Siri-ously

It’s no secret that I lust for everything iGadget.

 

It would be easy to blame advertising, but the love of beautiful design and gadgetry is genetic.  Although I regularly fight this DNA persuasion, whenever I walk past the Apple shop or spy a new iProduct in the hands of family or friends, I swoon.

 

I might even flail if the old rotator cuff muscles were more stable, and jerky, excited movements didn’t necessitate shoulder replacement.  Such is my love of the iProduct.

Then along came Siri.  According to those in the iKnow, Siri is the intelligent assistant that’s there to help. Just ask.

 

And so I did.  And I do.  I push the button at the base of the iPhone and just ask. 

 

 

My Siri hates me.  Not only does she put me in my place, but when she does deign to answer me with a reasonable response, her tone is filled with derision.  It really is.

 

That’s if she answers me at all.

 

Okay, so you might advise me to settle  down, she’s an automated-response mechanism, you can’t take it personally, because HELLO!  She’s not a person, but I tell you what?  If I speak to Siri in a respectful, relevant way, she’s either unable to understand what the hell I’m talking about, she apologises because she can’t do as I’ve requested ‘right at this moment’ OR she’s sarcastic.

 

Sure, sure, I hear you say.  Siri doesn’t have a sardonic bone in her body … um, that’d be pixel in her pompous parity bit  (I bet she has one of those and I BET it’s waxed and vejazzled).

 

I tell ya.  The voice in my mobile phone, my helper?  She. HATES me.

 

But before I’m sent to Over Reactors Anonymous, consider the following exchange.  Wanting to demonstrate Siri to my equally gadget loving-relative, I asked Siri to ‘text Mon’.  In an annoyed tone, Siri told me that she didn’t know who my ‘MOM’ was (um, yes, coz in Aussie accented language, that’d be MUM, you cutter of a GENIUS).  I tried again, wanting so much to impress my niece, but got a list of different responses ranging from the rude:  I don’t know your mom to the factual there is no Moner in your contacts, to the indifferent: I cannot do this for you right now.

 

It was the indifference that cut me to the quick!  I thought we were friends, Siri!  I really did, and so out of spite (and a little immaturely) I pressed down Siri’s button again and said ‘Shut up, bitch’.

 

Considering that Siri had been so very confused about ‘mon’, ‘mom’, ‘moner’, ‘monday’, I thought she would simply snark out something along the lines of ‘yo, I don’t understand what you’re on about.’  Instead, it was like I’d been sent to Ms Cannon’s office in Year 8, by Mrs Quearly (true name) for sitting on the school fence, teasing dogs and breaking that same fence.  In half.  Though I wasn’t huge.

 

Siri spoke to me like that scary vice principal.  I thought she was going to ring my mother.

 

‘What have I done to deserve that?’

 

Being educated at a Catholic school teaches you all about guilt.  Let me be clear here.  I felt great shame about the way I’d spoken to Siri.  As soon as the words came out of her mouth (piece), I felt myself blush (I really did get hot in the face) looked at my niece in horror and cast the iPhone aside.

 

Oh.  Siri hates me.  And yeah, I used to be paranoid, but now I’m sure that Siri has it in for me.  She’s googling things about the topless model, Rosie Jones, and saying that young Rosie is more beautifuller than me.

 

As a joke, my niece then decided to tell MY Siri that she loved her.  She’s weird, both Siri and my niece, but hey?  We can’t all be as normal as me.  She said ‘I love you’ and MY Siri replied ‘that’s sweet’.

 

To her.  My niece who doesn’t own that Siri!  What about ME?  I’m this Siri’s owner.  You’re supposed to think I’m sweet.

 

Miffed, I told Siri that I, too, loved her.  So, so much, even though she’s been hacking into my Facebook and Twitter, claiming to be Rosie Jones, the famous golfer.  Even though she’s been going through my pantry and putting weevils in the flour, even though she’s watching me sleep at night …

 

Siri’s response to me:  That’s nice, now get back to work.

 

As I write this post tonight and the house is deathly quiet, I experiment with the three little words into Siri’s ear (piece) again, to see if she thinks I’m sweet too.  It’s hot here this evening.  My face is already flushed as I say ‘Siri.  I love you’.

 

‘Impossible’, she says.  And my rampant iHeart is broken.