Suburbs of Our Discontent

"....And some have Siri thrust upon them."

It's been a long time since I've laughed out loud at a Modern Love essay. But this Sunday's piece by Patricia Morrisroe about her and her husband's anniversary trip to visit the English Moors was hilarious. I also feel like this woman is my soul mate. Not only did we both fall in love with Heathcliff in the 1970s (although my fall was via Laurence Olivier, and hers via Timothy Dalton); we also share an aversion to the interfering GPS Lady.

In my case, I have quite an extensive distrust of most technological advances that involve being controlled by a disembodied voice. I usually end up yelling at the automated call screener lady who won't let me speak to a live human about my insurance policy ("Something else! .... Something else!!")
 
I've also been loathe to engage with Siri, the know-it-all lady who lives inside my new ipad. I wasn't going to let her out, but--as with all technology that enters my home--my 12-year-old got her hands on it first.

This morning, she asked her the weather and got a response directed to Caroline. The genie was out, and this time it was personal.

I knew I had to confront her head on to let her know who was boss (Siri, not my daughter; I lost that battle about 10 years ago). So I said: "Ask her if I'm going to get any of the grants I've applied for." All Siri could come up with was: "I'm sorry, but I don't recognize that location." So, she can predict the need to send someone flowers, but that's where her psychic powers stop. Advantage Moi.

Then I decided to test her knowledge of current events. "Who's running for President, Siri?" Nothing.
Ha! Take that!

Not in my house, Siri. There's only room for one know-it-all Lady here (okay, maybe two if you count my daughter).