I'm perfectly normal, thanks for asking.

I’ve been really sad lately. So dreadfully sad. I knew something was wrong but I suppose I wasn’t ready to face the truth. The depressing truth being my secret lover Dyson wasn’t doing its job properly. For weeks it’d been making a long, low moaning sound similar to my own noises when I’ve eaten too much of my grandmother’s homemade ployes and beans. I tried ignoring it. There’s always the chance that if I pay no attention to an unwanted event, it may just go away. Not that this particular tactic ever works mind you, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. Often.

So I went about my normally busy life, pretending my precious wasn’t crying out in pain, pretending the hand attachment hadn’t completely stopped sucking, and instead was actually spitting. (I find the ignore feature in my personality comes in handy, especially when dealing with overdue oil bills, holiday shopping, gynecologist appointments and other trivial bothers, but doesn’t work so well when the chi of my obsessive cleaning habits is impeded.)

“Honeeeeeey? Can you fix my vacuum? It’s not workiiiiing.”

Equipped with only a butter knife and a superior MacGyver intuition, my darling Husband began solving, yet again, another of my problems. (I swear, did I just stumble around in a haze of broken things before I met this amazing man?)

“Here’s your problem baby.” He said as he began dumping the contents of a round tubular thingy into the garbage. I watched in horror as marbles, pens, slices of toast, wads of crafting felt, Mufasa-sized hairballs, socks and other various abandoned toys fell out.

At this point I’m all about blaming my children because I can’t imagine ever abusing my precious Dyson in this way. Then of course, I’d have to admit to slave-driving my children with chores whilst I sit on the couch eating crisco and watching Ginger Rogers and George Montgomery.



I'll never ever let them hurt you again.