool.
2. ipad. It's even less necessary than an iphone. I have fantasies of my kids being able to use it to watch movies & play games on the road...and it's big and SHINY.
3. To get rid of my guest bedroom clutter. OK. True, not actually a thing, but if I could get rid of that crap, I would be able to get new carpet, and a new dresser, which is really what I'd like to put in there.
4. All-matching kitchen utensils. Lame. I want my kitchen to look like a TV studio kitchen with all the organized stuff and beautifully labeled whatevers, and the nice crock filled with whats its.
5. Really chic sunglasses. Like what's standing between me and chic is eyewear.
6. Size 8 pants that actually fit. Shut up.
7. Free, painless plastic surgery. I want it tucked, hiked up, sucked out, and plumped. Now.
8. A piece of mirrored furniture. I love that stuff. I don't want a roomful or anything. Just one piece. So beautiful. Could actually statisfy wish #3, too.
9. All the super cute clothes I looked at at Nordstrom's BEFORE I fell.
10. Some one to come to my house and help me ruthlessly declutter. I am sick of stacks of papers, despite inboxes/outboxes/bins/baskets and all other means of attempted organization.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some Internet shopping to do.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Catharsis by force
I am a horrible thrower-outer. I keep random crap and lots of it. In fact, when we moved from Missouri, we had an ENTIRE moving van all to ourselves. Over 450 boxes. Of crap! Crap! CRAP!
I am in a cathartic mood, and have been going through cupboards and closets in a vast purging of stuff. I'm not very good at it, though. A stuffed animal somebody bought for E when he was born, but that he never grew attached to? Out! But it's so cute. And it was only our third gift. From people who vaguely knew our parents. Awww. Let's keep it.
Shoes two inches too short? Look how cute they are! So itty bitty! We can't give away shoes that cute!
A 100 piece puzzle with only 99 pieces? But the challenge lies in figuring out which piece is missing! Can you guess before you assemble?
Despite my shortcomings, I try, which is what's important. I got the kids' closets to the point where I can see actual floor. I have two bags of clothing to give away. Two bags of stuffed animals for the fire department. A whole heap of trash. When I go in the bedroom to kiss the kids goodnight, I turn on the closet light so they won't be in the dark. Now that the closets are all clean, I stick my head in there and bask in the order. It feels good.
One thing I am not good at, and as a result, am not in charge of, is paper. The amount of paper that comes in to run a household is remarkable....bills, statements, insurance paperwork, health care paperwork, animal care, home improvement, warranties, guarantees, receipts, tax returns...the list goes on and on.
M has undertaken the paperwork heap. He processes it, sorts it, and organizes it in three ring binders. All very efficient. All so NOT my thing. Very diligently. And I'm not complaining, because I couldn't do it myself. BUT. We have three ring binders from 1999. We have animal care receipts from the dog who is NO LONGER ALIVE. We have utility receipts from houses we no longer own.
Now, don't get me wrong. In a pinch, M has come up with some obscure warranty, receipt or paperwork which has bailed us out of a jam. On the other hand, we have enough paper to provide a high fiber diet to an army of cockroaches up in the attic. It's a fine line. With clothes, or stuffed animals, or toys, it's really hard to mess up when throwing out stuff. In a WORST case scenario, I throw out a pair of pants that seems hopelessly out of fashion, only to to see it reemerge on the scene a half decade later. So, I buy the updated version. But, when I go on a paper shredding binge, I invariably shred something of national security and we're lost. The validity of a purchase agreement is nullified, and we have to pay $10 million to get the floors repaired. Or whatever.
So I don't get involved in the paperwork. I don't try to pitch it or save it or anything. I just leave it. But I want anyone to know that if the attic collapses under the weight of three ring binders full of utility bills from Toronto, that I wasn't in charge of that. Moving boxes 375 to 400 were NOT my doing.
In the end, I am recruiting good thrower outers. I need help getting rid of crap. I don't want to end up like the hoarders on TV, navigating my house through towering heaps of junk. If you want to come help me, the big jobs left are my closet, (Ms and my halves) and the kitchen. I need a ruthless cutter. I need a harsh eye to say that indeed, those skinny jeans are never going to fit.
Bring trash bags, bring boxes. Come armed. I will fight you for those comfy sweats I've had since college. But, come soon. I wanna get this done. Mostly. Sorta.
I am in a cathartic mood, and have been going through cupboards and closets in a vast purging of stuff. I'm not very good at it, though. A stuffed animal somebody bought for E when he was born, but that he never grew attached to? Out! But it's so cute. And it was only our third gift. From people who vaguely knew our parents. Awww. Let's keep it.
Shoes two inches too short? Look how cute they are! So itty bitty! We can't give away shoes that cute!
A 100 piece puzzle with only 99 pieces? But the challenge lies in figuring out which piece is missing! Can you guess before you assemble?
Despite my shortcomings, I try, which is what's important. I got the kids' closets to the point where I can see actual floor. I have two bags of clothing to give away. Two bags of stuffed animals for the fire department. A whole heap of trash. When I go in the bedroom to kiss the kids goodnight, I turn on the closet light so they won't be in the dark. Now that the closets are all clean, I stick my head in there and bask in the order. It feels good.
One thing I am not good at, and as a result, am not in charge of, is paper. The amount of paper that comes in to run a household is remarkable....bills, statements, insurance paperwork, health care paperwork, animal care, home improvement, warranties, guarantees, receipts, tax returns...the list goes on and on.
M has undertaken the paperwork heap. He processes it, sorts it, and organizes it in three ring binders. All very efficient. All so NOT my thing. Very diligently. And I'm not complaining, because I couldn't do it myself. BUT. We have three ring binders from 1999. We have animal care receipts from the dog who is NO LONGER ALIVE. We have utility receipts from houses we no longer own.
Now, don't get me wrong. In a pinch, M has come up with some obscure warranty, receipt or paperwork which has bailed us out of a jam. On the other hand, we have enough paper to provide a high fiber diet to an army of cockroaches up in the attic. It's a fine line. With clothes, or stuffed animals, or toys, it's really hard to mess up when throwing out stuff. In a WORST case scenario, I throw out a pair of pants that seems hopelessly out of fashion, only to to see it reemerge on the scene a half decade later. So, I buy the updated version. But, when I go on a paper shredding binge, I invariably shred something of national security and we're lost. The validity of a purchase agreement is nullified, and we have to pay $10 million to get the floors repaired. Or whatever.
So I don't get involved in the paperwork. I don't try to pitch it or save it or anything. I just leave it. But I want anyone to know that if the attic collapses under the weight of three ring binders full of utility bills from Toronto, that I wasn't in charge of that. Moving boxes 375 to 400 were NOT my doing.
In the end, I am recruiting good thrower outers. I need help getting rid of crap. I don't want to end up like the hoarders on TV, navigating my house through towering heaps of junk. If you want to come help me, the big jobs left are my closet, (Ms and my halves) and the kitchen. I need a ruthless cutter. I need a harsh eye to say that indeed, those skinny jeans are never going to fit.
Bring trash bags, bring boxes. Come armed. I will fight you for those comfy sweats I've had since college. But, come soon. I wanna get this done. Mostly. Sorta.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Has the tide turned? I'll eat to that!
So, it's possible, maybe. That summer may not be out of control just yet. The kids have hit their stride in a nice, easy schedule. They've been punished strictly for the last couple of days, so maybe I've laid some nice groundwork about fighting, kicking, hitting, mangling, and otherwise harassing one another and me. I'm giving them lots of fun time on the TV, Wii, and playing together.
Everything's coming up Julie.
IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.
See, I found the dream table in a catalog:
http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562
There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.
Everything's coming up Julie.
IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.
See, I found the dream table in a catalog:
http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562
It's gorgeous. I LOVE it. I called Crate and Barrel to see about delivery and to ask a couple of questions.
The woman who answered the phone was wonderful, and I am eternally grateful for her candor. She said that she had the coordinating credenza and loved it, and thought it was so natural, so zen, so clean looking.
I'm thinking, "yup. Zen and clean, that's what I'm going for!"
She goes on about natural oils, sustainable teak, blah blah....and then, then she says something that makes my ears perk up: "Did you read about the cleaning and caring for this table?"
Wait. Hold it right there. There's a cleaning and caring section? For a table?
There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.
I explain that I had not, in fact, seen that section, and in fact, have 2 kids. Then, dreading the answer--"is this going to be at odds with my love for zen and clean lines?"
"Ohhh. With two kids, I would reconsider buying this table."
The saleslady is talking me out of a sale? This has gotta be bad.
Just like in the cartoons, the little cloud of my dream with the zen table goes poof.
"Hmmm? Why?"
"Well, because this is a natural, unsealed wood, it is going to absorb oil. So, for example, if you set a pizza box down on the table, and it has a greasy bottom, then the table's going to soak that up. To clean it, you will have to sprinkle talc or baking soda on the grease, let it stay overnight, and then give it a light sand the next day."
"A light sand?"
"Yes, a fine grit sandpaper will remove the outermost layer of the grease stain."
"..from a pizza box."
"Well, anything with oil really. Salad dressing, cheese, anything fried."
"So, what you're telling me, is if by chance, a chicken nugget, or a french fry were to accidentally fall off a plate and alight upon the table or the bench, a grease stain will form and be impossible to remove without an overnight cleaning process that involves a trip to Lowe's?"
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."
"So, let me see. By the end of the second week of ownership, I will have four chairs sitting around a heap of sawdust and sanding residue. My table will be sanded away. And yet, the catalog suggests years of use?"
"Not really for families."
No. Not really. Or for people with thumbs. Or people with homework, crafts, school projects. Or for people who eat food, except for raw vegetables and salads without dips or dressings. Or people with skin, whose natural oils MAY leave fingerprints on the table.
"In fact, the credenza that I use in my home office is deeply worn and stained where my hands touch it every day. I like the worn look, but that may not be what you're going for."
What the hell happened to zen and clean? Now we're looking at worn and stained?!
Needless to say, the zen kitchen table porn turned out much like all porn when viewed in high-def: kinda blemished, overly made-up, and disappointing. So, after the remarkably candid conversation with the Crate and Barrel woman a few weeks ago, I gave up.
Until two days ago at the fountains on the other side of the bay. I went with friend MT to look for a desk chair for her new home office area. We walked in, and lo, there was a table: half the price of the catalog porn. Capable of handling greasy fingers. Not quite the heavenly vision, draped in halos and golden robes, but feasible. Possible. Real.
Yesterday, I took M back to survey the table. Price? Better. Not screaming at the kids when they spill? Much better. I got him signed on.
The biggest problem was, of course, that said table could not possibly fit in my car. I abandoned M and E at the store, and ran over to Lowe's (again with the hardware!) and bought webbing tie-downs. Came back over, and Brian, the style consultant and Wade, his sidekick, ratcheted that sucker down on top of my car.
Of course, everyone dreaded the trip back over the bay with a 200 pound table strapped to the car, but we made it without incident. (Great job Brian and Wade!) Legs secured, painters (here to repair the damage from the flood) helped to carry it in, and voila:
Low-def kitchen table porn. Suitable for life. Families. Grilled cheese.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I don't heart NY, NY doesn't heart me
I get it. I'm a rube, a boob and a boor. I'm a hick, and uncivilized, and a bumpkin. I'm unappreciative of everything vital and visceral and real that makes the world function as I know it.
Start pointing and laughing at the little girl from Alabama: I don't like New York City.
Are ya done? I can give you some superficial reasons--I don't like musical theater. Or really, non-musical theater. I'm not crazy experimental with food. So if you take me to an Ethiopian-Mexican fusion place, I'm probably not going to be totally psyched. I have a sensitive sense of smell. I don't like sitting on a taxi seat that has been sat upon by 8 million other butts. *shiver*
There's also a more fundamental reason. And it has more to do with how and where I was raised. And probably the fact that my parents don't love New York, either. This reason is twofold: I need horizon. I need to see the sun move across the sky. I need to see the day end (and unfortunately with kids) I often see the day begin. I need to look before me and see space, not people, or buildings, or scaffolding. I need the sky to orient myself, not only by compass points, but in a more primal way. I get lost in the city. Take Chicago, for example. Big city, yes? Skyscrapers, noise, subways churning and pulsing underfoot. Stinky. But, in one moment, I can cross Lake Shore Drive and there I am, looking at what, for all intents and purposes, could be an ocean. A distant horizon. Possibility.
Second, I need to be away from people. You might have suspected this, but I don't like people very much. And in the city, it's impossible to get away from them or their presence. In an apartment, I'm aware of them above me, and below me. I'm aware of them on the street as they brusquely move by me. I'm aware of them in the park, as I can still hear the cars, the louder conversations.
We went to the petting zoo in central park, and we saw the most stressed out farm animals I've ever seen. They live near a hospital or an ambulance center, or something, and in the course of the ten minutes we were there, 3 ambulances screeched by. The calf finally had enough and went into his lean-to and set his head down. The goat looked like he'd been butting the cement wall for some time, and the llamas, well, they looked ridiculous because they'd just been shorn.
But I felt like the calf. I NEED silence occasionally. I need to be alone with something greater than me--the ocean is my favorite, a lake of any size will do, the woods, my house when I'm alone. I can find places where I can imagine I'm the only person in the world and there is total science. I can listen to the lapping of waves or the pounding of surf and remember that I am a basic animal. I'm not a big camper--I like my suburban conveniences. But I like to walk in the woods, and listen to the peculiar sound the wind makes through pine needles. To see the seasons. To smell the moss and the damp decay.
So, maybe it's because I've got a west coast bias. I share the love of things that a lot of people out there do. Sure, the pace is slower. Sure, the people are generally working at jobs that have smaller stakes than Wall Street experts who shape the world's economy. But when I go back to SoCal, people are running on the beach, not with ipods to create their isolation, but just their moving body and the beach and the water. Instead of hitting the gym before work, a lucky few hit the beach for some early morning surfing. There's the remnants of natural harmony, and no one's fighting that vestigial impulse to find nature.
That being said, I respect the city. Fine. Stop snickering at me, New York.
So, our trip to the Big Apple (why apple?) is obviously something I have to psych myself up for. It was a four day extravaganza, and a monumental walking tour. Of course, with every step, in front of nearly every building, I thought, "wouldn't a pressure washer make this just SO much nicer?" I mean, HONESTLY, as long as the super is there, how hard would it be to go out there once a week, blast the dog crap and gum of the sidewalk, and that blackish grime off the bottom six inches of the building that is a nasty dried combination of pedestrian's spilled drinks, dog pee, crap splashed up from the street, and please, GOD don't tell me what else? What the city needs is a little bleach and a nuclear-cloud sized amount of Febreeze.
Human nature is NOT the kind of nature I like to hang out around.
But, we're home. And the thunderstorm rolled through last night, and I sat by the window and listened to it pour. It's nice to be home.
Start pointing and laughing at the little girl from Alabama: I don't like New York City.
Are ya done? I can give you some superficial reasons--I don't like musical theater. Or really, non-musical theater. I'm not crazy experimental with food. So if you take me to an Ethiopian-Mexican fusion place, I'm probably not going to be totally psyched. I have a sensitive sense of smell. I don't like sitting on a taxi seat that has been sat upon by 8 million other butts. *shiver*
There's also a more fundamental reason. And it has more to do with how and where I was raised. And probably the fact that my parents don't love New York, either. This reason is twofold: I need horizon. I need to see the sun move across the sky. I need to see the day end (and unfortunately with kids) I often see the day begin. I need to look before me and see space, not people, or buildings, or scaffolding. I need the sky to orient myself, not only by compass points, but in a more primal way. I get lost in the city. Take Chicago, for example. Big city, yes? Skyscrapers, noise, subways churning and pulsing underfoot. Stinky. But, in one moment, I can cross Lake Shore Drive and there I am, looking at what, for all intents and purposes, could be an ocean. A distant horizon. Possibility.
Second, I need to be away from people. You might have suspected this, but I don't like people very much. And in the city, it's impossible to get away from them or their presence. In an apartment, I'm aware of them above me, and below me. I'm aware of them on the street as they brusquely move by me. I'm aware of them in the park, as I can still hear the cars, the louder conversations.
We went to the petting zoo in central park, and we saw the most stressed out farm animals I've ever seen. They live near a hospital or an ambulance center, or something, and in the course of the ten minutes we were there, 3 ambulances screeched by. The calf finally had enough and went into his lean-to and set his head down. The goat looked like he'd been butting the cement wall for some time, and the llamas, well, they looked ridiculous because they'd just been shorn.
But I felt like the calf. I NEED silence occasionally. I need to be alone with something greater than me--the ocean is my favorite, a lake of any size will do, the woods, my house when I'm alone. I can find places where I can imagine I'm the only person in the world and there is total science. I can listen to the lapping of waves or the pounding of surf and remember that I am a basic animal. I'm not a big camper--I like my suburban conveniences. But I like to walk in the woods, and listen to the peculiar sound the wind makes through pine needles. To see the seasons. To smell the moss and the damp decay.
So, maybe it's because I've got a west coast bias. I share the love of things that a lot of people out there do. Sure, the pace is slower. Sure, the people are generally working at jobs that have smaller stakes than Wall Street experts who shape the world's economy. But when I go back to SoCal, people are running on the beach, not with ipods to create their isolation, but just their moving body and the beach and the water. Instead of hitting the gym before work, a lucky few hit the beach for some early morning surfing. There's the remnants of natural harmony, and no one's fighting that vestigial impulse to find nature.
That being said, I respect the city. Fine. Stop snickering at me, New York.
So, our trip to the Big Apple (why apple?) is obviously something I have to psych myself up for. It was a four day extravaganza, and a monumental walking tour. Of course, with every step, in front of nearly every building, I thought, "wouldn't a pressure washer make this just SO much nicer?" I mean, HONESTLY, as long as the super is there, how hard would it be to go out there once a week, blast the dog crap and gum of the sidewalk, and that blackish grime off the bottom six inches of the building that is a nasty dried combination of pedestrian's spilled drinks, dog pee, crap splashed up from the street, and please, GOD don't tell me what else? What the city needs is a little bleach and a nuclear-cloud sized amount of Febreeze.
Human nature is NOT the kind of nature I like to hang out around.
But, we're home. And the thunderstorm rolled through last night, and I sat by the window and listened to it pour. It's nice to be home.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Don't look under here!
Martha Stewart has somewhere among her alphabetized, laminated files, a list of all the chores you are supposed to do in your house and how often you're supposed to do them. I'm sure. In fact, on her website, I found no fewer than eight separate checklists for homekeeping: linen closets, kitchens, baths, periodicals, craft supplies and more. I found a list of six chores I should be doing every day. These include picking up clutter, sorting the mail, making the beds, cleaning as you cook, wiping spills and stains while they're fresh and sweeping the floor after dinner is cleaned up. I would also add doing a load of laundry, but that's just me. The picking up clutter one amuses me the most: we are instructed to scan a room every time we enter it, look for things that are out of place, and put them in their places immediately. (Okay, I guess I could do that) But here's the kicker: insist everyone in your house do the same.
Stop laughing. Seriously. Now.
My children have never met Martha Stewart, so they do not know they should fear her. Nor has Ms. Stewart ever met my children. And she has only one daughter, who by all accounts is nearly as perfect as her mother. So, in short, Ms. Stewart has never encountered a room resembling an exploded Lego factory, TBall equipment that seems to roam the house of its own accord, school supplies, coloring books, crayons, Bakugan, books, and other assorted crap that accumulates in my house. I have this sneaking suspicion that Ms. Stewart's daughter had tea with her dolly queen and made scones out of organic imagination. So, while theoretically picking up a room every time I walk into it seems like a good idea, it also seems, you know, theoretical.
Another one of my favorite 'homekeeping sites,' flylady.net suggests that every day I have a gleaming kitchen sink. Her rationale is that a clean sink will deter me from letting dishes pile up, give the kitchen an overall impression of clean and order. In fact, she posts 31 Baby Steps to achieve cleanliness in your house in one month, putting an end to "CHAOS: Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome." These baby steps include keeping a control journal, picking out the next day's clothes before bed, cleaning one area intensely for two minutes, and establishing a day's order to help make every task small so that all the jobs don't morph into one overwhelming episode of reality TV about hoarding.
Before I proceed, I'd like to address the vocabulary from these expert house minders: "homekeeping" "control journal." Homekeeping? Really, Martha? Living in the Hamptons with designer velvet furnishings and white carpeting is homekeeping. Trying to keep two domestic terrorists from turning the whole house upside down every day is sustainable living: as in, I try to sustain living every day.
In the end, I should be, it appears, spending more time on homekeeping than I actually do. Which is alarming, because I spend (it seems) an awful lot of time homekeeping. How could I ever do my six daily things from Martha, my 31 Baby Steps to a zen house from flylady, make a 30 minute meal from Rachael Ray, follow my Your Baby Can Read instructions, train my dog to not run out an open door like the Dog Whisperer, domesticate my children with the help of Super Nanny, find out what books to read from Oprah, landscape my backyard like Ty Pennington and still have time to watch my beloved Bones?
To quote another TV nugget of advice: CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!
This morning when the tilers came to demolish my existing tile, they had to remove the toilet, the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher, the trash compactor, the refrigerator, and the stove. So, you know, nothing I use or anything. While those major appliances were out of commission and away from the walls, I thought, "I bet Martha Stewart has advice for the maintenance of these things. I bet I can clean them and prepare them to be put back to work even better than before."
I was thinking about vacuuming dryer vents, refrigerator coils, wiping down areas never exposed to my sight.
When they pulled the refrigerator away from the wall, I thought I would cry. There was matted, dusty, dingy....fur?....that most closely resembled road kill. And not small road kill, either. Like big, dead, well-fed raccoons. These were not your ordinary dustbunnies. These were dusthares. On steroids. My vacuum choked and sputtered and had to be emptied every other minute.
And the worst part was, I kept thinking, my house is clean. It is. It's swept, vacuumed and mopped 3 times a week. My house is clean. I run dishes. I run the laundry. My house is clean. I clean out the pantry. I sort through the trash. I don't let piles of crap grow and grow. And yet. There I was. On my hands and knees, wrestling with dustbunnies bigger than Clooney under the fridge.
The dirt is here. I have seen the heretofore invisible enemy. And it scares me.
Stop laughing. Seriously. Now.
My children have never met Martha Stewart, so they do not know they should fear her. Nor has Ms. Stewart ever met my children. And she has only one daughter, who by all accounts is nearly as perfect as her mother. So, in short, Ms. Stewart has never encountered a room resembling an exploded Lego factory, TBall equipment that seems to roam the house of its own accord, school supplies, coloring books, crayons, Bakugan, books, and other assorted crap that accumulates in my house. I have this sneaking suspicion that Ms. Stewart's daughter had tea with her dolly queen and made scones out of organic imagination. So, while theoretically picking up a room every time I walk into it seems like a good idea, it also seems, you know, theoretical.
Another one of my favorite 'homekeeping sites,' flylady.net suggests that every day I have a gleaming kitchen sink. Her rationale is that a clean sink will deter me from letting dishes pile up, give the kitchen an overall impression of clean and order. In fact, she posts 31 Baby Steps to achieve cleanliness in your house in one month, putting an end to "CHAOS: Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome." These baby steps include keeping a control journal, picking out the next day's clothes before bed, cleaning one area intensely for two minutes, and establishing a day's order to help make every task small so that all the jobs don't morph into one overwhelming episode of reality TV about hoarding.
Before I proceed, I'd like to address the vocabulary from these expert house minders: "homekeeping" "control journal." Homekeeping? Really, Martha? Living in the Hamptons with designer velvet furnishings and white carpeting is homekeeping. Trying to keep two domestic terrorists from turning the whole house upside down every day is sustainable living: as in, I try to sustain living every day.
In the end, I should be, it appears, spending more time on homekeeping than I actually do. Which is alarming, because I spend (it seems) an awful lot of time homekeeping. How could I ever do my six daily things from Martha, my 31 Baby Steps to a zen house from flylady, make a 30 minute meal from Rachael Ray, follow my Your Baby Can Read instructions, train my dog to not run out an open door like the Dog Whisperer, domesticate my children with the help of Super Nanny, find out what books to read from Oprah, landscape my backyard like Ty Pennington and still have time to watch my beloved Bones?
To quote another TV nugget of advice: CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!
This morning when the tilers came to demolish my existing tile, they had to remove the toilet, the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher, the trash compactor, the refrigerator, and the stove. So, you know, nothing I use or anything. While those major appliances were out of commission and away from the walls, I thought, "I bet Martha Stewart has advice for the maintenance of these things. I bet I can clean them and prepare them to be put back to work even better than before."
I was thinking about vacuuming dryer vents, refrigerator coils, wiping down areas never exposed to my sight.
When they pulled the refrigerator away from the wall, I thought I would cry. There was matted, dusty, dingy....fur?....that most closely resembled road kill. And not small road kill, either. Like big, dead, well-fed raccoons. These were not your ordinary dustbunnies. These were dusthares. On steroids. My vacuum choked and sputtered and had to be emptied every other minute.
And the worst part was, I kept thinking, my house is clean. It is. It's swept, vacuumed and mopped 3 times a week. My house is clean. I run dishes. I run the laundry. My house is clean. I clean out the pantry. I sort through the trash. I don't let piles of crap grow and grow. And yet. There I was. On my hands and knees, wrestling with dustbunnies bigger than Clooney under the fridge.
The dirt is here. I have seen the heretofore invisible enemy. And it scares me.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Storage Woes
So, it's only been two weeks since work began on the house. And in that two weeks, we've really been fortunate. The workmen have been amazing--helpful, neat, knowledgeable, diligent, prompt--everything you hope they'll be, but never expect to find. The budget is even moving along okay. Not exactly perfect, but certainly not alarming in any way. And the disruption has even been tolerable. Each night, the house is swept and tidy, and although there is a lot of dust, it isn't floating through the air, per se. I've been able to fulfill responsibilities outside the house, leave people working, and know that the work will proceed even if I'm not supervising.
I cannot emphasize enough how I feel like I rolled the contractor dice and came up a winner. Hardly ever happens to me, and I am really appreciative.
However.
Of course, knowing this house and its checkered history, when the carpenters demolished the existing entertainment center in the family room, they discovered that there was no parquet floor under it. Bare concrete. I went to a few flooring stores, and the carpenters contacted people in the trade, but all new parquet is made in 6" x 6" squares, not the 4" x 4" squares of my existing floor. Because the carpenters are really forward thinking and helpful, they suggested we pull up the flooring from the storage closet in the family room.
Great idea!
Yesterday, when they were ready to proceed with that step, I had to empty out the closet. In front of them. They were here, and they were chivalrous enough that they didn't want me to carry the contents by myself so they offered to help, but that just made it worse. Of course, this closet is the only closet that is not in a bedroom, so it is a catchall for all kinds of crap. The thing is, these are things I considered important enough to put away, right? And yet, there I was, in a closet.
This closet, when I'm trying to cram stuff into it, is the size of a porta potty, and when I'm taking stuff out of it (in front of other people,) defies all laws of physics and perhaps may be an endless wormhole to another corner of the universe. I was mortified.
A giant Rubbermaid tote filled with electronics including two VCRs, a surge protector, three bases for phones that have no batteries, and about 24 miles worth of wire, cord, and tubing. There was another giant Rubbermaid container with broken electronics, including 2 cameras, a cell phone, a Sonicare toothbrush, and a computer keyboard. There was a wire filing basket with gift wrapping supplies. Of course, the last time I put that crap away, I couldn't have bothered to wrap the silver curly ribbon back around the spool. I was wrestling with unruly curly ribbon and found myself handing the whole box to the carpenter. Really? A grown woman collecting curly ribbon? On purpose? It was embarrassing. Then, there were landfills worth of plastic bins, cubbies and totes. I should own stock in Rubbermaid. I have extras, but they weren't stacked neatly. And there were lids falling all over. And, then, of course were the 15 air vent filters I bought at Home Depot. They always run out of my odd size, so when I go, I have to buy the whole case, and it was crammed in there with the rest of the crap. There were some compact fluorescent light bulbs that I didn't know where to throw out (they have mercury in them!), all the CDs that we have put on the ipod, but don't want to throw out in case the hard drive gets damaged, and an entire moving box full of VHS cassettes of old TV shows, Northwestern games, movies, and concert footage.
At some point in our lives, we thought it rational to keep these things, pack them up, and move them around the country (more than once).
Why?
And, more importantly, why did I find myself wrangling spaghetti-like telephone wires in front of a total stranger? Why did I feel like we should keep my first digital camera that holds like 10 mgs of photos? Why?
That freaking closet took FOREVER to empty. Every inane thing that came out of it made me want to sink farther into the floor we were trying to salvage.
All of that stuff is currently residing in the foyer; my secret hoarding out for the world to see. I want desperately to be able to sort through it before I put some of it back. I'll get some shelves for it all, to help organize.
And some Rubbermaid totes. Surely, those will help.
I cannot emphasize enough how I feel like I rolled the contractor dice and came up a winner. Hardly ever happens to me, and I am really appreciative.
However.
Of course, knowing this house and its checkered history, when the carpenters demolished the existing entertainment center in the family room, they discovered that there was no parquet floor under it. Bare concrete. I went to a few flooring stores, and the carpenters contacted people in the trade, but all new parquet is made in 6" x 6" squares, not the 4" x 4" squares of my existing floor. Because the carpenters are really forward thinking and helpful, they suggested we pull up the flooring from the storage closet in the family room.
Great idea!
Yesterday, when they were ready to proceed with that step, I had to empty out the closet. In front of them. They were here, and they were chivalrous enough that they didn't want me to carry the contents by myself so they offered to help, but that just made it worse. Of course, this closet is the only closet that is not in a bedroom, so it is a catchall for all kinds of crap. The thing is, these are things I considered important enough to put away, right? And yet, there I was, in a closet.
This closet, when I'm trying to cram stuff into it, is the size of a porta potty, and when I'm taking stuff out of it (in front of other people,) defies all laws of physics and perhaps may be an endless wormhole to another corner of the universe. I was mortified.
A giant Rubbermaid tote filled with electronics including two VCRs, a surge protector, three bases for phones that have no batteries, and about 24 miles worth of wire, cord, and tubing. There was another giant Rubbermaid container with broken electronics, including 2 cameras, a cell phone, a Sonicare toothbrush, and a computer keyboard. There was a wire filing basket with gift wrapping supplies. Of course, the last time I put that crap away, I couldn't have bothered to wrap the silver curly ribbon back around the spool. I was wrestling with unruly curly ribbon and found myself handing the whole box to the carpenter. Really? A grown woman collecting curly ribbon? On purpose? It was embarrassing. Then, there were landfills worth of plastic bins, cubbies and totes. I should own stock in Rubbermaid. I have extras, but they weren't stacked neatly. And there were lids falling all over. And, then, of course were the 15 air vent filters I bought at Home Depot. They always run out of my odd size, so when I go, I have to buy the whole case, and it was crammed in there with the rest of the crap. There were some compact fluorescent light bulbs that I didn't know where to throw out (they have mercury in them!), all the CDs that we have put on the ipod, but don't want to throw out in case the hard drive gets damaged, and an entire moving box full of VHS cassettes of old TV shows, Northwestern games, movies, and concert footage.
At some point in our lives, we thought it rational to keep these things, pack them up, and move them around the country (more than once).
Why?
And, more importantly, why did I find myself wrangling spaghetti-like telephone wires in front of a total stranger? Why did I feel like we should keep my first digital camera that holds like 10 mgs of photos? Why?
That freaking closet took FOREVER to empty. Every inane thing that came out of it made me want to sink farther into the floor we were trying to salvage.
All of that stuff is currently residing in the foyer; my secret hoarding out for the world to see. I want desperately to be able to sort through it before I put some of it back. I'll get some shelves for it all, to help organize.
And some Rubbermaid totes. Surely, those will help.
Friday, November 13, 2009
My vacuum bites the dust
Apparently, my current infatuation with my pressure washer has angered my other home appliances. Their jealousy prompts them to act out in outrageous ways: burnt Eggos, leaky fridge, shrunken pants. Bummer.
But one appliance has taken this way too far.
I have a beloved vacuum. Its purchase represented the first time I didn't go to Target and buy the cheapest vacuum on the shelf. It was a Significant Purchase. Dyson Animal. It just sounds fierce. Plus, its purple and turquoise fun-ness puts me in the Miami Vice mood every time I use it. I can do that Phil Collins drum move from the theme song with the cleaning wand.
Its genealogy of 1000 prototypes has served it well. Distinguished British heritage, never loses suction, distinctive cousin of the highly effective Airblade hand dryer, all well tested and proven.
My Dyson has been through it all--dumped out houseplants, coffee grounds, spilled baby talc, disemboweled stuffed animals--and yet it still sucks up Legos with no trouble.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was changing the filter (a very necessary part of maintenance and use, per my manual) and a deceptively important piece of the vacuum broke off. Now, the filter doesn't lock into place, and when its never lose suction five cyclone sucker turns on, the crap it sucks blows right out the side.
That's not good.
This is tragedy. Now, I don't know what to do. Do I rebuild the built in vac for my house at God knows what price? Do I buy a new Dyson Animal? Do I invest money in getting this one fixed since it has served me well for nearly a decade? Is it time to move on? Oh, appliance gods of the world, help me seek the answer to my question!
I am setting up a poll. Please vote to help me decide what to do.
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC28-ANIMAL
Fare thee well, you served me loyally, and I shall miss you.
As we progress out of mourning, here are some other options:
Canister Vacuum (medium grade)
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC23-MOTORHEAD-US
Or, replace with a more compact model since I no longer have a lot of carpeting:
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC25-ALLFLOORS
Or, replace with same model we are mourning.
Please vote and help me commune with the appliance gods.
But one appliance has taken this way too far.
I have a beloved vacuum. Its purchase represented the first time I didn't go to Target and buy the cheapest vacuum on the shelf. It was a Significant Purchase. Dyson Animal. It just sounds fierce. Plus, its purple and turquoise fun-ness puts me in the Miami Vice mood every time I use it. I can do that Phil Collins drum move from the theme song with the cleaning wand.
Its genealogy of 1000 prototypes has served it well. Distinguished British heritage, never loses suction, distinctive cousin of the highly effective Airblade hand dryer, all well tested and proven.
My Dyson has been through it all--dumped out houseplants, coffee grounds, spilled baby talc, disemboweled stuffed animals--and yet it still sucks up Legos with no trouble.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was changing the filter (a very necessary part of maintenance and use, per my manual) and a deceptively important piece of the vacuum broke off. Now, the filter doesn't lock into place, and when its never lose suction five cyclone sucker turns on, the crap it sucks blows right out the side.
That's not good.
This is tragedy. Now, I don't know what to do. Do I rebuild the built in vac for my house at God knows what price? Do I buy a new Dyson Animal? Do I invest money in getting this one fixed since it has served me well for nearly a decade? Is it time to move on? Oh, appliance gods of the world, help me seek the answer to my question!
I am setting up a poll. Please vote to help me decide what to do.
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC28-ANIMAL
Fare thee well, you served me loyally, and I shall miss you.
As we progress out of mourning, here are some other options:
Canister Vacuum (medium grade)
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC23-MOTORHEAD-US
Or, replace with a more compact model since I no longer have a lot of carpeting:
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC25-ALLFLOORS
Or, replace with same model we are mourning.
Please vote and help me commune with the appliance gods.
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