Between driving Ella to and from school because she can't ride the bus, and driving her to and from doctors' and PT appointments, and sick kids, and taking Lily to ballet class and auditions, and eleventy majillion birthdays, I barely have time to get real work done, let alone blog.
I know better than to think that the worst of the chaos is over. As soon as I let my guard down, whammo.
And now for something completely different.
Earlier this summer, after much research and polling of friends and agonizing, I bought a fancy, shmancy European vacuum cleaner, one that's not a Dyson. It's a Miele, which I have no idea how to pronounce. I think I spent more on it than I did my wedding dress.
I love this vacuum. It lets me vacuum stripes into the carpet. It doesn't leave any dog hair behind. I feel like I've really cleaned after I've used it. And its cord is long enough to let me vacuum the whole downstairs without having to unplug and replug.
Last weekend I was vacuuming away, sucking everything out from under the sofa, when the vacuum gave a big cough and stopped working. I poked and prodded it. I changed out the bag, just in case. I called B in for help. Nothing. The motor worked, but there was no suction.
So I called the local fancy vacuum dealership - Long's on S. Congress, if you're interested - and the guy said I could bring it in and that there would be a $20 diagnosis fee that would be applied to the total repair bill. I loaded the vacuum into the car and headed in to town, imagining the outrageous check I was going to have to write.
When we got to the store, the guy whisked the vacuum off into the back room, from where I heard lots of suction noises. Five minutes later, he walked out pushing my vacuum. I said, "Let me guess. There's nothing wrong with it."
The guy laughed and said, "Nope. Nothing wrong with it. But I did find this in the tube."
The nice vacuum cleaner guy didn't even charge me the diagnosis fee.
But it is reassuring that the vacuum cleaner is powerful enough to swallow a sock.