Dust-busting Machine

Quick note before we get onto the subject matter at hand:

I hate hyphens. Just when I think I've mastered the wheres and whys, up pops a grammatical situation to prove me wrong. I hate them.

Anyway, so I'm getting ready to go to California for my much-anticipated(there you are again, you flat bastard) birthday trip. My parents will be here in 20 minutes to take me to the airport, and I'm hurridly shoveling a microwaved burrito into my mouth. It's really too hot to be holding, let alone sticking in a place with sensitive tissue, but oh well. What's a 3rd degree burn when you're at Disneyland?

Since my mom, aunt, cousin, and I are going to the Happiest Place on Earth, my dad generously volunteered to not go and instead stay home and take care of my home and pets. Linky (the cat) sheds a lot. I realize that dust is 99% dead skin cells, but the dust bunnies in my home are 99.9% cat hair. Every so often, a person can walk down the hall and spot a cat hair tumbleweed blowing across their path.

Thus, for Christmas this year my parents gifted me a brand-new Dustbuster.

I opened the box and looked at them.

"What?" Mom said, eyes wide with innocence. "You needed one."

Even though I'm on the cusp of 30, my definition of need is still somewhat different than my parents'. See, I "need" the latest stamping and scrapbooking stuff. I "need" to take baths instead of showers (less rushed). But a Dustbuster?

Last night I partook in a very dangerous activity in bed. It didn't involve whips and chains or anything, but it did involve a Rice Krispy treat.

And it got dirty.

Very dirty.

This morning, I woke up amidst a pile of crushed Krispies. They were stuck to the bedspread, to my pillow, and to my dog's head.

"You're a mess," I said to myself. I wouldn't accept this midnight plate-less snacking behavior from anyone else, so why do I let myself be such a grossy?

Grossy...dusty...Dustbuster!

I grabbed it from it's perch on the laundry room wall and went to my bedroom.

It sucked the crumbs from my bedspread without complaint. My dog, on the other hand, had a bit to say about it.

"Trumie, settle down," I said. "I'm helping you shed."

I'm sure my parents didn't intend for me to use the Dustbuster in such a way. Likewise, I didn't expect to find it to be so useful. Once again, Proctor and Gamble bridges the generational divide.