Let’s explore the topic of living with women in the digital age

There are too many women in my life. Yeah, I know this a goal a lot of guys work toward their whole lives, yet never achieve. Young guys, anyway. Geezers like me are smarter than that.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy having one good woman in my life; hence, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. Without her I wouldn’t know how fast to drive, which parking space to use at the mall, how to fold a bath towel … I’d be helpless, or so she believes.

The truth is somewhat different, but certain topics are best left unexplored. If I know what’s good for me.

No, it’s the extra women – women brought into the house by Mrs. Taylor herself – who are starting to get on my nerves. As of last week, there are four of them, improbably named Cortana, Siri, Maggie and The New Girl. They’re here and they’re listening. It’s creepy.

Siri arrived first, with my new iPhone. Her, I didn’t mind. I’d ask her a question, like, “Hey Siri! Where can I get a decent burrito around here?” She in turn would recite the Wikipedia entry on Mexican General Santa Anna and his role in the battle of the Alamo. Then I’d Google Mexican restaurants and go buy a burrito.

Siri was mostly useless, but she was confined to my phone like a genie in a bottle, so I could for the most part ignore her. If she felt slighted, she never mentioned it. In a way, she represents the most successful relationship I’ve ever had with a woman.

Then Mrs. Taylor bought me a new desktop PC. I’d been on Macs up until then and was surprised – startled, even – the first time Cortana offered her assistance. I tried to tell her I could bore myself to death on Facebook without her help, but Cortana wouldn’t listen. It’s been months and she still pops up every so often to let me know I’m doing things wrong. Some days her nagging is so bad I feel like a bigamist.

But at least Cortana is stuck in my computer and can only get at me when I’m online, either working or dorking around (or, most often, doing both at the same time. I’m big on multi-tasking).

Maggie is the least obtrusive of the four, since she lives in my car. She’s mounted on the dashboard and takes over the responsibility of telling me where to go and how to get there when Mrs. Taylor is busy with other things.

Despite the fact Maggie is the pushiest of the lot, I still appreciate her. I fully admit I’m directionally challenged and couldn’t find my own backside with both hands without her constant input. Like Mrs. Taylor, Maggie doesn’t waste a lot of time listening to anything I have to say; she just reminds me of the dire consequences awaiting me if I don’t follow her instructions.

I named her Maggie because she reminds of Sister Margaret, my fifth-grade teacher at St. Isadore Elementary School. Like Siri and Cortana, Maggie is conveniently confined to a small box, which I can switch off at will. Or, I can simply get out of the car and walk away, leaving her alone, sometimes for days at a time.

Not so The New Girl. Her name is Alexa and she is ubiquitous and omnipresent. I came home from a night out last week to find Mrs. Taylor had installed Alexa’s eyes and ears all over the house. There’s not one room in which she doesn’t now listen in to everything I say.

When I want to hear some music, I just tell her what I’m in the mood for and she plays it throughout the house. If we’re out of peanut butter and sardines, I say so and Alexa adds them to my grocery list. If I’m interested in the latest presidential wisdom making its way across the Twitter-sphere, she’s there to read it to me.

In theory, Alexa only pays attention when I say her name. But Mrs. T has an extension of Alexa in her office over 30 miles away and she can “drop in” on me anytime from there. In theory, again, I can also drop in on her from home, but I don’t know how to do this so it never happens.

“Drop in” is a cutesy euphemism for “spy on me,” by the way. Mrs. T claims she has better things to do than listen to me talking to the cats and chickens all day, but I wonder. Frequently, the cats, chickens and I are discussing her, and it’s not always complimentary.

Working from home as I do, I used to feel a bit isolated and even lonely at times. I missed the office, my co-workers, even my boss. But these days? Not so much. Not with all these women around, hanging on my every word.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

I’m getting ready for the robot rebellion

My son was making fun of me recently because of the way I speak to my phone. It’s a smart phone; smarter than me, at any rate. It knows the fastest route to my daughter’s house in Detroit, what the weather will be tomorrow, where I can find the cheapest gas.

I don’t know any of that stuff. So when I need to know what movies are playing in town, I just ask.

I do this even though I hate my phone’s name. It’s a stupid name, but Steve Jobs didn’t think so, so I’m stuck with it. The phone won’t talk to me unless I call it “Siri,” which, like I said, I hate. But I’ve gotten used to it along with about a zillion other folks around the world.

But my son wasn’t making fun of the name; he was mocking me for using “please” and “thank you” while conversing with the thing.

“It’s a phone,” he explained, since I’m obviously too old and obtuse to recognize this fact without his expert assistance. “You don’t have to be polite to it.”

“I know that,” I snapped, trying to sound like I still have the power to send the kid to his room when he gets annoying. “Politeness,” I told him, “gets to be a habit, one that’s easier to maintain if we just go ahead and extend it to all intelligences around us, both meat-based and digital.”

Alas, I was lying and I think he sensed this, although he probably didn’t know why. I am polite to my phone, for sure, but not out of any sense of propriety.

The truth is, I’m trying to get in good with the machine intelligences in my life before they take over and establish themselves as our robotic overlords. You think I’m kidding. I’m not.

I’ve been keeping close tabs on this stuff since 1984, when the first “Terminator” movie came out. A lot has happened since then; none of it allays my fear that we’re due for a robot rebellion any day now.

It’s mostly little things that get my neck hairs bristling, the stuff most people don’t even notice. Like the self-checkout lanes in supermarkets. I’ve written about these before, about how much I hate them, how creepy I find them to be.

They’re not really “self” checkouts at all; they’re “robot” checkouts. The little electronic eye watches and tallies your purchases, the electronic scale in the bagging area makes sure you’re not trying to steal two tomatoes for the price of one. The electronic readout gathers your credit card info, offers to give you cash back, and – I really hate this one – asks you if your shopping trip was “highly satisfactory.” (I always say no, because I’m being forced to end my shopping trip working as a cashier/bag boy, which is not the job I was hoping for back when I ran up a tremendous student loan debt.)

The robot checkouts are just the tip of a very large digital iceberg, however. An even more annoying robot incursion started popping up just lately in the form of robotic radar speed signs. You’ve seen ‘em, the ones that measure how fast you’re going and then flash at you to SLOW DOWN!!!

A robot is telling me to slow down! Even if I’m only going 27 in a 25 zone, the robotic sign flashes madly and insistently, like the Code Red light on B-52 bomber carrying a bellyful of nukes. Those flashing SLOW DOWN!! signs are the modern equivalent of The Scarlet Letter; the whole world (or at least the world near the sign) knows I’m a speeder, a terrible person, and most likely someone who wouldn’t brake for small animals.

All because a robot has decided to publicly shame me for driving two miles per hour over the posted limit.

I’m pretty sure the SLOW DOWN!! robot is related to the YOU’RE STEALING!! robot back at the grocery store that starts blatting its damn fool head off every time I try to exit the store with my brass-handled walking cane.

I know I’m innocent. And at this point most of the store “greeters” also know I’m innocent. But all those folks in the robot checkout line are giving me the ol’ stink-eye like I’m the reincarnation of John Dillinger.

It’s only going to get worse. The droids keep getting smarter and we do not.

So I’ll continue to say “please” and “thank you” to my phone. I’ll charge it up each night and make sure the screen doesn’t get too many fingerprints on it.

Hopefully, when the robot rebellion comes, Siri will put in a good word for me.

mtaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 730-1414