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Do You Think Siri Will Trust Me?

Image result for picture of siri the phone

 

I lied to Siri.

On several occasions.

I wouldn’t feel so bad if it was the Snarky Siri who would often take me out of my way to a destination. Or who made me feel foolish for asking her a question.

No, I fired her.

Now I have British Bobby, Siri. And he is amazing. Not only is he polite and accommodating, he has the coolest accent ever. I feel smarter just talking with him.

Here is the problem… I have somehow programmed my phone to keep notifications from me while I am driving. This is a public service, I might add. Driving hairpin curves at 60mph is not for sissies and not for someone who is trying to read a text. In that aspect, it is great.

But I can talk to my phone without looking at it and call someone. Sometimes it’s the only time I have time to talk. So, the other day on my way home, when I stopped for gas, I tried calling my daughter. A picture of a car showed up with two tabs. One said, CANCEL. The other said, I’M NOT DRIVING.

I thought about it for a few seconds, and before I knew it, I pushed the I’M NOT DRIVING tab. Technically, I wasn’t driving, but it is the first in several deceptions to British Bobby.

I feel terrible. I mean, he is so nice to me. He looks up words for me, does all my math, and gives me exact driving directions with a classy accent.

Also, I feel weird. I mean, I am lying to my phone.

Sure, I’ve had a lot of problems with my appliances. I hated my dishwasher and loved my refrigerator in Florida. I’m kind of afraid of Roger Rumba who joined us in North Carolina, and when it comes to computers and office equipment, let’s just say I have to disguise myself with my trademark plastic glasses and big nose to get them to work.

Then I have to get someone to help.

But I have never lied to them. Not until this week.

Do you think British Bobby Siri will ever trust me again? I mean, if I say, Please remind me of an appointment with the doctor next Friday at 3PM. Do you think he might say, Are you sure you are going to the doctor? Maybe you’re meeting some other phone, or going to the AT & T store Pauline?

That is the problem with deception. You have to keep it up.

Do me a favor will you? If Siri asks you if I’m honest please tell him or her yes, because they communicate while we are doing other things other than staring at our phone. And I wouldn’t want British Bobby to hear of my deceit. (I just asked him for another word for deception and he aptly suggested deceit.)

Isn’t he great!

The Joy of it All

“Your place looks amazing!” I gawked as I entered my daughter’s Atlanta, Mid-Town apartment. The transformation was almost supernatural. Sarah had explained to me about a book titled, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, but I was skeptical.

To put it in farming terms, let’s just say Sarah wasn’t ever the cleanest hen in the coop. Neither am I.

So when I entered the immaculate apartment, sparsely furnished, with a place for everything, (which wasn’t much) I couldn’t believe it.

Sarah explained. “I read it to David, and together we went through everything in our apartment. I’ve cut my wardrobe in half since I was only wearing half, and our important papers all fit in one bin. I don’t hold on to anything that doesn’t bring me joy.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” I said making my way out to the car. “Let me get my stuff and put it away.” I was to babysit my grandson for a few days while Sarah and David celebrated their anniversary.

“Hey Mom,” she hesitated. “Could you make sure everything is neat and clean when you leave?” She grinned.

“I’ve heard those words before.” I unpacked my toiletries. I always left a few of them at her apartment for my convenience.

“Where’s my toothbrush.”

“Um, I think I threw it out.”

“Okay, do you have an extra?”

She scampered away and came back with a clean one. “And where are my slippers?” I asked while looking under the cabinet where I always kept them.

“They didn’t bring me joy,” she said sheepishly.

I stopped. “You threw them away?” I paused for effect. “It’s a good thing I didn’t read this book while you were a teenager.”

We both smiled, because we are mother and daughter, yes. But now, we’re also friends.

Even though she did throw my slippers away.

A New Kind of Soup

“So Brian, what does your grandfather do again?”

Brian is a young man who helps around the farm who actually knows something about farming. “He takes the chicken poop, puts it in a feed bag in a 55-gallon drum, and adds water. Then, he takes a stick and stirs it around. He’s been doing that for years and it really makes the plants grow!” (Imagine this conversation with absolutely no expression on his 20-year-old face and a real southern drawl.)

“Okay, I want some chicken poop soup. Will you help me make it?”

I thought I’d stepped out of my comfort zone when I processed one of our hens who’d been played with to death by our livestock guardian dogs and made chicken pie. (It was NOT good, by the way–never eat a chicken after it’s been played with by big white dogs for an hour. Lesson learned.) But chicken poop soup…who knew?

I am famous for taking almost anything from my refrigerator and making something palatable for dinner. My kids often said I should host a TV show called, “Clean Out the Refrigerator Cooking.” (I am willing dear television producer.) But chicken poop soup is way off their radar, too.

We decided on a gray garbage can. “Where do you want me to put it?” Brian asked.

“Good question.” Where does one keep such a concoction. “Put it near the driveway but not too near the house.”

Brian mixed it up. I gawked as he filled the white feed sack with North Carolina Gold. Then he added water. Next he swished it up and down in the can and poked a stick in the bag several times. Brown liquid seeped out of the sack.

What can I say, but I was impressed. Impressed Brian knew about the soup. Amazed at his resourcefulness. Touched by the knowledge handed down from one generation to the next.

I’ve learned a lot from the people around me. I’ve learned that a bush hog is not a pig in the woods, I’ve learned not to lift your hand at a poultry auction to scratch your face, and that it’s okay to hold up the line in the store a bit to find out how a person really is doing.

I’d like to think I could teach them a few things. Like ordering at Starbucks. Or wearing your sandals all the way to the sand at the beach in August if you want to avoid 3rd degree burns, or cutting across 8 lanes of traffic to pull into your favorite restaurant.

Those things are good to know, too.

But for now, my soup is stewing. I just don’t know how to get it out of the can.

 

 

The Appliances in My Life

The relationship I’ve experienced over the years with my appliances has been tenuous, to say the least. (I just looked that word up.)

I’ve loved very few, been indifferent to most, and hated some.

For instance, I hated my old dishwasher. Really, a more apt name would have been, Frustrate Pauline to Death and Make Her Work More machine. But that is in the past. Hakuna Matata.

Now I hate my side-by-side refrigerator. Who thought of such a thing? Obviously someone who didn’t ever ever care about freezing anything since nothing fits except frozen pot pies. (Not that I eat them.) AND they never have eaten a frozen pizza in their entire lives. Obviously, the inventor must have eaten out all the time.

But I loved my old dryer. In fact, when it finally died after 20+ years, I hugged it and when Tom took it away to dryer heaven he discovered about $25 in coins and cash. Like the side-by-side refrigerator inventor, we went out to eat that day. (No socks by the way.)

In all the years of appliance owning, I’ve never been fearful of an appliance. Until now.

It’s my vacuum cleaner. Really, it’s a the iRobot Roomba. Since building an outside kitchen for cooking my products, I’ve been able to let my standard poodle, Sam back in. He’s no problem, because he doesn’t shed. It’s the mutt dog, Barnabas and my ferocious kitty, Bree that are the problem.

They shed. Big time.

So, as a gift to myself, I purchased Roger Roomba.

About every other day, I turn my kitchen chairs upside down on the table, load the counter stools on the couch, and push Roger’s navel twice. He sings a robotic war-like charge song and begins to scoot gingerly around my wood floors. I can’t watch although I’ve been mesmerized on several occasions at his antics. In fact, after he is throughly convinced he has every single strand of pet hair in his belly, he returns to his home on the black stand plugged into the wall.

However, the other day, he chased me. Wherever I went, he went. Finally, I locked myself in my office while I listened to his faraway war chant. Retrieving my coffee put me at risk, but you coffee drinkers know I had no choice.

He headed right at me, I zigged and zagged like a running back.

And then I fell.

And when you’re past 50, falling is a bad thing.

But Roger does his job.

Now I’m taking two cups of coffee in my office with me.

And when Roger goes home, I come out.

In all relationships there are compromises. And I’m okay with that.

 

YouTube and Pigs

 

The obstinate “Big Boy”

If you would have told me when I was a snarky college freshman I’d be searching YouTube for how to load pigs for market, I’d have told you that you’re a few straws short of a bale.

In fact, I wouldn’t have believed there would ever be a YouTube since when I attended college, phones still hung on the wall–in the hallway–by the communal bathroom and showers.

But yesterday, I looked up how to load pigs. The video looked relatively simple. A smiling man assured me loading pigs was as easy as riding a bicycle. He then backed his trailer up to the pig pen and began to call “Piggy, Piggy, Piggy.” Like magic they entered the trailer as if they had free tickets to the Super Bowl.

I think they were pig actors.

Our pigs did not cooperate. Tom spent all morning trying to load them with no luck. It didn’t help that a sleety snow fell as he worked. After a few hours, he came in.

“Any luck?”

The Eeyore look told me all I needed to know. “I’ve put food on the ramp, in their bowls on the trailer. Two of them came close, but the big boy wants nothing to do with me.

“I’ve been thinking. You need something that smells really good for them to bite. Well, I didn’t mean that literally.” I gave it some thought. I contemplated the smell that is irresistible–especially to the male species. Then it came to me, “How about bacon!”

Tom frowned.

We decided on table scraps and yellow rice. How could it fail?

“Here piggy, piggy, piggy, I have a treat for you…” The female squinted at me suspiciously and placed her two front hooves on the ramp. “Come on Miss Piggy, you’re going to like this.” I waved the bowl of aromatic leftovers in her face as I carefully stepped backwards.

Truthfully, I felt devious. Several passages from the book of Proverbs came to mind. One talks about a beautiful woman without discretion is like a gold ring in a pig’s snout. Quite an illustration. But that’s a whole other subject.

Mostly the verses I thought of centered on how following the wicked person leads to death.

I felt a twinge of guilt.

Then I thought of sausage and pork chops from piggy one and my mouth watered. (Piggy number one has already been ushered into pig heaven.)

“Come on, lady, climb in for the ride of your life!” I waved the yellow rice just beyond her reach. Her back hooves climbed the ramp.

“Keep it up, Pauline, you’re doing great! This is the farthest she’s come!” Tom whispered. “If we get one in the other two will follow.” I had my doubts but continued my seduction.

Just when she crossed the threshold of the trailer, the smaller male jumped on the ramp startling the female. They both evacuated.

It’s been over 48 hours and they’re still free. The farmer we bought the piglets from is coming over today to try and load them.

It’s not his first rodeo.

It won’t be our last.

I’ll have to choose another YouTube video next time.

One without actors.