I, Wavybrains

As the goddess which we all agree I am, I should not have to strain my back cleaning *certain* people’s long hair out of tub drains, weaken my knees bending for stray socks, hyperextend my shoulders vacuuming, and I most certainly should never have to foul my oxygen with the scent of over-ripe cat box. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I am ever so much more intelligent than that Bewitched chick, and would never wear sheer harem pants like that Jeanie broad, mother nature neglected to give me the talent to point at something and say “cleanius maximus immedius” or something like that.

 

And, regrettably, thanks to Barbara Ernreich, and my own experience growing up poor, I have a very hard time paying someone to clean up my own mess. We had a cleaning “friend” (sounds so much better than “maid”) for part of the Spring, and my protestant guilt darn near killed me every time I saw her on her knees scrubbing diligently away. Now with four of us here, none of whom are predisposed to neatness, and my unabashed love of a clean organized space and my complete inability to keep it that way, we’ve been batting around the idea of getting some “help” again.

Ideally, “help” would come in the form of a cattle prod that made offending eaters place dishes immediately in the dish washer, negligent writers keep their workspace clear, harried workers keep their belongings off the counter, and rambunctious pets from emptying their toy box in the middle of the room. Alas, stun guns for self-improvement are not exactly looked at kindly. Barring that, “help” would shut off my internet every so often and give me a burst of motivation—and preferably share that motivation with the male members of our little home.

Alas, I do not reside in fantasy land. But, my husband has the solution! Lo, he has bought me my very own robot. I swoon. When I was a little girl, I *dreamed* of being married to Doc from Back to the Future or the Dad in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, or the father in Cheaper By the Dozen. Some girls covet Cowboys and Police Officers, me, I just wanted my very own mad scientist. Luckily, my entire dating history consists of computer nerds, so my chances of having a house filled with gadgets has always been quite high.

I must stress that I only want WORKING gadgets, and really only want something if it can DELIVER. Does it actually clean the floor or do they just look happy on TV (swiffer, I’m looking at you!)? Does it really make my life easier or does it sit in pieces in various boxes in the basement (Hello, home walkie-talkies!). Does it stand the test of time or does it stand in the cabinet, barely touched? (Oh, how I miss you, George Foreman Grill). So, while I have loved the Roomba in THEORY, I have been very skeptical about how it actually performs. I would rather get a Dyson. But, a Dyson IS after all, a mere vacuum cleaner.

My husband loves me too much to buy me a vacuum cleaner, even one that looks like a race car. No, he wants me to have my very own robot. Really, he just wants to take it apart and play Robo Sumo, and show it off to his nerd friends, and torture the cats with it, and maybe mount a camera on it . . . and oh, yeah, maybe clean the floors. But, hey, look at those algorithms man! Look at the hazard avoidance system! Witness what it could do if only it had internet access . . . . Dirt is not sexy. The roomba, the roomba is sexy. Which is why he looked at for about the millionth time at Target yesterday, decided he could no longer be denied, and trotted it up to the check out while I was still in the “clearance haze” that descends upon me every time I enter the wonder that is Tar-Jay.

I do have to say that it DOES work much better than I thought it would. And the dog has not eaten it yet, which is a BIG plus. The cats are incredibly entertained. (Little do they know an automatic litter box is also in the big-spending plans of 2005). I’m actually starting to dream of the day when I have my very own stable of robots. The “scooba” is coming out around Christmas time, and lawn robots get better every year, and that automatic cat box is sounding better and better . . . I may not have “help,” but I most certainly have motherboards.