Rick and Robbie

It was a brilliant mid-July morning when the shrill chime of the door bell woke me up. It was a Thursday, around 9:00 am. I should have been at work already, but the siren song of my king-sized and memory-foam topped bed had overpowered me. Any other day I probably would have ignored the bell, but even in my addled state I seemed to remember that I was expecting someone.

So, I drunkenly donned my bathrobe and stumbled down the stairs to the entryway. The frosted glass in the front door blazed in the morning sun as I opened it and stuck my head out. I squinted hard; my pupils narrowed in the blinding light, and the fuzzy image of a man standing on my porch slow came into focus.

He was six feet tall, skinny as a rail, and tan as a leather belt. A dingy wife beater hugged his wiry frame, and oversized coke bottle lenses enlarged each eye, the lenses joined along the top by a horizontal bar spanning the forehead that was popular in the 80’s. There was a slowly smoldering cigarette in his left hand hand, and as he reached up to take a drag, I noticed that he was missing his two front teeth.

And that’s when he said, “I’m Rick. I’m here to install your windows.” He then pointed over to another smoking companion underneath my crab apple tree. “An’ that’s Robbie. He’s helping me.”

Domo Arigato

Right now, at this very moment, I am mopping the kitchen floor. You may wonder if I somehow cloned myself ala Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom, or if I am perhaps exercising some little known property of the Heisenberg uncertainty  principle.  But the only somewhat less exciting reality is that Steve is actually mopping the floor.

Who is Steve you ask?

This is Steve:

Steve is a Scooba, and he’s awesome.  Fill him with cleaning fluid, put him in the middle of the kitchen, and in 15 minutes you have a sparkling kitchen floor.  Which is great, because I really hate mopping.

So now I have two floor cleaning robots.  I’d really like a lawn mowing one too, but Steve’s manufacturers have obviously thought through the implications of an autonomous robot wielding steel cutting blades more than I have.

Helluva Time

In case you were wondering, it’s been a helluva summer.  Hawaii, LA, Portland, New York, and last week, San Antonio.  Fireworks, dutch oven, smoked ribs, Rick the toothless window installer, ladders in the freeway, church vomit, the list goes on and on.

Those are the things you have to look forward to.

Are you ready?

Ode to the Recirculate Air Button

Dear Recirculation Air Button,

Once the the car has been infiltrated by odors unknown, one must decide to press thee.  To press ensures recirculation of such fetid smells, to not press risks inundation by odors far worse.

I hate thee.