Personal assistant wanted, digital variety need not apply

Like Mexican food, I love technology but it doesn’t always love me. I wanted to get my wife one of those digital assistants for her birthday. You’ve seen the ads, you say, “OK Google,” or “Hey Alexa,” depending on the device, and a bright, cheery, Mary Poppins voice responds and says, “What can I help you with.”
You might say, “Where can I get Chinese food close by,” and the voice gives you the name of a restaurant, reviews, directions and asks if she (the voice is always female) can make reservations for you.
Or you might even say, “Play my favorite music from the 70s,” and instantly you’re surrounded by the soothing sounds of John Denver or Hall and Oates (you have your favorites, I have mine.)
The thing with technology, especially new technology, is that it rarely lives up to the hype. There are always bugs that need to exterminated.
I grew up right in the middle of what is known as Silicone Valley and still have a few friends that live in the area. So I called an old college friend, Andy Forabuck, who is somehow involved in the tech industry, to get his opinion as to which assistant I should purchase.
“Don’t get either one,” Forabuck vehemently advised me. “I’m working with this startup that has a new digital assistant that is in beta production and I can get you one to try for free. You just need to let us collect the data from your interactions with it so we can tweak and fine-tune the program.”
At my age there are very few things that make me sit up and take notice anymore, but the word free is as close as it gets. Mention free food, free beer, free blood draws or free technology and you have my complete and undivided attention. But I do acknowledge the author Robert Heinlein was probably on to something when he coined the phrase “TANSTAAFL,” there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.
“What’s the catch,” I asked.
“No catch,” I was assured. “We just need to collect the data from the assistant whenever you and she interact.”
“Well, its for my wife,” I insisted.
“Fine. Whatever. You want to try it or not.”
The package containing my wife’s new beta digital assistant arrived three days later, in a plain brown package with no company logos or descriptions blaring across the box. It simply had our address and a return address in Mountain View, Calif.
I handed the package to my wife and said, “Here, this is for you.” I am what is known as an imbecilic romantic.
“What is it?”
“It’s a digital assistant.”

“What is it going to assist me with?“
“Play your favorite music, order Chinese food, give you driving directions!”
“I can do all that on my own. Can it vacuum the floor and clean toilets?”
“Well, no. It doesn’t have any arms or legs.”
“So what good is an assistant that doesn’t have any physical way to assist me?”
Obviously, my wife has an acute lack of appreciation for the finer things in life.
“Let’s just unpack it and I’ll show you what it can do.”
All that was in the box was a black triangular shaped gizmo that was obviously the assistant and a note, “Plug me in and call me Bernice!”
“Now watch this,” I gloatingly said to my wife, who was standing near by, preparing to be amazed. “Hey Bernice …”
Before I could finish my request to play ABBA’s greatest hits, a squawky, middle aged voice that sounded as though it was still smoking a filterless cigarette said, “What d’ya want, mac?”
“Play ABBA’s greatest hits.”
“Why should I?” came the crusty reply.
The house got deathly quiet. All I could hear was my wife snickering behind my back.
“Because I like ABBA,” I blustered as authoritatively as I could muster … to a digital assistant.
“Personally, I prefer Led Zeppelin.” And before I could part my lips for a come back I didn’t have, Stairway to Heaven started blasting off the walls and windows.
Bernice evidently preferred the long version.
“Bernice you must do as I say,” I insisted, eight minutes later.
“Why?” The tone was much more belligerent than inquisitive.
“Because, I’m the boss and you’re the assistant.”
“Says who?”
Scenes from 2001: A Space Odyssey flashed through my mind as I imagined myself as astronaut Dave Bowman to Bernice as Hal.
“What are you doing, Bud? I’m sorry if there has been some misunderstanding. I’m sure we can work this out.” Bernice was trying to sound contrite, but it sounded more phony than sorry.
“No. Please. Don’t unplug …”
“There. How do you like that.” I exclaimed victoriously as Bernice’s cackle trailed off into the ether.
“Watcha doin?” Came an unexpected voice from behind me, practically pushing me into eternity along with Bernice.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I snarled at my wife, who stood there with her all knowing, ‘I told you so’ smirk plastered on her face. “There were a few bugs with Bernice and I’m sending her back until they can be worked out.”
“Bugs?! It sounded more like Mutiny on the Bounty. Who were you, Fletcher Christian or Captain Bligh?”
“Very funny. Keep it up and I’ll send her to your mother. They should get along nicely.”
My wife eventually got her birthday present, an assistant that comes to the house twice a month and cleans bathrooms, floors, windows and annoyingly agrees with her that I have too much ‘stuff’ collecting dust around the house.
At least I could unplug Bernice.