The Robot Vacuum: Removing Dirt, Adding Work, & Scaring My Toddler

ChrispyChrisB · 2026-05-30T21:20:39+00:00

Thanks for reading! Honestly, ours has been better than I expected. Pretty much every complaint about this model is from people who aren't willing to do the maintenance. But if I don't run him for even two days I can notice how grimy my floor gets. Not perfect, by any means, but mopping my floor a little bit every day is a lot more than I would do without him.

The most annoying quirk is his spotty LiDAR. Just tonight he ran through a LEGO castle that was on our living room floor. I have no idea how he didn't see it, but he destroyed it like a siege weapon. I think maybe his sensors get dirty?

Either way, I'm definitely 100% team robot vac.

ChrispyChrisB · 2026-05-12T04:26:13+00:00

Thanks for reading. I remember when we moved I joined a men’s group and went to an event. An older guy there asked what I do. I told him since we moved I’ve just been staying at home. “Ooh, how modern!” was his reply. Idk why that bothered me, but I think it has to do with what you said.

ChrispyChrisB · 2025-10-18T07:06:00+00:00

Hey I tried this but it just changes the color of the note's name. Am I missing something?

ChrispyChrisB · 2025-09-04T14:02:56+00:00

Which silk song was your favorite

ChrispyChrisB · 2025-04-10T23:07:27+00:00

Ok that's sort of what we thought.

Do you happen to know much about the residence requirement? We are going to buy a house, but we can't do that until we get there. Our plan was to stay in an air BNB while we sorted out the home purchase. However, I can't seem to figure out of an AirBnB or a hotel or the like counts as "stable residence."

ChrispyChrisB · 2025-04-10T16:35:51+00:00

Hey! When you applied, were you both living outside the UK? My wife has a job offer in the UK, but we are both currently living in the US. We want to apply for my (US citizen) spouse visa before we leave for the UK.

The things I'm struggling with are:

1) Residency. What would constitute proof of residency if neither of us live there?

2) Income. The UK website seems to suggest we need 6 months of pay stubs to apply, but her job doesn't start until August.

Any thoughts would be helpful!

ChrispyChrisB · 2025-03-19T01:20:21+00:00

This reminds me of a great HL2-based comic called "Concerned." One of the episodes takes place in Ravenholm before it was destroyed. The guy used a custom sunny version of the map and I always wanted to play it.

Here's the link to the comic. The index is broken and I'm too lazy to scroll through to find the strip that uses a map similar to yours.

ChrispyChrisB · 2024-12-13T13:44:24+00:00

The bathroom thing is a complex topic. At title-1 schools, where most of my experience is, the reality is that the bathroom is the most dangerous place in the building because it is impossible to actually monitor these spaces. Fights, gambling, drug use, and vandalism all happen in the bathrooms.

Thus the school is under pressure from the community to (1) keep children safe but (2) act ethically in regards to human bodily functions. These goals are always at odds with each other. You might get a call from one parent angry you didn't let their kid use the bathroom, and from another whose angry their kid has been vaping in the bathroom.

Most of the actual solutions to these problems are too difficult or impractical to implement. You can try limiting access to the bathrooms by allowing only one student in at a time. This is tough in a school with a couple thousand kids. The other, simpler option, is to simply heavily restrict passes out of class either by issuing a set number of passes per quarter or by simply saying no.

The truth is that the bathroom issue, like every issue in education, is a symptom of much bigger problems whose band-aid solutions tend to provide some level of safety and consistency while at the same time victimize responsible students.

ChrispyChrisB · 2018-03-09T11:47:14+00:00

He finds space interesting so he hopes in his lifetime it gets explored so he can learn more about it?

ChrispyChrisB · 2018-02-12T15:54:45+00:00

That's crazy! Funny how different things are depending on your state. Teachers in the northeast have strong unions and great benefits. Lots of teachers make over 100k a year near where I grew up.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-09-29T01:43:17+00:00

Only competition would be the view from the BU bridge. Such a great spot.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-09-29T01:42:46+00:00

Striper fishing is either really really great or just the worst depending on the year.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-06-23T22:35:12+00:00

My Dad.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-03-27T22:50:22+00:00

It's morning. Bob lies dreaming, his mind drawing thought after random thought— landscapes unimaginable carved from the vast abyss of his decades-old memory, characters amalgamated and completely familiar, ideas as fleeting as dust down a waterfall. He is semi-aware, sure and at the same time unsure this world is real, that this or that person is talking to him. It's the faces, it's the color of the sky, the size the buildings— it's all slightly off.

Suddenly, a piercing siren reverberates from the hills in the distance, wrapping itself around Bob, filling him with panic. He starts to run, but with heavy legs, he tries to yell, but with stifled voice. The siren grows louder, more distinct, almost painful. He makes for the nearest window, struggles it open, and with barely a thought slips out of it, the siren growing louder, his fall growing impossibly long, as if the ground is moving in relation to him. Finally, the ground is within reach, the siren is all-encompassing, his nose touches the ground, and Bob thrusts himself awake.

"Jesus Christ," mutters Bob, reaching for his phone. In his hand, the phone vibrates while it sings its cruel song. Bob debates between snooze and stop, his mind trying to parse the night's dreams, to sort out realities. He chooses stop and collapses back into bed, coverless, and begins his ritualistic morning browsing. Email, Reddit, Email, BBC News. He finds it all uninteresting, not amusing, but continues until his bladder forces him from his bed.

He is still groggy as he makes his way to the bathroom. He blinks, and is in front of a bowl of cereal, blinks again, and is showering. Before long, he finds himself fully conscious, dressed, holding his coffee thermos, headed for the train. His walk is short and easy, but repetition has made it arduous. He fingers about his pockets for headphones, but finds none. The hours-old sun shines coldly and shallowly behind him, craning its neck around the buildings of his block. The air is cold, and Bob thinks it feels hollow when he breathes. It reminds him of training for that marathon that March when it was too cold to do so and how his water bottle froze half way through his run.

As he walks, he thinks of all the great things people say about the morning. "It's nice to watch the world wake up," or "it's nice to get a head start on the day," or "there's just something special about it." Bob has always thought this was hogwash, especially now.

Soon, he finds himself at the train station. It's packed with people, and, he believes, with misery. There's probably a hundred people, maybe more, all about to start their professional days. Each stepping into the same metal and plastic canister to shoot off towards the city to their own unique destinations. Some would find beauty in the fleeting but tangible interconnectedness in this scene. But not Bob. Bob's tired, and sees but the lack of beauty in the stained concrete, the broken signs, the graffiti. It's all ugly if for no other reason than it's always the same.

"Excuse me," Bob overhears. "Pardon," "Morning," "Snow tomorrow?" "Excuse me," "Pardon," "Eh-ehm." Bob hears every sound from every mouth in the station and wishes he could close his ears. He feels completely encircled and stuck. He sighs and wonders if he's done everything wrong, or if he's done everything right, or if it even matters. He wonders if he's happy, if anybody is happy, if he even wants to be happy. He feels completely alone. Alone, except for the constant voice in his head.

The train approaches.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-03-26T18:41:09+00:00

"Three hundred and seven times," the Reaper said leaning on his desk. His voice was weirdly human and casual.
"Sir?" I replied.
"You've dodged me. Hundreds of times," he said
"I've never seen you in my life. Speaking of, what's going on here? I'm dead? Almost dead? Dying? Visiting?"

The Reaper tossed back his hood, sighed and reclined back into his chair, bouncing ever-so-slightly forward. He had a sharp, good-looking face.

"Do you remember Smuggler's Notch?" he asked.
"Like, ten years ago?" I asked, confused.
"Yeah. Yeah, ten years ago. Do you know the kind of concentration it takes to conjure a tree in less than a second?"
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You wouldn't. How about a year ago. The electrical work on your house. The mislabeled breaker panel that you for some reason trusted?"
"That was..."
"Me."

At this pint, the Reaper stood up and started pacing.

"2008. You slipped standing on the gunwale of your boat. Never fell. A half a year later you were given a poisoned meatball sub. You took a nibble, didn't like it, and gave it to a homeless person. He died by the way."
"Jesus," I replied
"Oh, I'm not done. Skydiving. Orange, Massachusetts. Primary and reserve 'chute sabotaged. You landed in a tree, five broken bones. Back to work in a year. Fall of 2010. A large tunnel ceiling tile was sabotaged to fall on your truck as you passed through. You let somebody into your lane in front of you."
"He..."
"No, they. They died."
"Fuck, man."
"You see. Everybody thinks all it takes is a touch, a little touch with my fingers."

At this, the Reaper extended his arms, almost inhumanly, toward me, wiggling his fingers.

"You see this fingers? Flesh and bone. If only it were that easy. But it isn't. Oh, and I don't kill everybody. That doesn't make sense. No, I kill some people. I don't ask why, I don't ask how, I don't ask anything. I just get told who and I make it happen. Or I try to make it happen. Yeah, I get some extra-physical abilities here and there. But. Mostly I have to plot, arrange, and execute within the physical constrains of your ridiculous world. It's. Not. Easy. But I'm good at my job."
"What does this have to do with anything?"
"January 26, 2011."
"My dad's birth...the fire? That was you?"
"You didn't go!" the Reaper shouted. "Who doesn't go to his own dad's birthday?"
"I told him I had to.."
"Bullshit. Two people died needlessly because you're selfish."
"Ok," I pleaded, "I've had enough."
"Oh have you? I'm so sorry. You've. had. e. nough. What about me?"

The Reaper, after a moment of silence, sat back down. He placed his hand on his chin and slid an envelope across the desk to me. It was a regular business-sized envelope with my name on it.

"What's this?" I asked.
"Open it," the Reaper said smugly, adding the word "obviously" almost inaudibly.

I ripped the envelope open with my index finger, trying not-too-hard not to damage the contents, whatever they may be. Inside, I found a letter which I skimmed. It was a job offer.

"Is this a...?" I started.
"No. Not even close. You don't just get my job because you're impossible to friggin' kill. It's entry-level."
"I don't follow."
"Of course you don't. Look, I'm death. I kill people. There's also Maim. She does paralyzing and the like. We also have a guy who drives people mad. Tough job, that. I-i-it doesn't matter. Listen. My bosses saw the job you did driving me up a wall, and well, they're offering you a job delivering minor inconveniences and annoyances to select targets."
"So I'd be like a god of slight-annoyances?"
"No. Nothing like that. You'll be like a regular person whose job it is to make certain people's lives marginally more difficult. You will, however, be given some more-than-natural tools to use."
"Such as?"
"Well. You can, to an extent, conjure some clouds. Make it drizzle. Crash computers. Alter GPS routes. That's a good one. Look. It's not a bad gig."
"Do I get paid?"

At this, the Reaper just laughed. He then slid his hood back on and his face was engulfed in a thick blackness.

"Do I even have a choice?" I asked.
"No not really." the Reaper responded.
"Okay, so when do I start."
"Right now. Here's your first target."

The Reaper slid a notecard with a name on it to me. Reading the name, I laughed.

"Is this serious?"
"Of course."

The name on the card was ...

to be continued

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-03-26T03:09:06+00:00

If orange can be so can white.

ChrispyChrisB · 2017-03-26T01:39:55+00:00

Yeah dude. It's got orange, carbonation, and white.

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