I’ve gone through four Roombas- but only because (mostly) hubby does not know how to close a door. For some reason, my dogs prefer shitting on wool carpets to grass- and each Roomba seems to enjoy dragging it.

You would think after the first three shitnanagans that he’d get the message to shut the door to the den…but no.

Now, normally, I toss them into the trash and order myself a new one but this time, I simply placed the shit ridden rider in the garage to die a lonely death. In fact, if not for finding the newly delivered replacement parts that hubby ordered to resurrect this crap, I’d have thought the trashman had had it.

Well, this evening, hubby decided to do open heart surgery on the somewhat cleaned machine (hubby said he cleaned “90%”) on my kitchen counters. Now, I’m not sure who had the brain radiation, but based on his foolishness to use my counters as his workspace, I’m guessing it was him! Meanwhile, I’m contemplating how to get new countertops as I see him unscrew the belly of that beast.

Thinking of ways to murder him, he takes out a trash bag and places it on the counter – after sensing my outrage, and I continue to my bedroom upstairs.

I’m not sure when or how but at some point I hear this machine that had shit laiden betwixt it’s gears for a good week, buzzing about my kitchen floors.

I’m not sure if he’s just trying to kill me while I’m already down and rocking in a fetal position anyhow or if he thinks I won’t kill him for running that filth dressed as new on my floors, but I am f.u.m.i.n.g!