My New Best Friend
So we've recently covered the state of my house. It's worse than it was four days ago, and it looked like two little blond tornadoes had torn through kicking up dirt and leaving behind debris all the way then. Oh wait, they had and they have again.
Anyway, the friend. His name is Robie. At least I think it's a he, but I have yet to spot any signs of gender. He sleeps in my kitchen next to the sliding glass door in a little bed exactly his size. He does what we tell him without question...he's eternally loyal. He plays well with the kids and keeps them occupied for large chunks of time.
No, he isn't a dog.
Robie is our new pet vacuum cleaner. He's a robot. He's a small disk, maybe about 10 inches in diameter, with a big, strong mouth on his underside.
He sucks.
And I mean that in the best possible way.
Here's where I have to confess that my husband, aka Gadget Freak, has petitioned for this particular addition to our family for months. I laughed in his general direction. I don't mind vacuuming, I told him. He does hard woods, hubby argued. He'll scratch them, I countered. (Cringing at the verbs yet, Larissa?)
Lo and behold, the hubby ordered him anyway, without my knowledge. (He used his corporate AmEx points, so what could I say? Free robot, baby.)
I scoffed. I ridiculed. I rolled my eyes. I mocked my husband's geekiness.
I take it all back.
After dinner each evening, the boys argue over who gets to turn Robie on and off he goes. The boys could watch him for hours, which brings up the one and only downside of the thing: he takes a good half hour to clean our kitchen and nook area, maybe even 45 minutes. But you know what? I can write during that half hour. Play with the boys. Sit on the kitchen table and peek over the edge as Robie scuttles from one side to the other, feeding on cheerios and stray peas and escapee grapes. I can do whatever I want, except maybe sleep, because he is a little noisy.
Yep, Robie's here to stay. He fills a void in the family...that of housekeeper. And he doesn't even require his own bedroom, which is more than Alice on the Brady Bunch could say.
Anyway, the friend. His name is Robie. At least I think it's a he, but I have yet to spot any signs of gender. He sleeps in my kitchen next to the sliding glass door in a little bed exactly his size. He does what we tell him without question...he's eternally loyal. He plays well with the kids and keeps them occupied for large chunks of time.
No, he isn't a dog.
Robie is our new pet vacuum cleaner. He's a robot. He's a small disk, maybe about 10 inches in diameter, with a big, strong mouth on his underside.
He sucks.
And I mean that in the best possible way.
Here's where I have to confess that my husband, aka Gadget Freak, has petitioned for this particular addition to our family for months. I laughed in his general direction. I don't mind vacuuming, I told him. He does hard woods, hubby argued. He'll scratch them, I countered. (Cringing at the verbs yet, Larissa?)
Lo and behold, the hubby ordered him anyway, without my knowledge. (He used his corporate AmEx points, so what could I say? Free robot, baby.)
I scoffed. I ridiculed. I rolled my eyes. I mocked my husband's geekiness.
I take it all back.
After dinner each evening, the boys argue over who gets to turn Robie on and off he goes. The boys could watch him for hours, which brings up the one and only downside of the thing: he takes a good half hour to clean our kitchen and nook area, maybe even 45 minutes. But you know what? I can write during that half hour. Play with the boys. Sit on the kitchen table and peek over the edge as Robie scuttles from one side to the other, feeding on cheerios and stray peas and escapee grapes. I can do whatever I want, except maybe sleep, because he is a little noisy.
Yep, Robie's here to stay. He fills a void in the family...that of housekeeper. And he doesn't even require his own bedroom, which is more than Alice on the Brady Bunch could say.
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