HELLO, ALEXA

Mr. Wonderful and I have MacBooks, iPhones, Kindles, even an original iPad. We are not total tubes in the world of  tech. 

Granted, it’s only a month since we bought our first Water Pik, that teeth rinsing gadget that’s been on the market since the Kennedy administration. And for our own security purposes and convenience, we never leave home without the three sheets of paper displaying our 129 passwords.

(Because you never know when you’re gong to need your Apple ID which, in our cases, has been changed five times in the last year and who can remember it..… but that’s another story.)

Happily, we managed to avoid having anything to do with that Alexa lady who lives inside a picture frame. We heard all about her because our friends and kids slather her with praise. They say, “Check this out.  Alexa, play Leonard Cohen” or “Alexa, what’s the temperature in Nome?” In a nanosecond, “Hallelujah” wafts through the air and we learn that it’s Minus Two on the Alaskan tundra.  Important stuff.

Yet Mr. W remained unimpressed. And frankly a little apprehensive. At home, he told me, “That lady listens to everything mentioned in that house. I don’t want someone eavesdropping on our private conversations.” 

So it was a mixed blessing when we discovered an Alexa on the kitchen counter of our condo rental here in south Florida. “She’s going to hear everything we talk about. Pull the plug on her,” W suggested. “Let’s try her for a day or two,” I countered.

“Hello, Alexa,” I said. Immediately a message popped up touting “Inmates learn embroidery in Mexico” followed a minute later with a recipe for a cheezy zucchini casserole. Multi-talented, I thought. Then I suggested she play Dan Fogelberg songs. 

VOILA, “Run for the Roses.” 

I could sense Mr. Wonderful was getting slightly hooked, particularly when he leaned close to the picture frame and said, “Alexa, play Bob Marier songs.”  Instantaneously, “Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing gonna be alright!” 

“NO, ALEXA. Not Bob Marley, I want Bob Marier music.”  Within seconds, I’m tapping my toes to “I shot the sheriff….” 

“See, she’s not that great,” W groaned.

Just before sitting down to dinner that evening, I asked Alexa to play light jazz. “You sure you want her taking in everything we discuss?” Mr. W asked. “For heaven’s sake, she’s not!” I answered.

Our dinner conversation was fairly typical. After complimenting me on the chef salad, Mr. W. said, “I wish I knew the right club to use on the Par 3 8th hole here. I keep either going too long or off to the right. Not sure if I should use my pitching wedge or 56 degree. Or maybe even my 9 iron. The other thing, Val, is that I’m seriously thinking my driver needs less loft. Too many of my shots are going sky-high. I may have to have it adjusted. What do you think?” 

THIS is what he’s worried about Alexa overhearing!

Meanwhile, I’m learning Smarty Pants Trivia and how to make chicken bacon pasta. I’m fine with that. And her.