On Thanksgiving I pulled out my $599 Dyson vacuum. It immediately spit dirt out of the back. I had a This Is Fifty Too Many Times This Has Happened meltdown. And it’s not because we don’t clean it. Maybe it’s because when I clean it I miss one of the twenty cylinders where shit is hiding.
During my meltdown I say to my husband at a volume of eleven, “From now on vacuuming is your chore. I’m done!”
My husband sits on the floor and performs surgery on the Dyson.
Yesterday my husband goes to Guitar Center. He calls me and says he got me a gift. I was hoping for a cuica, a samba percussion instrument. It’s a drum with a stick in the middle.
You rub the stick up and down. It sounds like an Amazonian rainforest monkey if the monkey was the lead singer of a groovy samba band.
During Carnival there are huge bands of cuica players. They look smooth as Sinatra playing the cuica.
When I play the cuica I have an “I’m an amateur rubbing my hand up and down a stick” look on my face. I play it in private.
I’m hoping for a nice cuica that I can master to the point of playing in a band. Cuica players are rare in this town. I think. I’ve never taken a poll.
I will have to overcome the stage fright of standing in front of an audience voraciously rubbing my hand up and down a stick inside of a drum.
Anyway, my husband comes home bearing a new vacuum. Not a cuica.
I say, “that’s going to make your future vacuuming experiences so much more pleasant.”