Vacuum Cleaner Dissection

Vacuum dissection - broken fan

Our vacuum broke two months ago. Sweeping the carpet with a broom like Old Befana is fine when the mess is popcorn or cheerios but not so effective at removing ground in dirt. The thought of dirt festering, multiplying and colonizing in my house moved me to act. 

When the vacuum stopped sucking I checked the belt first. Next I looked for a blockage in the hose. It was then I knew, from surfing DIY repair sites, that I was dealing with a broken fan, a $10 part. 

Emboldened by grainy YouTube videos of arms without bodies refurbishing and showing off Hoovers, I dissected the machine. As I carefully set aside the components and cleaned dust off parts I commended myself on not participating in our throwaway culture, for resisting the ease of tossing the sucker and buying a new one. I could be MacGyver. Whoa, adrenaline rush!

Taking the machine apart was easy but when I opened the motor housing I knew the adventure was over. The fan blade was broken alright but I would have to take the motor apart to remove it. Disappointed that this was beyond the realm of duct tape and my capabilities, I called a local repair shop.

The guy on the phone was friendly and said that estimates were free. I took the vacuum there in pieces thinking that perhaps the fact that I dissembled it and diagnosed the problem the repairman, if he were dishonest, might think twice about conning me <insert Tim Allen Tool Time grunts>. 

At the shop, he agreed with my assessment and gently chastised me for not taking it in for regular maintenance. Really? People do that?  It took me 21 years to break the fan blade and crack the motor housing. He stepped over to the vacuum display and launched into a spiel about fabulous made-in-the-U-S-of-A vacuum cleaners with metal plates and wheels (not plastic!) that can suck up a 2lb bullet! with a 50 foot hose! without breaking the motor! And how beneficial purchasing one would be for American manufacturing. I listened politely, thought he must not get much traffic midday, and nodded at the appropriate times. Was I repairing a vacuum or buying a used car?

Instead, I opted for the deluxe repair - replace the fan blade, replace the motor bearings, agitator and lightbulb. I picked up the Hoover today. She's just as beautiful as they day we met at Woodward & Lothrops, the now-defunct department store. Here's hoping my $125 investment will keep her out of the landfill for another 10 years.

January, Life After Break

When I looked in the mirror my heart sank. I had grown my hair out for six months and it was the longest it had been ever been. I liked how it looked but the ends rustled like a bag of potato chips. The bangs could be trimmed ever so slightly but I did not want them school-girl-at-the-eyebrows length.

The stylist listened, trimmed and blow dried gently to keep the curls. When she was done my eyes were drawn to the two puffy wings my bangs had become. Think Dilbert's boss with rectangles.  She hadn't cut that much off. How could they elevate like that? Before I went to the salon I asked myself, "what DO I want?" and still ended up with exactly what I didn't. It was an inauspicious start to my day but summed up my January so far.

I've been stressed these past two weeks. As a bookkeeper for my husband's, and two other, small businesses, January means preparing the books for the accountants to do year end taxes. I had been feeling good about the work I'd done through December until the spreadsheet whose formulas I had avoided all year needed to be updated. Yesterday. "When will the books be ready for the accountant?" "Can I get back to you on that?"

The client's emails arrive day and night. 'Would I prepare the 1099's?' Didn't know that was my job, but yes. 'Can you call Vendor today about this bill?' The business account is current-are you sure it's not personal? 'Can you cut an employee reimbursement check?' Yes, but I need supporting documentation. I cross one task off the list but add two more.

By late afternoon I'm ready to nap on the couch but the kids come home from school. "Mom! Mom!" they call and I can't make out what comes next because two, sometimes three, children talk to me at the same time, oblivious to each other, certain they, not their brothers, are being heard. I run to the optometrist's to replace the eyeglasses bent by an errant soccer ball. I field a phone call from the mom whose son was reduced to tears by mine and proceed to conduct an internal investigation. I make a note to set up conference with teacher about unfair consequences for child's missing homework. I fret that I'll lose all the progress I made in physical therapy because I haven't done my exercises in a week.

I tick things off my list, feel like I'm getting ahead, only to receive an email, phone call, or other reminder of something waiting to consume my precious time. I haven't folded laundry since last Thursday. The kids haven't had clean socks in three days. I hope they don't run out of underwear before Saturday.

I'm grateful to have a job. I work from home, set my own hours. I can avoid the weekend Costco crowds by going mid-day, mid-week to feed my four tapeworms. But man, I'm tired. The past few nights I am out when my head hits the pillow and don't recall dreaming.  At 10 o'clock tonight I programmed the coffee pot for the next morning and was thrilled to go to bed early but I never made it there. I spent the next hour composing a response to an email my son's science teacher sent about an incident at school.  Here it is midnight, my eyes burning like coals, and I'm typing a blog post because I'm annoyed at myself for not having written one in months (again).

Over winter break the entire family was sick with a virus. Fever, runny noses, fatigue. We stayed in our pajamas all day and didn't leave the house. In between naps, I learned how to use our Nexus 7 tablet and the kids taught me how to play Temple Run. By week's end I was thoroughly relaxed.

I rang in the New Year reluctantly because January has too many school holidays and unpredictable weather. My body resisted the quicker pace demanded of it but it wasn't long before my peace was left, like a hippie, to hitchhike on the side of the road. Winter Break's lack of obligations and appointments still tempts me like flannel sheets on a cold night. So much so that I want to riff from a popular jam commercial, "Could you please pass the virus?"

The Accidental Coach

In the now-cancelled TV series "Heroes" there was a character who could learn to do anything by watching it done once. I claim no such superpower, but I am a quick study, and I'd seen enough of my sons' soccer practices to know that my third son's weren't as efficient as the others. I made some suggestions. I had a pulse. I became a coach.

Takoma Park is the Ann Arbor of the Mid-Atlantic. A "No Nukes" city, irreverent floats and a lawn mower brigade appear in its Independence Day parades. The downtown boasts a food Coop and a store that sells Birkenstocks. The goal of the Takoma Park Soccer Club is to foster a love of the sport in children; everyone plays, regardless of ability. Once, when a parent complained about physical play in a more competitive neighborhood league, another parent shouted, "This ain't Takoma Park, you know!" So not only are we flower children, we're pansies.

I learned to play soccer after I turned 40, which isn't too many years ago. When I confided to Howard Kohn, the league's commissioner, that I felt like a fraud he replied, "The less you know the easier it is to coach young kids. You learn with them. If you can hold their attention, you've accomplished something." In other words, I wouldn't have to explain offsides.  

At the first practice I, along with two other parent coaches, rounded up 17 third grade boys and girls. We broke into small groups and rotated them through stations where they spent time on footwork, trapping and passing. Smaller groups meant less opportunity for their minds to wander and more time touching the ball.

Being a goalkeeper is tough; kids need good reflexes and can't be afraid of being in a scrum. Many kids don't like the position so those who volunteer play. Our first game made clear that enthusiasm is important but so is practice. From the sidelines the coaches shouted, "Use your hands!" "Run to the top of the box to punt the ball!" but the words dissipated before they could reach intended ears. We got scored on. A lot.

One goalkeeper tried to use his feet to knock the ball away allowing several goals in the last quarter. We lost the game and he was discouraged. At practice the following week I showed him how to field the ball with his hands then had him practice blocking shots from his teammates. He was catching on and seemed eager to do more. After practice I shared with his mother my belief that he would make an excellent keeper because wasn't afraid of the physical contact. I then demonstrated a drills she and her husband could practice with their son at home. 

At the next game the boy asked if he could play goalie so I put him in the second quarter. He made several saves scooping the ball as instructed. Fairly athletic, he could punt the ball to midfield without running to the top of the box. Clearly he had practiced on his own. He left the field happy. Working with children it is rarely obvious if our how we make a difference; it was that afternoon and I accepted it for the gift it was.

Mirror, Mirror Blog

My blog is mirroring my life. I have four posts waiting for final edit, one I started in June. If my draft blog posts are anything like the light fixture on my porch they will languish in darkness for another four years.

If they're like broken windows, I may get to them sooner. Today the repairmen replaced the glass my son claimed to have broken while sleepwalking in May.

Others are like the mums I bought from the elementary school plant sale. I attend to them immediately so they won't dry out, turn brown and die.

Thankfully words are more flexible than flowers and here I am writing a post for the first time in weeks. I will silence my compulsive editor and hit the Publish button before going to bed. The electrician, whose number has been on my task list since August, just may get a call tomorrow.