I love my Roomba. Let me say that again, I LOVE MY ROOMBA. It cleans so I don’t have to. Since I am not the type to have a housekeeper, because I prefer to clean rather than having someone else know of my messy ways, the roomba is the closest I will get. Now my floors are neater and no longer littered with cat litter. It inspires me to mop more often and feel like I actually have a nice home (which I do in a soulful way).
The roomba scurries around the floor and under beds, tables and couches to clean those places that I only clean when I am moving furniture. It scrambles on its way to keep my home tidy.
I just love it. Now I need a robot to do the dishes, and don’t say a dishwasher since I would still have to load and unload plus wait to have it full leaving me eating on paper plates a couple times a week.
Though, as it has been pointed out to me, I am not the neatest person in the world (that is pertaining to cleanliness, in other circumstances, I am pretty neat to be around), this presents a façade of duty that I just really don’t have.
I like cleaning, sometimes. I get a touch of Zen when I clean dishes smelling the soap and the warm water on my hands. I like the clean fragrance of a dusted house and Windex perfume of cleaned glass, but there are so many other things to do in the world, that I just can’t see the point in wasting hours sweating to make a good impression. If people can’t stand that I actually live in my home, then they are no longer invited to attend my brilliant soirees.
But now with the roomba, I am just that much cleaner and that much more alive in my soulful abode.
Thanks roomba for sucking so good.
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