He sighed. Uh-oh. It's that time of year again. "Lowe's has Dirt Devils on sale."
I was right. The words
were casual, but I knew his heart was beating like a bunny's. He leaned back, a study in nonchalance and contemplated his fingernails.
OK, I thought, I'll play that game. He could care less. Yeah,
right. He's about as indifferent over a Dirt Devil sale as Al Gore was about the presidency. Deep down inside that man is turning emotional cartwheels, punching the air with joy. Yes, the inner man shouts,
Dirt Devils are on sale! Oh happy days are here again! Yee-hah! How far are we from Lowe's? Can I get to the Dirt Devils display before someone else does? How much room do we have on the old credit card for
Dirt Devils? How many can we fit into the garage? Do I need a pick-up truck to bring my haul home?
These thoughts and precious few others raced through my spouse's brain, colliding with his desire to
stay put and watch Carolina play basketball and a vague, tiny little memory of me asking him to please take out the garbage.
The Dirt Devil won. To my husband the only thing better than a Dirt Devil
sale is when Carolina beats the stuffing out of Maryland. And they weren't playing Maryland.
Sweat beads appeared on his upper lip. At least I think that's what they were. He has a mustache so it's
sometimes hard to tell. But his body language gave him away. This man fell under the spell of a little portable vacuum cleaner, drawn irrevocably into that small appliance vortex that sucks him in each year.
In his head, thousands of voices chanted, just like in the gladiator movies when they turn thumbs down: "Dirt Devil, Dirt Devil, Dirt Devil."
He shouldn't listen to them. He should listen to me, his
wife, mother of his children, Queen of the House and controller of the almighty food bowl. I've tried to send him brain waves: Forget the Dirt Devil or you're going to eat peanut butter and jelly on
Christmas day.
Lest you think I have a psychological problem with itty-bitty vacuum cleaners, I don't. For the record, I think they're lovely little appliances. I just don't want one for Christmas. I
also don't want one for my birthday, anniversary, Halloween, St. Patrick's Day Valentine's Day or to commemorate the opening of a new store. Call me selfish, but I've already received as many
small appliances as gifts as I can handle.
I've had toasters and electric frying pans and crockpots and irons. I've had electric shavers and make-up mirrors with all those big fat bulbs tinted pink
so the wrinkles wouldn't show. And I've had Dirt Devils. In fact, he gave me one several years ago. Then he spent Christmas afternoon vacuuming out his car. He spent Christmas night on the sofa in the den,
sleeping on a lumpy pillow and getting up the next morning with a crick in his neck.
That Dirt Devil expired a couple of years ago and ever since the terrible moment when its microscopic engine gave
way (probably because he was constantly trying to vacuum up objects the size of watermelons) he has lusted after another one.
"Go buy yourself one," I said. But he won't. For some inexplicable
reason, he has this obsession with giving me a Dirt Devil on holidays. I swear, I don't understand the draw. But it's a fact: I am married to man with a strange and unholy attachment to minute vacuum
cleaners and he wants to share this fascination with me. I suppose I should be flattered that he wants to include me, but I'm not.
The calendar is counting down the days until Christmas. I know this.
Not because it's growing colder outside. Not because middle-aged women are running around overheated stores wearing sweatshirts that proclaim: "Hey Santa, I'm naughty but nice". And not because Christmas
elevator music permeates every place I've been the past two weeks with the singular exception of my bathroom. No, I know Christmas is coming soon because my husband mentions the word "Dirt Devil" in every
single conversation.
I've already thrown a pillow and blanket on the den sofa.
