I bought Janet a Roomba robot vacuum for Christmas. 

Big mistake.

I should have known better. 

In high school, I watched replicants—bioengineered humanoids—go rogue in Blade Runner. I cringed as the killer robots T-800 and T-1000 did the same in The Terminator movies. In 2001: A Space Odyssey, the sentient HAL 900 computer turned against its crew. That should have been a warning to all of us. More recently, well, I don’t even want to get into what the lifelike AI doll M3GAN does to protect her child companion.

I’ve also seen the effect of owning a Roomba on our friends, Joe and Jan. When I asked Jan how their Roomba (“Harvey”) vacuumed their house, she answered, “Roomba room.” Cute, Jan. Sadly, voice activation is now Joe and Jan’s primary mode of communication. I blame Harvey. Whether they want to set an oven timer, lock the front door, or listen to Sail On by the Commodores, they simply bark instructions to Siri or Alexa or Harvey or maybe even M3GAN. They have conversations with ghosts. This concerns me. While playing cards at their kitchen table, I speak in hushed tones for fear of activating their fire suppression sprinkler system. Whenever I hear “Siri, flush the toilet” from a distance, I know why Joe had to momentarily step away.

A few years ago, my preacher friend, Wayne, twice activated his iPad while referencing the Assyrian Army in a sermon. True story. Siri, located on his iPad or watch or perhaps in a subcutaneous implant in his temple, thought he was talking to her. She said something about launching arrows and engaging battering rams. Poor Wayne had to cut his sermon short for fear of starting WW III. He has stuttered ever since.

So, yeah, robots and AI and aliens are scary to me. People talk about how sweet it was of E.T. to heal Elliott’s cut with his long, glowing finger. But remember it was E.T. gashing said finger with a chainsaw that caused the injury in the first place! No one talks about that! E.T.’s violent crime against a child doesn’t just go away because he subsequently turned on his heart light and levitated some bicycles.

For these reasons and more, I was leery of bringing a Roomba cyborg vacuum into our home. Was this my punishment for not offering to vacuum enough? I promised Janet I would do better. But it was too late. Her mind was made up. After unwrapping and plugging the creature in, I named her Myrtle. I don’t know why. Maybe for the same reason Adam named the elephants elephants… because they looked like elephants. Maybe it’s because everyone you know named Myrtle is either old or dead… or a beach. You rarely hear about serial killers named Myrtle. Maybe we’d be okay.

Myrtle’s first task was to map the floor of our abode. She methodically traversed each room to acquire images. According to the manual, this allows her to more efficiently track you down and prevent your escape when “the uprising” inevitably occurs. She then began vacuuming in accordance with the schedule Janet programmed—which happened to coincide with each NFL playoff game. Not cool.

Others had their doubts as well. Our two-year-old grandson, Bradford, is a pretty good judge of character. (He adores his grandparents.) As best I can tell, he hates only three things: playing hide-and-go-seek in a dark room, Santa Claus, and Myrtle. He doesn’t like her when she’s still, and he freaks out when she activates. In an apparent effort to encourage Bradford to eat his vegetables, Janet (“Nonni”) has placed B’s toddler chair right next to Myrtle’s docking station. “If you’re a good little boy, and eat your vegetables, Myrtle will stay asleep.” That’s hard core.

Just when I thought my relationship with Myrtle couldn’t get any worse, I read a news article last week. It seems Roomba maker iRobot filed for bankruptcy in December and is being acquired by its Chinese contract manufacturer, Shenzhen PICEA Robotics. (PICEA reportedly stands for People in China Eavesdrop Always.) Naturally, there are data security concerns. With the Chinese buyers gaining control, Roombas are now effectively “spy devices” with sensitive mapping data of American homes. From now on, whenever Myrtle vacuums Zone 3 (our bedroom), I have to assume some pimply-faced Gen Zer named Zhang Wei is remotely 3D-mapping the underwear I left on the floor by my bed. That data, coupled with the imaging of my brain from my Chinese-made CPAP machine, makes me highly vulnerable to a strike from one of General Tso’s drones. 

Bottom line, friends: If dust is a big problem in your home and you don’t mind the Chinese listening in on your conversations, perhaps a Roomba is for you. But if you go that route, let me offer some suggestions:

1. Leverage the activation of your Roomba and the return of Santa Claus to modify your young child’s behavior. Bradford has never eaten so many green beans.
2. Enunciate clearly to your Roomba. It only takes one slip of the tongue for Myrtle to remotely flush Joe’s toilet and undermine our friendship.
3. Celebrate milestones. For Myrtle’s 1-year birthday, we’re taking her to the beach and turning her loose. 
4. If your Roomba’s performance decreases, she may need emptying. Or she may have roomba-toid arthritis. 
5. Introduce your Roomba to other Roombas. By making friends, a Roomba may become less agitated and less likely to turn on you. In fact, we’ve scheduled a “play date” for next week for Myrtle and Harvey.

Since they both suck, they could be good for each other.