Me and My Momentum

I’m having my tonsils out in a couple of weeks. "At your age?!" everyone asks. Yes, at my age. They’ve always been impressively large but of late, one of them has morphed into the Matterhorn. I can’t swallow, breathe, sleep, sing, eat, or drink comfortably. It took ten months and three ENTs before someone finally said not only are my tonsils the reason for my woes but they’ve got to go.

To prepare, I’m consuming the holistic literature on mind-body approaches to surgery, including positive affirmations, relaxation, meditation, and guided imagery. I'm identifying my inner sanctuaries and selecting a mellow playlist for the procedure.

I’m also cleaning house. Yesterday, I decided, in the spirit of Rosh Hashonah and renewal and all that clean-slate stuff, plus wanting a pleasant recovery environment, I'd get started.

The last time I vacuumed, I hate to say how long ago, instead of sucking up the dirt, the machine started spewing it from the roller brush and from some unidentified hole in the back. It glided smoothly enough when I pushed it, but on the return trip a spray of debris shot out.

Power: Off. Diagnosis: Trouble.

It was only the third time I’d used the thing. I’m not a big vacuumer, despite having two cats. I figure the dust mites and other little microbes that are growing in my rugs have the right to life, as long as I can’t see them. And I just hate the noise, not to mention the trauma inflicted on Sophia and Sascha, who cower under the bed, wide-eyed and trembling, until I give them the all-clear.

My vacuum is a Bissell Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Bagless. Sounds so promising. It’s one of those inside-out-type models with a transparent Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup in the front and a twisty series of external hoses secured with plastic brackets in the back. It boasts "Continuous Suction for Constant Cleaning." But it wasn't sucking at all.

I emptied the Dirt Cup, then flipped the Momentum on its side and spun the roller around, pulling a few hairs off the brushes. That should do it. But the more I pushed and pulled, the more it moaned and splashed filth in its wake.

I must’ve bought a lemon, I told myself. Well, maybe my mechanically minded neighbor will troubleshoot with me sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to return it. But not today. Back in the closet with you, Momentum. Let the mites live a little longer. I can’t deal.

That was the last time. So yesterday, when I tried again, same thing. As if it would have spontaneously healed in the closet without intervention? I dug out the manual and ended up talking to Stephanie, a Bissell tech support woman. I could barely understand her as she speed-read from her tech script, but as I lay Momentum down, I noticed for the first time a Filter Tray, which I removed. The sponge inside and the entire slot were chunked full of cat hair.

"Stephanie? I think I see what the problem is." She didn’t hear me and kept reading.

"Stephanie?" I told her of my discovery. She advised rinsing out the filter and, before we hung up, twittered something about cleaning out any stopped-up hoses with a broomstick.

The filter rinsed, I plugged Momentum in once again. It's better! Oops. Wishful thinking. The spewing resumed halfway through the living room rug.

Down you go. I unwound one big, ridged plastic hose and stretched it out on the floor. Empty. I wiped the dust off a second filter with a damp paper towel, then shoved my hand in the "Continuous Suction" orifice and pulled out more hair globs. By now I had filled a Shaw’s shopping bag about three inches high with thick gray gunky feline residue.

Ready? Let’s roll! Nope. Another Sahara sandstorm.

OK. Now I’m seriously committed to solving this myself, mechanically minded neighbor be damned. I flipped the thing over and closely examined the back, wondering why I hadn’t done this months ago. Besides the big, obvious ridged hose, I found solid hoses, soft hoses, nifty links, and U-joints, like under the bathroom sink, a mini-maze of interconnected piping, all removable. Snap, release. Cat hair. Twist, unwind. Cat hair. Two tubes were 100 percent blocked with, yes, more cat hair. I tried Stephanie’s broomstick technique, which worked perfectly. The Shaw’s bag was now overflowing with an enormous gray furball the equivalent of six cats.

At last, I stood up my Momentum—and it worked. Instead of coughing and sputtering, it roared a clear Cyclonic roar as it slid easily back and forth, inhaling the original plus the regurgitated dregs right into its Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup. Sweep, suck, slurp, swallow. Done.

I plopped on the bedroom floor, peeked under the bed, and purred, "It’s OK, girls. You can come out now. No more noise. You’re safe." They blinked appreciatively.

I felt cleansed. And declogged. And I couldn’t help thinking about my tonsils. It’s time. I’m ready. And, after the recovery, which is supposed to be hell (quick! replace that thought with a positive "My recovery will be quick and easy!"), I'll be free! No more Matterhorn. No more adjusting my jaw or rearranging my tongue. No more snoring. Pretty soon I’ll be singing again, open and clear and unobstructed. Yeah, it took a while to diagnose the problem, but with my brand-new Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Tonsil-less Throat, soon I’ll be good to go.