My Firstborn Shall Be Named Dyson

I have a confession to make. I’ve been curiously intrigued with a certain love interest for quite sometime, and I can finally express my realized feelings with elated confidence: I Am in Love. My love interest just happens to be a phenomenal vacuum cleaner. I had been hearing great things about my love interest ever since I was working as a custodial assistant in college, which was really what kicked off my obsession to someday obtain him, but I always had the preconception that he was simply out of my league. There just was no way a frugal gal like myself could possibly spring for such a high-status icon. Although I knew I always loved him, from all the things I had heard, he was exactly everything I had ever wanted. He was rumored to be the most dependable, the most easy-going, and the most powerful. People would mention how his physique may not initially appear to have all the fancy bells and whistles of his competitors, as he is actually rather petite, but that I should not be deceived by his appearance. I found out tonight (our first true one-on-one interaction) that he presents me with every single item I could ever need, and then some. He really has redeemed my faith in cleaning, and empowered me to reclaim control over dirt, pet-dander, and hair. I had been broken for so long, when my ex-vacuum died. I am sorry his life ended before I could tell him how much I appreciated the first 2 months of our relationship, back when things were running smoothly and he was doing everything his packaging promised. However, this honeymoon stage was short lived.

You see, my ex-vacuum and I ended our partnership on horrid terms, and it was just over a year into our relationship. I suppose I am to blame. I pushed him too hard at times, and was guilty of neglect at other times. I admit to not emptying his bags as often as I should have, or reaching beneath his brushes and lovingly cleaning out those long hairs that always bogged him down. I won’t make a million excuses; I am fully guilty of badgering him again and again with my verbal abuse. However, it is only fair to say that the fault causing our partnership to go sour so quickly was not all mine. He did not follow through on his promises, and I had these promises in writing, right there on the box in which he came to me. However, I was a stupid woman, ignoring that little sentence about the limited warranty. I was naively determined that OUR relationship would be different. I just KNEW that he would be faithful to me long after that silly little warranty sentence said he would. But no. Only 13 months and 3 weeks after the day I brought him home for the first time to meet my carpets, he refused to pick anything up. The harder I pushed, and the more I fussed, the more he screeched. Fortunately, when the end came for him, it was quick and, I dearly hope, painless. It happened in the master bedroom. I plugged him in for what would be the last time. I gently pushed the ON switch, and he whined to life. I started to steer him to the front and back and to the front again, and that is when the aroma of burning hair overwhelmed me. A microsecond later, his brushes locked up and this awful scraping sound came from somewhere within him. It was somewhat reflective of a pitchfork scraping against an aluminum shed. I knew our time together was rapidly drawing to a close, so I shut him OFF, laid him on his back, and prepared to administer CPR: Clog Pickage & Removal. When I was sure I had adequately cleared the blockage, I went to turn him back on and realized the devasting truth: I was simply too late. He was a goner. Rest in peace, Yellow Eureka, rest in peace. Every time I see a sheer shawl with decorative fringe lying defeated and forgotten on the closet floor, know I will think only of you and how you were always so thorough with those devouring skills back in your early days.

After a few weeks without a vacuum in your life, no matter how negative previous vacuum experiences may have been, you realize just how much you miss having clean, sanitized floors, how much you miss walking around in stocking feet without stepping on something unidentifiable and most definately disgusting, how much you miss being able to tell your friends, that YES, they CAN stop by anytime,and when they do, they do NOT have to stay outside on the front stoop or in the garage. I knew it was time for me to find a replacement. During my search, I found myself thinking of that attractive vacuum I had first heard about from the head-custodian of the fine-arts building at EWU back in '05, a vacuum by the name of Dyson. Dyson had done a lot for himself since I first heard his name back then. He was even making commercial appearances, and co-workers were openly singing his praises. After consumer report-stalking him for about 4 nights straight, and reading overwhelmingly highly marked reviews, I decided it was time for me to commit. I was going to spend 3 times more on him than I had spent on his predecessor, but I also was sure to obtain a 5 year warranty. I planned to be much wiser this second time around.

He arrived, and as I was removing him from the box, I was immediately drawn to his rounded edges, and transparent parts: I knew there would be no guessing what was wrong with him, I could see right through him. That in itself was a blessing. Then I went to read the manual to figure out how in the world to assemble him, and felt a sudden tear of explicit joy slip out of the corner of my eye as I realized I was standing in the presence of a miracle: Total Assembly Procedure: ONE STEP. Yes, Dyson not only was easy on the eyes, he was just plain easy. And I loved him immediately. He was home.

Since that night, we have had several rounds about the floor that I can only describe as invigorating. The way Dyson and I connect is an experience I have never had before, and wouldn't trade for all the hardwood floors in the world. He just has a way of sensing all the problem areas and attacks them before I can even say “missed-a-spot”. He was worth every penny, and I tell him that each time I return him to his storage closet always after a successfully wonderful time of maneuvering (dancing) and suctioning. He thinks that the competent job he does is my favorite part about him, but if you want the truth, my absolute favorite part is the fact that he is a vibrant shade of purple. We obviously were meant to be.

80’s Quiz Time: The following song sums up my feelings about Dyson, what is the title & who sang it? Hint: Will Smith produced a version of this song with his son in the late 90’s. If he can dedicate this love song to his son, I don’t see why I can’t dedicate it to my vacuum. Any opposed?
I see the crystal raindrops fall
And see the beauty of it all
Is when the sun comes shining through
To make those rainbows in my mind
When I think of you some time
And I want to spend some time with you

Just the two of us
We can make it if we try
Just the two of us
Just the two of us
Building castles in the sky
Just the two of us
You and I

We look for love, no time for tears
Wasted waters's all that is
And it don't make no flowers grow
Good things might come to those who wait
Not to those who wait to late
We got to go for all we know

I hear the crystal raindrops fall
On the window down the hall
And it becomes the morning dew
Darling, when the morning comes
And I see the morning sun
I want to be the one with you
Just the two of us
We can make it if we try
Just the two of us
Just the two of us
Building big castles way up high
Just the two of us
You and I
Just the two of us
Let's get together, baby
Just the two of us
We can make it
Just the two of us
We can make it
Just the two of us

Crazies in Colorado Springs

So about a week ago, my highly eligible kindred spirit candidate, Lauren, and I are spending that particular Saturday afternoon driving around the Springs, heading to grab a bite at Chipotle after successfully perusing a craft fair at Fountain Ft. Carson High School. After which, we were planning to head to her house to take in an episode or six of the shamefully addictive Showtime series The Tudors on DVD (Who didn’t love Henry the VIII? What’s that? Oh….Everyone. Ok so the real reason I watch (lust?) is because Jonothan Rhys Meyers plays his character in the series and I have only two words to sum up his performance: Drool Inducer). Anyhow. On our way to Chipotle on this particularly gorgeous fall day, we are chitchatting at a degree and pace equal to that of those pair of old ladies you always see at nursing homes sitting in wheelchairs with the knitted afghan’s over their laps desperately debating whose aches and pains and broken hips and incontinence problems are worse, as Lauren pulls into a left-hand turn lane behind a Ford Explorer. Nothing show-stopping yet. But then Lauren and I watch (yet unphased, as we continued our serious discussion on a topic that I can not for the life of me remember, and the reason for this, I’m quite sure, is due to the immediately following sequence of events that caused my mind to achieve overload status as it could not make sense of what it was processing and chose to voluntarily delete data, and this conversation immediately preceding the craziness is lost forever in Amber Amnesia Land and is unable to be recalled). Now this is when things began to get weird. A young, yet rather intimidating, pregnant woman opens and exits the passenger side door of the Explorer. She promptly runway-struts her way to the rear of the Explorer, props one hand on her waist, props the other against the rear window, and exhibits an expression that can be best described as though she is good and ready to properly beat a bare-bottomed child caught stealing money from Daddy’s top dresser drawer with a wooden spoon (this is an entirely different story to be more appropriately shared at another time). That, or flip a few gang signs and draw a sorts of concealed weapons from her maternity jeans and go TombRaider style on the unsuspecting people of Colorado Springs. A few seconds go by, then some secret signal is transmitted (a trunk release lever is pushed perhaps?) and she opens the trunk, and lo-and-behold, a full-grown man with a full-grown molester-stash rolls out of the trunk. At this point Lauren’s and my conversation has ceased in mid-syllable, in order to fully conceive the scene before us. Lauren also executively decides that this would be the ideal moment to auto-lock our doors, and does so. Why this gentleman who might be most easily identified in a police line-up was laying in the trunk and not sitting in a seat like a typical human being may prefer is still a mystery to us, as it appeared that he (America’s Most Wanted poster-boy), Preggers, (The She-Thug on hiatus), and thus-far, the unseen Phantom Driver, were the only living creatures in the vehicle, and so, assumably, there would be ample seating. IJusDontGetIt. She-Thug places both hands on her hips, throws her head and shoulders back into a praying-mantis-I dominate-you-arch, and begins to not so politely converse with MugShot. They shut the trunk together as the left-turn-signal light turns green. Now the situation has abruptly warranted Lauren's and my direct involvement as the passengers in the vehicle behind the non-moving vehicle in a left-hand turn lane at a very busy intersection. Before Lauren or I can audibly express a “whathaheckerwesposedtadonow’, She-Thug and MugShot begin pushing the Explorer into the intersection. Lauren pulls forward to stop in the Explorer’s spot just as the light turns red, so we can again, be blessed with front row seats to watch Act II. Act II begins with She-Thug and Mug-Shot rolling the Explorer just onto the shoulder and ends with She-Thug transforming into less She-Thug and more Preggers as she doubles over and grips her belly. Well, so sorry Lara Croft, but you shouldn’t have tried to save the world by pushing a Jeep when you were 6 months pregnant. And more importantly, what was up with the evasive Phantom Driver? Lauren concluded that Phantom Driver had better have been more pregnant than Preggers the She-Thug was, or else her butt should have been pushin’ instead of sittin’. The turn-light changed to green before we could witness Act III, but, as it turned out, we were in store for yet another play...

So we finally pull into the Chipotle parking lot, which is in the SouthGate shopping center, and a few blocks down from a Home Depot. Lauren and I are about to exit the car, when an elderly man walks right beside my passenger side door pushing an empty Home Depot cart. Huhhhhhhwhaaa????????? For your comprehension convenience, I will reiterate two things: Home Depot is 3 blocks away. The cart is empty. Then, he pushes the cart up onto the curb in front of Lauren’s car, abandons it, and proceeds to walk off without looking back. Lauren and I are dumbfounded. We don’t even exchange so much as a word about this particular event until later in the day when our brains are finally settling back into place. Then, before we can even open our doors to head into Chipotle, a group of five men who appear to work as salesmen for the same cell phone company approach Lauren’s car and just stand between its hood and the freshly abandoned Home Depot cart. For the second time in a period of 13 minutes, I hear the auto-locks of Lauren's car click into place. A sixth cell-phone-company salesman strolls to my side from the rear of Lauren’s car and unlocks the driver’s side door to a white van 2 parking spaces down from us. Like a mother goose and her cell-phone-polo-shirted ducklings, the sixth-cell-phone-company salesman unlocks the van and the five remaining men single-file into the van and drive away. Lauren cautiously unlocks the doors, and we exchange a knowing glance that in light of recent events, this may be the last Chipotle meal we may ever devour together, and we shall cherish every bite. After we get our Chipotle (to-go, no less, Southgate Plaza has blatantly made its point…we will not be staying to experience the atmosphere) we get back in the car and as she is trying to back out, a Subaru screams (literally, I tell you, I heard shrieking) up next to my door, double-parking itself into the lane next to Lauren and Lauren’s lane. Lauren has to pull forward to re-maneuver so she doesn’t hit the obnoxious woman’s Subaru as her rear tire is fully in our lane. The entire time the Obnoxious Subaru driver is glaring at us and giving us dirty glares and mouthing words that resemble obscenities (poor woman had no way of knowing that the petite-chica staring back at her was a lip-reading Speech Therapist) because she can’t open her door to exit her car until we back out. We safely and slowly exit the parking spot, and just as we think nothing more can happen, a speed-walking, Spandex-wearing & Ipod-bearing marathon mad-lady narrowly avoids having her next power-walk be the one through heaven’s gates, as Lauren slams on her breaks so the lady can pass a comfortable 3 yards away from the pedestrian crosswalk and at the same time, pass so close to the hood of Lauren’s car that the oblivious-turbo-stepper could stick out her tongue and get a palate full of elaborate bug juice samples fresh from the grill.
My kindred spirit and I did survive this day. We did lust over the Tudors that afternoon. We have eaten Chipotle again. But we have not returned to Southgate Plaza since, and have no plans to. You can not make this stuff up.
But somebody had to make THIS up, do you know who it was?:

Who can it be knocking at my door?
Go 'way, don't come 'round here no more.
Can't you see that it's late at night?
I'm very tired, and I'm not feeling right.
All I wish is to be alone;
Stay away, don't you invade my home.
Best off if you hang outside,
Don't come in - I'll only run and hide.
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?
Who can it be now?Who can it be now?Who can it be knocking at my door?
Make no sound, tip-toe across the floor.
If he hears, he'll knock all day,
I'll be trapped, and here I'll have to stay.
I've done no harm, I keep to myself;
There's nothing wrong with my state of mental health.
I like it here with my childhood friend;
Here they come, those feelings again!

The Shorter Schroeder

Hi! I am Amber, the Shorter Schroeder. Once I was talking with an old friend from high school who realized my married name for the very first time and misinterpreted it as Shorter, and he was appalled that all my other friends and family would allow me to marry a man named Shorter, as I am a lifelong member of the vertically challenged populous. Happily, I was able to clarify for my friend my actual name would be Schroeder, not Shorter, but ever since, The Shorter Schroeder alias has taken to me like an aerosol can of AquaNet Hairspray to Cindi Lauper's teased hair: fabulously fitting. Aside from the many obvious benefits that undoubtedly go along with being able to shop in the petite sections in department stores (i.e., never having to worry about legroom on airplanes, ordering Happy Meals at fast food places without the cashier giving you a dirty look, or burning more calorories than the average height person because at the dinner table you get to swing your feet as they can't reach the floor). I am also crazily in love with my husband of 17 months, also known as The Shorter Schroeder's Taller Schroeder. He's not exactly 'tall', but he IS taller than me, and this is MY blog, so that is really what is most relevant. He is currently serving in Iraq and thus far, we have been very blessed for his continued safety and well being in body, mind, and heart. I work full time as a speech-language pathologist in a children's clinic, and love what I do. To sum up the purpose of my work in the words of a my beloved 7-year-old client with grammatical difficulties: I "help maked them kids talk good". Do I even need to mention the job security perk? Another perk is working with the fabulous team of people at the clinic. I could not get through this deployment without them, my fellow Army wives, or the Grace of God. When I am not frantically trying to find my lost mind at work, I enjoy being with friends, whether we are hiking, shopping, church-going, or enjoying a glass of Canyon City wine. I L-O-V-E singing in the shower (as my shampoo bottles and loofas provide the most forgiving audience), dancing like the 1980's never left us (as I am convinced WE did not leave the 1980's, how could anyone NOT be forever faithful to that decade of perfection) and STRONGLY trying to refrain from doing both activities simultaneously. But what I really prefer to do more than anything else is cuddle with my Weiner dogs, Chloe and Oscar, on the couch at home and take in an episode of The Office, Family Guy, or Gossip Girl. Almost Heaven on Earth. Total Heaven on Earth would be the Shorter Schroeder's Taller Schroeder's animated and unimagined presence and participation in the whole ordeal. In summary, if you are here to read the ramblings of a dynamic intellectual, you clearly have arrived at the wrong blog. I am decidedly not the most intellectual being around (I just pray I'm not the LEAST, after all, the word on the street is that *cough Paris Hilton cough* still roams the planet), but I do know what I like, and, if you are only half as nosey as myself, you are bound to find these things out about me sooner or later, so lets just be upfront at the start and avoid a lot of awkwardness down the road. I'll leave you with one profound piece of literature and also a grand opportunity to Name That 80's Tune as I proceed to exit:
Don't. Don't you want me?
You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me
Don't. Don't you want me?
You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me
It's much too late to find
You think you've changed your mindYou'd better change it back or we will both be sorry


Don't you want me baby? Don't you want me ohh
Don't you want me baby? Don't you want me ohh