A Reflection on Roomba

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In between posts today I've been running upstairs to sand down these plaster patches I had to put up after the electrician ran new wire through our house. It's been quite a chore... posting something, hauling ass upstairs, slapping down a patch, sanding, slapping down some plaster, sanding... and I've noticed more and more plaster dust all over the house because I'm using a broom to clean most of it up, to little avail.

Due to a confluence of events—my wife's pregnancy, the electrician coming, and a power surge literally melting my monitor and Roomba charger—I've noticed something incredible and/or terrible: Roomba is an important member of our household.

We are slobs. We clean up only when we have guests coming over. The rest of the time the house is pretty dusty. Until we had Roomba, we would half-heartedly sweep our hardwood floors and wash them once a month. Then we got Roomba. It's a first generation unit, pretty basic, nothing special. But it has really changed the way we clean. We set the bugger up, he—notice the anthropomorphism—and he does his business. We pick him up, empty him out, and put him to bed. The dog hates him and tries to bite him, but we don't let them fight.


Now, the real key here is that Roomba has taken over as an integral part of the housework. And, unlike the washing machine, it does things without being told. It catches just about all the dust on the floor and in corners and makes things so much easier. And, because Roomba has been sick because his charger is busted, we are even bigger slobs. We have grown to depend whole-heartedly on this ridiculous hunk of plastic.

The Roomba, like TiVo, has changed something intrinsic about our lives. I guess that's a good thing, but if Roomba's new charger doesn't get here soon—a big "I love you" to Roomba support for sending one to us for free, even though they sent it to the wrong address at first— we're going to be inches deep in filth.