Recently I ordered one of those cool robot vacuums called a Roomba. It’s pretty amazing. It will quietly clean an entire floor while only mildly terrorizing the cats. And when it’s all done, it returns to its charging station and goes to sleep.
We’ve had it now for a couple weeks. In the interest of science, and to my great chagrin, my wife decided to do a side-by-side comparison of the Roomba and her previous ‘Go-To’ method of vacuuming – her humanoid husband, Tim. For purposes of this peer-to-peer product review, my wife’s once indispensable husband will henceforth be referred to as “Timba.”
Design
Roomba: Elegant, smooth, circular shape. Compact. Less than 24 inches wide. Has rotating soft but powerful whiskers that brush dirt into the machine, which then sucks it up. Great along walls and corners.
Timba: Also comes with a circular shape – mainly around the belly. Has two-day old extremely abrasive whiskers (because it couldn’t locate its razor). Tends to skip walls and corners, which it figures will go unnoticed.
Reliability
Roomba: Like clockwork. Can even be programmed to repeat the cleaning process daily.
Timba: Like a broken clock. Not noted for its reliability, often responding to multiple chore reminders with the phrase, “I know. I’ll get around to it. Stop bugging me.”
Maintenance required
Roomba: Minimal. Comes with one-year manufacturer’s warranty. Receives 4.5 stars on Amazon customer reviews.
Timba: According to a focus group consisting of its wife, the Timba is high-maintenance, especially when it’s hungry or didn’t get its usual ten hours of sleep. Requires regular infusion of pizza and peanut butter to stay focused. Needs constant reinforcement from the wife for accomplishing the bare minimum on the ‘to-do’ list. (more…)
I’m excited to announce that recently I went on a diet and have lost forty-five pounds (true). I didn’t follow any of those silly fad weight reduction schemes like the Mediterranean or Adkins or Weight Watchers or even serious programs like the Just Eat CakeDiet (still not sure how that one works). It’s actually a regimen of my own invention. I call it The Happiness Diet. And it’s incredibly simple because it requires only two steps.
Step One: Write down all the foods that give you happiness. (Take your time. Be thorough.)
Step Two: Don’t eat anything on that list.
That’s it. No other restrictions. If you follow my Happiness Diet exactly as outlined above, you’ll lose a lot of unwanted pounds (as well as any reason for living) – guaranteed!
Let’s practice how it works, okay? Let’s say there are two food groups. In Group A we have a slice of pepperoni pizza, cookie dough ice cream, a bag of Pepperidge farm cookies, and a glazed donut. In Group B we have kale, broccoli, lentil and carrots.
If you determined that Food Group A gives you more happiness, congratulations. You’re a normal, honest human being. However, if you indicated that you prefer the items from Group B, then you are – how shall I say this? A BIG FAT LIAR! Get off your high horse. Who else are you lying to? Your spouse? Your kids? You disgust me.
Here’s the important takeaway for my patented Happiness Diet. You must strictly avoid all foods that give you any pleasure – unless you’re training to be a Sumo wrestler. Then by all means, have another sleeve of Double Stuff Oreos. Or, if you’re the lead in a theater production about President William Howard Taft, who tipped the scales at 350 lbs., and for whom was built the largest porcelain tub ever made for an individual, then sure, you have my permission to hit the nearest Dairy Queen for breakfast.
Several years ago, someone told me a story about “discovering your grateful heart.” So, I decided to work on that. Over the course of the next year, I sent one thank-you letter each week to a different person who had positively influenced the trajectory of my life. These were people from many phases of my life – family members, co-workers, even a former girlfriend – who had helped me in some way or taught me a valuable life lesson.
But it occurs to me, there are still two individuals I’ve never sent a special thank-you letter to – my daughters. It’s way overdue, because they’re both grown up now (23 and 22) and have moved away, embarking on their own life journeys.
There is so much I would want to tell them. I’d probably start by thanking them for choosing their mom and me as their “forever” parents, as we call it in adoption circles. When they were infants in two different Chinese orphanages, what are the odds they’d somehow get paired with us? Some people say children who are adopted are “lucky.” I say Michele and I are the lucky ones.
I’d thank my daughters for the many evenings they snuggled on either side of me at bedtime as I read them Goodnight Moon, Harold and the Purple Crayon, Nancy Drew, and countless other books.
I’d for sure express my appreciation for all the handmade Father’s Day gifts, from their cement handprints to their macaroni likenesses of me. And how can I forget to mention the special breakfast in bed they prepared one year. Burnt toast, Raisin Bran, gummy bears, and maple syrup never tasted so yummy.
I’d thank them for all the times during elementary school they would make me laugh out loud as I chased them around the playground, chanting, “Must get Emmy” before suddenly changing direction and shouting, “Must get Rachel,” which always made them squeal with delight.
I’d proudly acknowledge Rachel’s efforts to help her younger sister with her spelling by quizzing her – like the time we were driving past our local grocery store (officially called Quality Food Center, but whose sign only goes by its initials, QFC) and Rachel posed the challenging question, “Emmy, how do you spell QFC? Don’t look at the sign!!”
That is actually Barack Obama behind me. We’re working out together… well, not together, but in the same fitness center at the same time. I think he’s taking a photo of me, Tim Jones, the famous Humor Blogger. It took all my willpower to resist hugging him and crying that I missed him. So, I settled for a kiss.
People routinely accuse me of telling over-the-top fabricated stories in this column. They make these outrageously unfair accusations just because I may bend the truth a tiny bit occasionally – and by occasionally, I mean not more than 80% of the time. (The other 20% I’m telling the truth, although, admittedly, that’s usually by accident.)
But this time, I swear I’m writing with utter veracity. Recently I had a private workout with Barack Obama – the 44th president of the United States. I was in San Diego for an industry conference. Obama was the keynote speaker. I wasn’t able to attend his address because it started at 8:00 am, and that was just way too early to rise and shine – even for my favorite President.
I was staying at a nearby Hilton. The day following his speech, I was working out in the hotel’s fitness center, doing my usual exercise routine of pretending to pedal on a stationary bike, while watching an episode of Parks and Recreation on my iPad.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear but the 44th prez with two bodyguards near.
There he was, not ten feet from me, pumping barbells and doing pushups. There were only eight of us in this rather large room, plus Obama and his two-man secret service detail, who were stoically standing at attention in the far corner of the room.
My brain was spinning way faster than I was pedaling at the sudden realization that the former president (my hero) and I were, in essence, working out together! There was no metal detector, no security pat-down or any effort to detain me from entering the gym. Thank God they didn’t check to see I’m a humor writer who makes fun of politicians, or else I’d probably be sitting in a Guantanamo cell right now.
Outwardly, I continued to remain calm. But inwardly I was freaking out. I could not take my eyes off him – even though the Parks and Recreation episode was a particularly good one.
In my head, my brain was buzzing with things I wanted to say if Obama came near me:
Mr. President, I miss you so much!!! [after which I would commence sobbing] … Or (more…)
Thank you for choosing High Anxiety Tours(HAT) to arrange your trip. We’ll take care of everything. Take a deep breath and relax. We understand that as a first-time international traveler, you may be a tad nervous about venturing into the unknown. At HAT, our mission is to ensure you have a 100% stress-free experience.
So, this is your first visit to Colombia. As travel experts, trust us when we say there is (almost) nothing to worry about. Word has it that the Colombian drug lords have no documented plans to kidnap or torture American tourists in the foreseeable future. Of course, their plans are subject to change without notice.
Before you leave for the airport, remember to go through a departure checklist so you can R-E-L-A-X while away. Did you …
Bring your passport?
Pack sunscreen?
Turn off the stove?
Get a sitter for your cats?
Refill your Xanax?
Are you 100% sure you turned off the stove?
You are now ready for a calm, peaceful holiday in tranquil Colombia– that is, if you make your flight. It is imperative to be at the airport a minimum of four hours before departure, in case of unforeseen glitches such as highway construction or a wildcat strike by baggage handlers. In rare instances, flights do take off a day or so early, to adjust for the time differences. The odds TSA Security will mistake your traveler’s trepidation for drug-smuggling jitters are 3-1, at best. So, don’t sweat. No, seriously, do NOT sweat! If they see you sweat, they’ll get suspicious and probably conduct a full body cavity search.
Recently I ordered one of those cool robot vacuums called a Roomba. It’s pretty amazing. It will quietly clean an entire floor while only mildly terrorizing the cats. And when it’s all done, it returns to its charging station and goes to sleep.
