My Redhead Doesn’t Lose Suction

My redhead has many passions: Me, Our Children, Manicures, Movies, and, much to my chagrin, the Gilmore Girls.

But possibly her greatest passion is vacuuming.

She vacuums often. She vacuums everything—even the dog. She will run the vacuum in the living room just to get rid of the footprints and replace them with “vacuum lines.”

So a couple years ago I got her a new vacuum cleaner: A Dyson designed to not only suck up regular dirt, but specifically designed for pet hair.

She loved it. She loves it now.

Friday she was going to be gone all afternoon so I decided to surprise her by cleaning the house from top to bottom before the holiday weekend. I haven’t done that very much for several years because I was working and she was a full-time homemaker. She recently started working so I am learning to pick up some of the slack.

I picked up, did dishes and dusted the furniture. My last planned task was to vacuum.

I haven’t used our Dyson more than twice and I haven’t used it at all in probably a year. Even though it’s a little funny looking and seemingly complicated, I did remember how to turn it on (it’s a little translucent purple button at the top of the canister) and how free the handle from its upright perch (place foot on foot rest and simply pull the handle back), so I thought I was set.

I removed the vacuum from its esteemed resting place in the hall closet, unwound the meticulously coiled power cord and plugged it into the most central outlet I could find. Glancing at the clear debris container I noticed it seemed full of dog hair.

An aside: We have a huge Golden Retriever. Huge as in 95 pounds. My wife has many passions—as do I—but none of them include brushing the dog. I suspect out of her 95 pounds, 60 pounds is hair. We are constantly surrounded by a snow globe of floating blonde dog hair.

I knew my redhead would take the canister off, take it to the outside trash bin and empty it. I figured it couldn’t be too hard, though I was a little hesitant as damaging her prized vacuum would certainly be a capital offense.

I closely examined the dirt destroyer.

“OK, here is a handle,” I spoke to the dog, “and there’s a little red button. I’ll bet that button releases the canister from the body of the machine.” I pressed the button and the canister automatically ejected like a released bra strap. Good design.

I took the canister out to the trash can, open the lid, smelled the obligatory trash-cologne and prepared to release the dirt and hair into its natural habitat.

Houston, we have a problem. How do you empty this thing? I examined the canister closely, finally tracing a release catch back up to the same red button I had pushed to release the canister from the machine.

Really good design.

I pressed the button and a trap door opened, ejecting the contents into the bin. I closed the trap door, sealed up the trash can again and went inside, replacing the canister into the machine.

Ha! I am a genius!

I looked at the clock—only 28 minutes until my redhead was due home. Just enough time to vacuum and get on my inner Fabio.

I vacuumed exactly one room and was beginning a second when disaster struck: The machine suddenly started making a huge racket—as if something was stuck in the beater bars and the whole thing was about to explode in flame and shrapnel.

I quickly found the off switch and punched it, feeling as if I may have narrowly averted a molten plastic disaster. I unplugged the now quiet machine, removed the dust bin, turned it over and hoped to find some simple fix.

The beater bar was completely mummified in blonde dog hairs, but I didn’t see any wayward stick or paper clip. Nothing appeared to be broken. I decided freeing the beater bar from its hair cocoon would be a good idea and I hoped it would fix the problem. I grabbed come scissors from the den.

Good design is often intuitive. It took me only a minute or so to see the bottom panel was secured by three twist tights, each one with a single wide slit in the top to aid in turning them. I tried my thumb. Ouch. So I reached in my pocket for a coin. As I tried to access my pocket I accidentally allowed the vacuum to slide off my lap and land on the floor.

Two pieces flew off. Uh oh.

By the time I had found a quarter to open the latches, I was beginning to panic. Only 13 minutes left. I fumbled at the latches like a woman in a dark parking lot fumbling at a car lock.

After an eternity I finally got the panel off. The hair was firmly entrenched and was reluctant to relinquish its grasp on the beater bars but after a few minutes of nearly impaling my hand on the scissors, the beater bar was free. Thank God Almighty, Free At Last.

Now I needed to figure out how to put it all back together. The two wayward plastic orphans that had fallen off (I was unable to mentally accept they “broke” off) needed to be replaced back on the machine.

I refused to look at the clock, but I new time was short.

“Hmmm,” I spoke again to my shedding companion, “it looks like in order for this piece to go back on, I have to remove this hose.” To remove the hose I had to remove two other pieces that held the hose in place. When I removed the hose another clippie thing fell off that was being held fast by the now absent hose.

Pretty soon the machine was reduced to a skeletal representation of its former self and I was surrounded by a dozen or so assorted parts.

That’s when she walked in. She gasped, let out a tiny cry, instantly covering her gaping mouth with her hands. Her eyes instantly went Marty Feldman.

“What did you do?”

“I, um, I am vacuuming?” My voice rose making it sound like a question—or maybe a plea for mercy.

She got out her cell and speed dialed her friend Laura. Laura has a Dyson. Laura will have the answer. She came right over.

Laura was amazing. She put back together the Dyson like a marine reassembling his rifle. It took less than 30 seconds. Semper Dy.

Crisis averted.

Now I am forbidden to vacuum without close adult supervision.