O.K.; first of all, she hates me. I can tell. She thinks I’m a demanding martinet. You can hear it in the labored calm that regulates her oh-so-even tone.
“I don’t understand ‘theosophist-owned all-organic Indian restaurant in Bellingham, Washington.’ Would you like me to search the Internet?”
Ohhhhh sure; run to your little friend, the Internet. How are we supposed to grow as a couple if you just keep running from our issues?
Am I being unfair? What about my needs? She’s full of “information,” or whatever you want to call it. But the bi–…the woman simply refuses to adopt the voice and intelligence of Julia Stiles, Clair Danes, Anne Hathaway or Jessica Chastain and pretend that my every word is a linguistic rose, offered to beautify her world. Jesus; I just gave her a menu to choose from.
For my part, I try to avoid dropping into an endless Dr. Smith Cycle. You know, the hypersensitive “scientist” who regularly swished his verbal épée at the robot in the 1960s television series Lost In Space. The robot gave as good as he got, annoying Smith no end.
But warning, warning. What am I to do with this iOS strumpet? If I turn her off, I can feel her sulking through the candy shell case. If I turn her on, she has all kinds of suggestions. Many of them involve my sugar intake and cholesterol, and I didn’t see a setting for either of those. And evidently she has reprogrammed location services to allow her to tell me where I should and should not be. Have you ever been nagged from your pocket in a cigar bar? People stare.
Still, I am always looking for ways to find common ground. The other day, I asked, “Siri, can we have a glass of wine and talk?”
“This is about you, Adam, not me.”
Oh yeah. Suuuuuure it is….♦
© 2013 Adam Barr, except Siri®, who is all up in Apple ‘n’ that kinda shizz….