des memos from des moines: the dangers of dust bunnies

My cousin Pamela who falls a lot in Iowa was vacuuming yesterday and in a fete of amazing absurdity, somehow allowed her head to get close enough to the whirling, sucking part of her vacuum that it vacuumed up her hair -- the part of her hair at the very crown of her head.

Can't you see her? Practically standing on her head, derriere in the air, arms flailing wildly in a vain attempt to grasp the elusive neck of the vacuum cleaner whereupon lives the off switch? But she can't find it blind and bent over and so it keeps sucking more and more of her hair? Can't you practically hear the whining of the vacuum's motor screaming in your ears, working, straining, struggling to suck into its gullet a full grown woman?

What's worse, Pamela's five-year-old daughter Emma was the only one there to help. But Emma, too, has struggled with this beast of a cleaning device in the past. Last year -- at just about this same time -- it was she who was caught in the sucky beast's brushey clenches. It was she who'd wrestled with it and watched in fearful confusion as it attempted to inhale the fingers right off her hand. And though she survived physically unscathed, to come upon the horrifying site of her own until-this-moment impervious mother being eaten by the very same vacuum creature -- a Shel Silverstein illustration come to life -- she could do nothing more than cradle her hand, now throbbing in memory of the original attack and scream, "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T. KNOW WHAT. TO DO!"

So distraught was the child in fact, that she almost threw herself into the vacuum as well, for fear of being left behind. Better to go by choice -- and in company -- than to face a world alone in which vacuum cleaners attack. And except for her mother's swinging arms, she might have done just that.

And then luckily for Emma, who was in full voice and on her fourteenth, "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" -- frozen in place (except for her mouth) by the site of her mother battling mightily with the carnivorous vacuum -- the phone rang.

You see, Emma loves the phone. Emma love the phone so much that she likes to sleep with it -- just in case someone calls in the wee hours to chat. She loves it so much that she's demanded phones for all her dolls, so she can converse with them telephonically, as well. So being Emma, even in the midst of a crisis, she answered the phone. And frankly, is it not completely understandable? Don't we all in times of turmoil try to go to our happy places? For Emma, that place is the telephone. Of course, the call wasn't for her, it was for her mother. So Emma explained somewhat sadly -- because she really, truly in the moment needed this outlet, this escape, you know? -- that her mother wasn't available to talk, because she was vacuuming and then she promptly hung up. Thereupon, she returned to her mother's side to resume her role. Deep breath now. Release. Annnnd. . . "BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!"

**No actual Pamelas were harmed -- in anything but pride -- during the making of this blog. The subject in question was, after some time, able to extricate herself from her cleaning device with her scalp miraculously intact. Emma, who is now under the care of a licensed therapist, has requested that she may be allowed to go live with her Aunt Jill, who reportedly never vacuums. **