Cleaning the Vacuum

I have just finished cleaning the vacuum. It took me almost an hour. Cleaning the vacuum, yes, not with the vacuum.

Let me tell you why.

I have been in an organizing, take-control-of-my-crap-since-I-have-control-of-nothing-else mood since the new year. It's been going quite well. My dear husband even suggested, supported, financed, and contributed muscle and brain power to the office bookshelves project that is now near completion. (Shims to equalize the level issues in the room and the adjustment of individual shelves are all that remain.) I'll have to blog later about the bed we built together in August 2001 and the building of these shelves and how these projects have strengthened our marriage.

But I digress.

I got the chance to go to The Container Store yesterday afternoon to buy a few items to help organize our home. I got another rope-thingy to hold Dave's baseball hats, some small containers to neatly hold the junk in our junk drawer, an organizer for my underwear drawer, various other wonderful products I won't bore you with, and a jumbo-sized Space Bag to contain a twin-size feather bed that has never had a proper home.

I've been hiding the feather bed in the office. Now that we have a wall of bookshelves, the hiding place is no more. I thought of the Space Bag while at the store. We have a couple of king-size comforters sucked within inches of their lives neatly and safely stored under our bed. I knew the feather bed would fit alongside them and bought the bag.

I've spent most of today putting these new organizing tools to work (after quick morning runs to the drug store and grocery store for essentials -- the snow keeps coming!). I was enjoying my nesting routine and was down to my last task: the feather bed. I got the bag ready on the bed, pulled out the vacuum cleaner, and turned it on. No suction at all.

I was disappointed and upset at the same time. This vacuum cleaner is not that old. I needed it for just a couple of minutes to suck the feather bed and re-suck the comforters. I turned it off and looked into the hose for answers. Nothing. I flipped it over. Nothing. I emptied the canister and cleaned out the filter. Nothing. I looked into the vacuum where the hose connects. Eureka!

There was a tightly-packed column of hair and dust. The more I poked around, the more poured out. The carpet in the bedroom became covered. I threw away the big, gross clumps, put the vacuum back together, and tried again. Nothing.

Now I was really frustrated. I left the vacuum alone in the room with the feather bed to think about it while I calmed myself with a fistful of those little chalky Valentine hearts with un-romantic messages like "email me" on them (drug store impulse purchase).

I approached the vacuum again. The hose on it attaches in two places -- you can detach one end for using with tools. The other end is more permanent, but can be removed to replace the hose, or (duh) clean out clogs. I detached the semi-permanent end and another dust cloud spewed forth.

I held the end of the hose up to look inside and found only darkness. After enlisting the help of a pencil, I found that the clog was quite deep and thick. I slowly worked on it wondering how the suction power of the vacuum had not sucked the clog through, and how the clog was so tight as to not allow any suction at all.

I had covered the carpet and myself with a fine snow of dust. I worked the pencil in and try to angle it to get enough leverage to discharge the clog. With my subtle urging and a few prayers, the clog was freed. Onto my feet fell lots of hair, tons of dust, part of a plastic bag that the newspaper comes in, a tag from one of my bras, and two red M&Ms.

I really have to remember to clean the vacuum more often.

It's Cold Outside!

Chicago is experiencing something of a cold snap. It's not horrible. It's not as bad as the East Coast had it recently. But it's cold outside. The temperature right now is 10, wind chill is 2 below. It's always the wind chill that gets you. It's been like this for a few days now.

I hadn't really noticed the cold until it got hot in the apartment. Ironically, we have to crack a couple of windows a little when it gets really cold because the radiators are really good. When it gets less cold and the radiators don't work as hard, we have to close the windows. Thus, if the windows are open it must be really cold outside. (?!)

The cold hit home yesterday morning when Dave and I ventured out to the café with work and newspapers and blank to-do lists ready to be filled (you can guess which were Dave's and which were mine). The passenger-side door on Dave's car would not open. After we each banged on it, I pulled, and Dave pushed, we gave up. I spent most of the day sitting in the back seat getting driven around and feeling important. Downsides to this included lack of leg room, inaccessibility of radio and temperature controls, and Dave's dislike at being addressed as "Driver."

I was thinking about the cold again this morning while I put on my biggest sweater and Dave was already outside warming up the car and trying to get the door unfrozen. Dave's car was parked right in front of the building. Both of our cars are often within steps of our front door. Therefore, it is only when I am taking the el or walking to a neighborhood shop that I have to dress for the weather. How lucky am I?

Even when I am driving somewhere I have my emergency back-up clothing and cold weather accessories (hat, gloves, another scarf, etc.), but I rarely have to actually put all these pieces on. This was not the case when I was young.

I realized this morning that my memories of colder winters are really distorted. Of course they were colder to me -- because I had to walk several blocks to and from school, or walk a couple of blocks to wait for a bus at 7 am and then get off it to wait for another one when I was in high school. I went to college in Des Moines! My first winter there we took our finals while the rest of the city was shut down because the wind chills were 70 below zero. Yes, seven zero.

For all of those years I had to bundle up every time I stepped outside. In those early years, Mom helped us all bundle up before heading off to grade school. She had us in assembly lines for hair: two braids, one braid, ponytail, or ponytail that was braided, and then winter clothing layering: uniform, leg warmers, Moon boots (check that your school shoes are in your backpack), scarf, hat, mittens, sibling-matching blue parka, hood, another scarf. Mom would finish us off with a children's multi-vitamin and chewable vitamin C stuck in between face-covering layers of scarves once we had become immobile and unable to resist. The "bundle up" scene from the movie A Christmas Story is not an exaggeration. It is the truth and torment of many a Midwestern kid.

I learned in college that looking cool does not matter – you dressed to stay warm, or, indeed, save your life and limbs. The cold weather gear that was avoided or quickly concealed in high school was embraced and adorned on the open plain of Iowa. Everyone wore whatever was necessary and did not worry about looking stupid. In fact, outrageous hats and mile-long scarves became something of a statement.

I bundled up when we last had snow here in Chicago to go out and take some pictures. I wore multiple layers and Dave's coat and headed out. I came back in after 20 minutes to change film, drop off my glasses (they're cold on my face and constantly fog up), and blow my nose. I ventured out for another 15 minutes and ended up ducking into a café to change film and blow my nose. I had no idea I had become so weak.

I am going back to Des Moines in a couple of weeks for a choir reunion. I am staying at a hotel near campus and will be able to walk to everything. In fact, I'll need to walk to everything since the most convenient parking will probably be at the hotel. It's been a long time since I was on campus in the February cold. I'm thinking I should start taking my vitamins now.

New Year Resolutions

I hate New Years Resolutions. They remind me of the practice of making some sort of sacrifice for Lent. Every Lent since I can remember, I have struggled with what I am going to "give up for Christ." I can't tell you the soul-wrenching involved in deciding if abstaining from Coke products for 40 days and nights is taxing enough to remind me that Christ suffered on the cross for me.

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Kramen had each of us cut a cross out of pink construction paper (I remember it was pink – why pink?). We were then instructed to write down our Lenten sacrifice on one side of the cross, and put our name on the other. She then discreetly collected the crosses and stapled them (name side out, four staples per cross) to the large bulletin board that took up one wall of the classroom. No one could read what each of us had written.

But I knew what I had written. And I knew that God knew what I had written. And that was pressure enough to keep me to my promise to not drink Coke for all of Lent. I remember this vividly. I remember thinking I could see the words I had written glow through the pink construction paper like some kind of flashing neon sign. (I remember thinking once while waiting for the next word in a spelling test that it was funny that God didn't reverse the words for me when He reminded me of my promise with neon letters – I was forced to read them backwards as though they were truly bleeding through the paper.) Wow, was I bored in second grade.

Unfortunately for me, my sister Rach also knew what I had written. She revealed this during one of our rare family trips to McDonald's. We were actually going to eat inside the restaurant, so we were allowed to order a small drink. I remembered my Lenten promise and order a small orange drink. Do you remember the McDonald's HiC orange drink? I felt comfortable with my choice – even though I really really wanted a Coke. Rach announced my Lenten sacrifice to the whole family and presented the argument that orange drink was in fact the same as soda (the word we St. Louisans use for pop), and therefore I should not be allowed to order it. It was bad enough when I had my own guilt and the occasional classroom reminder from God compelling me to stick to my promise, now I had my sister rallying troops against me like some kind of six-year-old Norma Rae.

In this same vein, I loathe making New Year resolutions. I hate feeling like I'm being told what to do – even if it is me doing the telling. Rather than thinking of resolutions as being a promise to change my life for the better, or to improve myself, or to make the bed every morning, I can't help thinking of them as a chore, a burden, an added obligation with no end-date in sight.

As an adult, I have decided to boycott Lenten sacrifices and New Year resolutions – which are made only to be broken just as quickly as the special offers at athletic clubs expire and calendars are offered at half-price.

And yet, I find myself making resolutions that are secret pacts with myself. If I tell someone what my resolutions are, I have to keep them. Secret ones are better – no one will get hurt. These resolutions are especially powerful. They are often promises that I tell myself I shouldn't make. They are too challenging, too lofty, too ridiculous. They are like those little deals with God that we all make from time to time in order to avoid those little compromises with the Devil.

I find that these pacts last longer for me than traditional, public resolutions – so long as I remind myself that they are not resolutions per se – because I am boycotting resolutions.

I can usually keep these "not resolutions" about until Lent begins in the early spring.

Therefore, I have decided upon several resolutions to not have this year.

Lent begins February 25.

My Older Self

I saw myself in 30 years at Julius Meinl café the other day. I walked in and sat down right in front of me.

The whole experience was surreal. I know that it was me.

I continue to cut my hair shorter and shorter – resulting in a smart, choppy style that is more gray than brown, but is ideal for my lack of hairstyling ability.

I had on a great sweater – I'm betting it was handmade, evidence that I continue to work on my knitting skills. The sweater was a pretty gray. I was wearing it with baggy black pants, gray striped socks, and black clogs. I thought it funny that my current self was wearing the exact same striped socks and clogs on the same day as my future self.

I still enjoy a classic Viennese mélange (large) and a flaky apple turnover in the future. My future self could have just as easily pointed to myself seated at the other table and said "I'll have what she's having" to the waitress when I arrived and declined the menu because I already know what I want to order. I wanted to tell me that the apple turnovers were not the best today, but I knew I would order one anyway.

I used two different pair of glasses while seated at a table next to the window. It appears I eventually succumb to the need for a stylish chain on which to attach my glasses. I keep thinking (the current me, that is) that I should get a chain or maybe one of the cool necklaces I've seen with a metal loop on which to hang my glasses. I only need glasses for seeing far away – so I constantly take them off to read. And then I lose them. Sometimes, I put them on top of my head. Sometimes, I hook them on the neckline of my top. Often, I forget where I have placed them when I find myself in a situation where I want to be able to see things far away from me – like looking out a window.

My future self took a break from my work to glance out the window. (My self-diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder appears to hold true!) The future me forgot that my glasses were hanging from the stylish chain and searched in vain for them. I quickly gave up the search and reached into my Chicago Historical Society tote bag (it appears that David maintains his membership into the future). Just like the current me, I have two pair of glasses on me most of the time. The future me found the back-up pair and put them on to gaze out the window for a break from work – and then tried to drop the glasses from my face as though they were attached to a chain. My future self realized at that moment that both pair of glasses were in use. We laughed at ourself at the same time.

I became intrigued by my work. My future self had the largest binder I have ever seen – with a D-ring, my favorite kind because the front cover opens and lays completely flat so as to not disrupt the pages that have been restricted to the confines of the binder.

I was doing what I always do – making handwritten notes on printed draft pages. I know that they were my words because I write on a separate piece of paper when I take notes on someone else's work. Perhaps it is my seminal work. Perhaps I finally amass a large amount of data on the longitudinal effects of teaching the fascinating feature of phonology that I love so dearly. Perhaps it is something completely different from the work I wish to do now. Whatever it is, it is long. I (in the future) appear to be enjoying it as I have multiple post-it flags in a myriad of colors and pens in inks to match. Bliss.

The current me desperately wanted to steal a glance at one page – but it would have required me to get up and walk past me. And the maneuver would have been too obvious. I did not want to cause some sort of cataclysm of fate and alter my future fulfillment due to current curiosity.

The current me stayed at the café longer than the future me. I figure that I must be a very busy person. As I strolled past myself with the heavy tote bag over one shoulder, I felt a tremendous sense of calm and confidence come over my current self. Things look pretty good in the future. I look pretty good in the future.

I feel very lucky to have enjoyed a morning at the café with me, myself, and a mélange.