Our lives are often comprised of a series of complicated love affairs: sometimes concurrent, always all-consuming. The subjects may be blithely oblivious ~ or perhaps even fully aware ~ of our ardour, but in the case of my current paramour, his unrequited utilitarian escape and my admiration from a safe distance is the best I'll have to settle for.
After all, I am coveting that which is not mine.
Masochistically-speaking, setting ourselves up for doomed love affairs appears to be less an anomoly than a commonplace event, as literature and films are quick to note. If indeed "the heart is an organ of fire", as Hana softly reads aloud in the cinematic version of The English Patient, then Stan is, in fact, the appliance of the gods.
Late last year while babysitting for British Booty and Cyber Babe so they could go see Goldfrapp, I went exploring for a bottle opener and happened upon fabled Stan, the Family Roomba™, instead. Surprisingly, my friends returned home earlier than expected, only to find me on the floor taking licentious liberties and sharing sotto voce murmurings with their softly-humming, battery-powered robovac. Granted, I had at least half a Mike's Hard Cranberry in me... but still. Shame flooded my innermost parts, but my heart was lost forevermore.
From that point on, a grand conspiracy of sorts has formed in my soul, and countless are the ways I've cunningly contrived in napping Stan from the cozy bosom of his loving family.
"Hell, why don't you go out and get your own?" you might logically ask. Fair enough. Here's how it goes:
I'm married to a wonderful man I often like to call, "Gorgeous Boy." Now, Gorgeous Boy has a little something we like to call restraint. He's excellent with budgeting, safely handling an olive-green vehicle, and cheffing fancy-schmancy yums. He's a beast with a Mac knife, a grand sorter of recycling, and a packhorse for transporting garbage cans from the garage to the curb... and back!
However, all vacuuming (and the majority of house cleaning) falls into the unfortunately gender-specific domain of yours truly. Not that I mind overmuch. But when my crush's selling points on Amazon include "dramatically improved navigation, cleaning coverage, vacuum pickup, and particle filtration," how could I resist such irresistible charms? Furthermore, "the Roomba 560 vacuuming robot picks up amazing amounts of dirt and debris with the simple touch of a button. The powerful unit features innovative spinning side brushes that grab dirt and dust from corners and along wall edges, as well as two high-speed, counter-rotating brushes that pick up pet hair, cat litter, food crumbs, and other debris from floors. The vacuum sucks up the debris and deposits it into a large, easy-to-empty bagless dustbin, and its improved fine-filtration system traps dust, pollen, and other allergens inside the unit, reducing infiltration into the living environment."
How can a girl even have a hope of resistance? Imagine: a sweet and sleek little robot who does all your vacuuming for you, and all you have to do to keep him happy is empty his cartridge every once in a while and keep his base plugged in. No blowjobs necessary!
Herein lies the rub, however: Stan costs in the neighbourhood of $250-$380. Thus, he's prohibitively expensive. He doesn't fit into our budget just now.
Got it. Get over him.
Thus, as is with most things, time passed, and so eventually did my painful thirst to have a Stan in my life. I got back into the routine of vacuuming with a monster Dyson and a sexy old broom to sweep up the under-big-furniture dust bunnies, and began to stop bitching about what a slow, clunky pain-in-the-ass I found the whole process. I slipped back into dreaded housewifely complacency, and was saved from my fantasy love-affair by sheer forgetfulness.
Or so I thought. One morning this past week, Chef Boy called me over to the computer to check something out. "Hey, look!" he said. "Guess what that is? It's a long-exposure shot someone took of his new Roomba, doing its thing in the dark. Isn't that cool?" With that, he left for work and me in his paralyzing wake, my Stan-lust inflamed once more. As for a skillful (one time only!) practitioner of hari kari, I felt pain splice across my abdomen as warm, silky guts spilled out and pooled writhingly around my feet. I was shellshocked. I thought I was over him.
Apparently not. Just when you think you've forgotten all the great qualities of a throat-aching crush, he has the audacity to come right out and fricking power wow you all over again with his infinite coolness. And as buggered timing goes, I already got a sweet gi for my birthday last week ~ as well as a seaman-friendly hammock ~ so MyOwnCrumbSuckingRoboVac may have to wait until Christmas... or next birthday.
Blast it.
In the meantime, I suppose I shall have to make do with my cyclonic vac and Costco-issue broom. As it stands, Stan the Roomba™ has a kind, loving, and hot mistress in British Booty, a family that depends on him, and much work to do, places to go, and a glowing path he must forge on his own... and I ~ despite my consuming love and devotion ~ can not stand in his way.
Therefore, go thee forth, dear Stan, and conquer. As for me, I shall continue my fond admiration for thee from my safe perch, here in the stands, as I eagerly await Christmastide.
photo credit: The brilliant and beautiful long-exposure shot of Roomba doing his thing was taken by the Signal Theorist from his ridiculously cool blog.
I feel the same way about the Scooba (the mop version). The only reason I don't start selling plasma to afford one is that I hear that they don't work so well. :/
ReplyDeleteThe day someone comes out with a good robot mop, I'll be selling whatever I can to get my hands on one.