Ewte Talk

Lately there has been myriad evidence of what a good man I married, despite my cursing him privately to myself not too long ago. I am shamed, for Sunday it became clarified to the point of champagne, and I believe this calls for a toast, that yes, indeed, my mate is out there everyday, not only at bat for himself in the diamond of life, but as well his beloved wife, as he thoughtfully steps to the plate each time with full intent to blast one to the outer-spheres of hope, of happiness, of three-wish lottery winners.

Sunday I turned forty-one years old. After breakfast, because my husband Bill couldn’t stand it any longer, though perhaps because my five-year old was stretched to his secret-keeping limit (”Mom, do not go in the garage, but you will really like your big surprise that we got for you,”) I watched as my two boys dragged a wrapped box into the kitchen.

“Now what could this be?” I asked. I really had no idea. The boys, in their most authentic state, were arguing over which side of the box I should rip the paper from first: the side Max drew a birthday greeting in Sharpie pen, or the side Quinn drew his greeting in Sharpie pen. Luckily the wrapping culminated at the top and I attacked like a fast-motion cartoon, dust-paper-limbs flying. I took no prisoners.

And then. There it was. My perky new robot.

It lay innocently enough, a round uncharged machine in its box. It’s appearance was in the realm of the Cartoon: simplistic. The intent of its product design team was obvious: my new baby was easy to use. And when I turned it on, why, just watching it bump into walls and furniture legs, so perfectly circular and darling, wasn’t he friendly! (Notice the change to gender at this point. It happens with robots.)

Now, what exactly does this robot do, you are wondering? Pardon me for not mentioning. It cleans my floors so I don’t have to! Is this one of those pieces of revolutionary thinking actually R&D funded/prototyped/patented/sold/produced/marketed/bought by my husband and brought home to me, in the flesh?! Oh yeah.

But we might want to backtrack here for a brief history on the conjugal discussion that had taken place in our house over the purchase of the vacuum robot.

It began some time ago when Husband Bill had heard of this particular invention and presented the idea to Wife Stephanie repeatedly over a period of time to the Wife’s repeated inability to see much merit in its acquisition. “I can do it myself,” she would say. Unfortunately, he would always forget that she had said this by the time he asked her again, until the day she answered, “It doesn’t appear the value function out weighs the cost function of the transaction.” This time he heard. (Except you know how the story ends, so you know he really didn’t.) But at least the questioning stopped for a long while.

The thing about Wife Stephanie is that she is a very frugal woman, especially in the realm of spending for hired help, especially since she used to be that hired help herself when she was in high school and college. And she figures if she’s a SAHM then why not do-it-herself? The money she saves on hired help can always be put away in the kids’ college fund, pay down debt, or used the next time DSW Shoe Warehouse sends her a coupon in the mail that doesn’t quite cover the cost of the pair of shoes that she needs. BUT, as Husband Bill was coming to realize more and more, the cleaning of their house, with two young and active boys constantly making their presence known, was becoming an ever-increasing burden for his not-so-young (but still presentable) Wife. For starters, in order to simply hoover-up a usual day’s worth of abuse from the family, his Dearheart would have to hook up the enormous vacuum he’d rigged for the house. It was never pretty.

On an especially urgent day of sanitizing the household, Husband Bill would return home from a hard day’s work at the office to find his wife walking the halls of their home with no apparent recognition of the time of day or whether there was dinner in the oven, whether they owned children or even, if it was Wednesday, whether his journal Science arrived in the mail and where, pray tell, might it have been stashed. On days like those the family knew its job was to survive. For a time, miracles were granted.

But Husband Bill isn’t long on miracles and knows luck is what you make of it, so the day was fast approaching for a trip to Home Depot and the ritual of the passing of the credit card. The Good Spouse knew that what he was doing was the right thing to do, despite all protestations to the contrary. He was out to Save The Family. There’s nothing nobler.

And, so, as I sat on the floor the first morning of my second forty years, my grandparent’s Depression-Era thrift coursing through my veins at the sight the price sticker my sweet husband forgot to take off the robot box, I began to ask questions of Bill. Does this thing actually work? What can it do? And, if you knew my husband, you’d know that he proceeded to answer in the most fantastic detail you’d ever want to (not) hear. If that little robot was capable of feeling, he’d have blushed with the knowledge that he was in our house to stay. A home to clean of his very own at long last.
So now, days later, after Mr. Robot has cleaned for a spell, I believe I’ve permanently jumped ship. It feels very luxurious to reliquish control over my environment, albeit the floor scraps, albeit to a machine that takes all night to slurp them up. So what if the cats are freaked beyond imagination, I can now focus on the finer things of life.

Like cleaning the pee from around the toilets.

Thanks, Bill, Darling, I can see your good sense in this wonderful thoughtful gift to me. I know it was truly meant for me, because you know it will lighten my load, and not in the slightest because you think it will be way way cool to have a bona fide robot in our possession.