“Why does it say your phone is in the charger?” The Hubs hollers at me as I leave the SUV to go into the house. With my phone in my hand
“Because it’s a nag.”
“But it says the phone—”
“A gaslighting nag.”
This notification started popping up a few weeks ago after the SUV updated itself. It tells me windows, door mechanisms, and other systems are offline during these updates. It apparently needs alone time.
“K. I’ll park you in a serene locale with a clear view of the sky so you and your favorite satellite can have some quality time while I… watch awkwardly as your headlights blink.”
When your car is also a computer, what do you expect? Pair the SUV with Siri, and you get a duo that can nag, guilt trip, and gaslight in the span of zero to sixty.
It nags me about key fob locations, conditions, and battery levels.
“You are the driver for Key 1.” Meaning it moves my seat to some pre-programmed spot I don’t remember programming, because the seat is never in the right position for my height. No matter which key I have, 1 or 2.
“The key went to sleep. Move the key.” K. I’ll jiggle it.
“The key is not in the vehicle.” Um. I’m driving down the road. How’d I start you and get this far with no key? So I pull over and hold the key up to the dashboard as if the SUV can see me. And I jiggle it. (After I inspect it in my hand to make sure I’m really holding a key. Gaslit, see?)
It’s forever telling me to check the back seat when I put it in park. Unless I have a phone in the charger, then we don’t care about checking the back seat anymore. Even if the phone was in the charger and is now in my hand.
Like tonight.
But I still turned the phone in my hand a few times before answering Hubs. Maybe I didn’t grab my phone from the charger. Maybe I’m crazy. I don’t have a complete working brain cell to my name.
But I do have my phone. Nag of an SUV.
It would be nice if, when I put the vehicle in park, it would flash the following notifications on the dashboard:
· You should’ve written the blog three days ago.
· Your laundry’s been in the washer for 72 hours; burn it or wash it again.
· You haven’t checked the mail in three days.
· What happened three days ago?
· Have you eaten?
· Are you hydrated?
· This will all happen again if you don’t stay nourished and hydrated.
· For crying out loud, the laundry.
· The blog already…
“That SUV could flash these notifications into the sky and you’d not pay attention.” Little Miss Muse reads over my shoulder.
“Probably not.”
She flutters to the doorway.
“Where are you going?” It’s not like her to not hang around and give me grief.
“I’m gonna program some real reminders into the SUV.”
My phone lights up.
Great. She’s programmed the SUV—and its corresponding app. Notifications light up my screen.
· LMM is out of grape soda.
· LMM is out of lavender glitter.
· LMM is out of bottle rockets.
· LMM is out of lighter fluid.
I pull Little Miss Muse’s trunk from the hall closet. It’s full of grape soda. Ten bottles of glitter. Two bundles of bottle rockets and a jug of lighter fluid.
But I had to check.
Because with less than one working brain cell to my name, my muse and my SUV have me doubting my perception.
I kick the trunk back into the closet and walk around to the kitchen. All three cats are lined up at their food mats with that “Mother, we perish. We’ve had but tiny scraps since last Tuesday” look in their eyes.
Not this time.
I walk over to the trash can, pull out the empty tin of Tuna Feast in Gravy, and show the little lying manipulators the evidence.
They walk away in defeat.
I toss the can back into the trash.
But only after I hold it a moment, just to be sure…
