Tired of vacuuming and at the urging of many guests, I bought a robotic vacuum. The set-up was easy and the instructions implied that the robot was trainable and would work unsupervised.

We named her “Rosie” after the Jetson’s robot maid, though after filling out her online birth certificate, I learned that thousands of others had the same idea. In fact, it was the second most popular name in the What should I call my robot? handbook.

Once Rosie learned her boundaries and charted a course through the house, she efficiently vacuumed beginning at 9:00 each morning. She maintained a regimented schedule and seemed happy in her new surroundings. I would occasionally pass her in the halls and give her an encouraging thumbs-up.

“Hard worker. I like that in a robot,” I announced with certainty.

After completing her daily chores, Rosie submits online paperwork and a time card for hours worked. A detailed map sent to my phone shows everything that she vacuumed—and everything she hasn’t.

If I had to evaluate Rosie’s performance, I’d say she’s done a fine job eradicating tumbleweeds of dog hair from sprawling wood floors. But lately, her operational functions have become noticeably sluggish. Assigned tasks are not done without incident or complaint, and she’s not the carefree robot that I once knew.

Rosie tires easily and must return to her charging station several times a day. I get it. We all need to take breaks to recharge. I don’t care if she has a sit-down with a People magazine and a cigarette. What I have a problem with are her constant cries for help. By all indications, Rosie has become needy.

Throughout the day, I receive urgent messages on my phone. Rosie needs assistance! Rosie’s bin needs to be emptied! Rosie cannot complete the cleaning job! Rosie’s left wheel is stuck!

I spend an inordinate amount of time freeing Rosie from perilous situations. Her wheel becomes wedged in the same place each day, which you’d think would be self-critiquing. It’s not.

Predictably, I continue receiving messages that trouble is brewing for Rosie. Not to be outdone, the indoor camera transmits a live view to my phone showing a pack of dogs circling the immobile robot. While Rosie continues crying for help, the dogs nervously pace back and forth barking, “Timmy’s in the well!”

When I’m home, it’s easy to rescue Rosie. When I’m thousands of miles away, she’s out of luck. After unanswered calls for a human assist, my phone pings with a final message stating that somewhere in the house, a lifeless robot is waiting to be carried home. For as much as she tried, Rosie couldn’t make it back to her charging station.

I’m sorry that Rosie suffers from poor planning and is logistically challenged. I’m sorry that her cylindrical-self becomes trapped under chairs, beds and dressers. I hired her to do a job and I’m tired of her excuses.

Besides terminal laziness, our little robot has developed some annoying habits. Rosie has an unhealthy fascination with our personal lives. She listens in on conversations and is indiscreetly voyeuristic. She can be at the other end of the house vacuuming away—until someone steps into the shower. On cue, Rosie makes a beeline for the bathroom and rolls up to the shower doors to take a peek.

Unfortunately, her inappropriate behavior is not limited to bathing.

On the toilet? Hello Rosie! Brushing my teeth? Yup, there she is again. That repetitive banging into my heels is none other than one insolent robot. And when I shuffle into the kitchen for a caffeinated beverage before first light, her motorized presence is felt as she stalks me—even though her shift doesn’t begin for hours.

Rosie terrorizes the dogs and eats their toys. She senses an accident and before I can clean it up, arrives on scene spreading it everywhere. Just staying one step ahead of her is exhausting.

On the rare occasion when Rosie completes her task, she high-tails it to her charging station and announces the accomplishment with a celebratory tune. This leaves me wondering if like her human counterparts, she expects a prize simply for doing her job.

With all of the feature-laden appliances and Wi-Fi enabled touchscreens, there are always beeps, bells, alarms, or distress signals. There are refrigerators with voice commands and internal cameras, smart microwaves with barcode scanning capability, and dishwashers that automatically order detergent.

To complicate matters, I suspect that Rosie has been communicating with the other appliances. I’ve caught her lingering in front of the washing machine and she’s changed her social status to In a Relationship.

Fraternizing with the other employees is reason enough for dismissal, but I can’t let her go for fear of retribution. I tried docking her pay and unplugging her charging station, but she continues yammering away.

“Please charge Rosie. Please…”

I’d like to fire iRosie or drop kick her into next week. But then, I’d have to do the vacuuming and I really don’t want the job.