Our Friend Roomba
by Pauline Hager
Recently, I read this caption in The San Diego Union Tribune, “Resentment of Immigrants Rages in Italy.” It seems that the Italians are like the Americans; they don’t want to pick crops in the south or toil in the factories in the north, but they resent the desperate African foreigners who will work for a pittance. Does that sound familiar? The same is happening in France, Germany and other affluent European countries. I believe I have the solution to this problem.
Firstly, we should start building more robots and rely on them in this country. U.S. built robots are a pittance compared to Japan. Usage of these endearing machines would eliminate the claims of workers who get back injuries lifting heavy objects. In addition, thousands of illegal immigrants would stop crossing our borders since there would be no need for their services in the fields, the factories, or our homes. Permit me to explain.
Ever since my husband retired after working for over 30 years as a mechanical/nuclear engineer, he saw, first hand, how tired and weary I looked after vacuuming all the rooms in our house. Being the good husband that he is, he decided he would help me with the housework. I would continue to dust and he would do the vacuuming. That seemed fair and it worked out well, especially for me. Poor dear, he was exhausted after vacuuming just a few rooms. We discussed hiring a cleaning woman, weighed the pros and cons, and decided against it for now. Continuing with the status quo until we no longer felt we could do the work was our best course of action. Although we walk over a mile every morning, we felt we needed the additional exercise.
Visiting friends back east this past fall, they showed us their latest purchase—a robot that vacuums the floor. We had talked about getting one, but not just yet. Our friends demonstrated the feat of this amazing little machine and we were enthralled. When we returned home, we checked into robots and read all the reviews on “Roomba” on Amazon’s website. We bit the bullet and ordered one. I’m happy to say, Randy no longer dreads cleaning day. I continue to dust and our “friend” Roomba vacuums all the floors.
This round piece of plastic no more than eleven inches in diameter and weighting less than ten pounds, navigates smartly around the furniture guided by his antenna eyes. He smoothly glides over the bare floors like a dancer. With the grace of a ballet dancer and with the greatest of ease, he lifts himself onto the thick carpeting and back onto the wooden floor. But when we forget to pick up the small scatter rugs, he fights like an alley cat. He pushes the rug back and forth until it’s folded like yesterday’s morning newspaper. I’m reminded of a cat holding a cloth doll between his teeth and jerking it about.
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In order to keep Roomba within his station, small so-called lighthouses are provided to prevent him from entering a new room if there is no closed door to stop him. Usually we start by having it set so he can enter one bedroom, a bathroom and our entry hallway. I watch him sometimes as he goes from one end of the rooms to the others, back and forth until I am so exasperated that I inform him that he has already been there. He doesn’t listen to me and goes about his work. Randy claims he’s only being thorough and making sure he hasn’t missed anything. However, by this time, he is running out of steam and needs a rest. He comes to a stop. We push one of his buttons, which says “dock” and he’s programmed to return to his home station, which is under Randy’s desk and where he recharges himself. After about a two hour charge, he informs us he’s ready for duty, emitting a sound similar to a bugle playing revelry
One day after Roomba finished vacuuming, I noticed a dust ball on the floor in our bedroom. I called this to Randy’s attention. He immediately defended his friend. He asked me if the door was closed when Roomba was working. I replied “no.” If you have bare floors you know that dust will eventually form into dust balls and work their way behind doors if they are left opened. Since we seldom close our bedroom door, Roomba is unable to get behind the door and the ball remains there. Eventually the ball or balls float out from under the door. I went along with this explanation, but I feel I must keep a closer eye on him. He’s part of the family now, and like an errant child he must be treated as such. He looks so content when his day is done and he’s resting on the floor like a curled up cat with a Cheshire grin on his face, and lit up, large, yellow letters on his back reading “CLEAN.”
Now I’m waiting for a robot that can do the dusting smartly.
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Pauline was born in 1931 in Clinton, Massachusetts to Greek immigrant parents. She attended San Diego State University and graduated from the University of South Carolina with a degree in Education. She and husband Randy, lived in Japan for over two years from which she wrote her book "Memoirs of an American Housewife in Japan." Pauline, with her husband, have lived in La Jolla, California for over 26 years. |
| Pauline Hager |
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Thanks for a fun story, Pauline... J. Wolf
