Whatever Works. Properly.

For whatever reason, I'm a huge fan of domesticity. Like, creepy Jonas Brother fan levels of fandom. I will run a load of laundry with three t-shirts and maybe, maybe a pair of socks that I wore when I thought about going to the gym but then just watched 30 Rock in (there are ten stairs that lead to that television, and I will have to go up them again to get back to my room...THAT'S 20 STAIRS, PEOPLE). I will run the dishwasher aggressively early, just because I like the smell the kitchen gets when the post-wash steam rolls in. What's that? Maybe get out a little more? To that I say, I will after I clean the cheese knife, four bowls and possibly the weird spoon thing I didn't need to stir the pasta with. And you can bet that when you see me, my t-shirts will smell like a goddamn violent beam of sunshine shot through them (or a clean breeze, maybe even a brisa limpia...don't act like you haven't read that on the box and wanted to say it out loud, much like the word salsa, because it's fun). More than anything though, I'm a friggin' vacuum hero. Honestly? If you have a 14 inch area of rug that you want me to vacuum, I will come over daily/weekly to do it, unpaid. That statement is an exaggeration and also creepy, which is impressive. Moving on. I talk about all this because it is Sunday, also known as "oh my god my life is in shambles, my room looks like an atom bomb hit it and there are possibly crackers on the floor over there, and I don't think we even have crackers" day. It's pretty much national hangover day, and all I know how to do in this semi-functioning state is clean...or in some odd way, repent for the craptastic state I have propelled my life into over the weekend.

So every Sunday, I run the laundry. I clean the crap out of about four dishes. And then, like saving myself a little piece of crack rock, I vacuum. And the minute I turn that sucker on (pun intended, HEY o!)? I feel pure bliss. However, everytime I turn it on, one other thing dawns on me: "I wish this were a Dyson."

It's like the Mercedes Benz of Vacuums, and I'm driving a Ford Fiesta. A windows-missing, spare tire Ford Fiesta. I pass by it at Target, gazing longingly into it's packaging. Dyson's look like someone looked at a vacuum and thought:

Ahead of his time Vacuum Designer: "You know what? We could just put the hose there and then have it suck up dirt...but...hold on guys. Stay with me for a second. What if we put 19 future knobs on it? And like, a rolly ball thing? And we say that it's 9,242% better than any other vacuum? Oh, and how about this: let's make one that looks like only the ghostbusters use it. Who's comin with me??"

Here's the best part: It's made by a British guy. And in his minimalist "of course this is British" commercials, he goes over the vacuum like it's a cancer drug and then states, "I just think things should work properly." It's a fucking vacuum, and this is the way they market it. I'd say it's ridiculous, but guess what? I'm sititng her looking at them like it's the first time I saw a naked girl. Oh, and writing a 1,000 word essay on it. You win, Britain. You always do... (except for the time we got America and told you we didn't want to be British).

I was talking with my friend about our love of the Dyson today (yeah, not only do I have friends, I have ones that take time out of their day to discuss high-end vacuums with me...jealous?), and we got to talking about how Dyson's are only for married couples because they cost at least $500, which isn't ridiculous at all for a device that sucks dirt off of the ground. She stated that her friends actually had the audacity to put a Dyson on their wedding registry, but guess who won? They did, because some "I have WAY too much money" person they knew bought them one. This is, in my opinion, like asking for a purple unicorn and then having someone show up and ask you if it's cool with you that it also comes with a chocolate river you can keep in your backyard.

I now am on a mission to get married, and fast. This in no way has to do with the fact that I want to fight with someone all the time and never have sex again (I do want the tax breaks, though). If I can get a Dyson out of it? I don't really care. If that means I can use a futuristic supermachine every Sunday, by all means, sign me the fuck up. I'm certainly not getting one any other way.

On that note, I had one of those mornings where I thought, "maybe I should change some things in my life, like my eating and drinking habits." Maybe I should add "not writing about vacuum cleaners because it makes you look like someone with serious OCD." I did buy carrots at the grocery store, though.

Can't win em' all, right?

Drew Hoolhorst

I have a black belt in feelings.