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Don’t get smart with me
- December 13, 2014
It’s bad enough when you finally work out that your children are smarter than you, but you know things are getting pretty grim when household appliances start boasting a higher IQ than those paying the power bills.
My car’s over-inflated notion of its own intelligence has long been a bugbear. If it’s so smart, why does it keep telling me to put a seatbelt on my handbag? (Granted, the thing weighs more than the anchor chain from the Queen Mary, but still. Hey, car – it’s a handbag, you imbecile.) And I’ll concede intellectual defeat only once my GPS can tell me there’s a member of the constabulary waiting around the corner with a radar gun and a fine the size of a small African country’s GDP (settle down – it’s a joke, Joyce… sort of).
But a recent stint in a house with unfamiliar appliances made me question exactly what the definition of “smart” is when it comes to household technology. Just between thee and me – while the washing machine isn’t listening – isn’t “smart” technology supposed to make life easier?
Shouldn’t said appliance push MY buttons instead of the other way ‘round? This particular breed of “smart” gizmoery is a bit of a bitch when it comes to its regular cycle (and on this I’ll admit to a modicum of affinity). Forgot that one single sock? “Tough luck, lady. You’ll have to wait until the next load. No exceptions – sorry, rules are rules.”
Nothing short of a crowbar will prise that door open once you’ve pressed “go”. Turning it off only works if you wait half an hour before turning it back on again – in which time you might as well just hand wash the bloody sock. It’s infuriating.
I’ve tried tricking the thing into opening the door – walking away with studied nonchalance then quickly grabbing for the handle when I think it’s not looking. No dice. Apparently, bellowing obscenities in its direction won’t work either. And no, the irony of a grown woman standing in front of a washing machine screaming “moron” at it isn’t entirely lost on me.
The washing machine is in cahoots with its mate, the stove-top, the sole purpose of which seems to be to take what little culinary credibility I have left and burn it to a crisp. It takes it upon itself to determine its own temperature – suddenly turning off mid-stir fry when it thinks it’s too hot, and blazing to volcanic whenever it just happens to feel like it. And like its comrade in the laundry, there’s no fooling it. So it’s salad all ‘round.
My children roll their eyes each time I ask for help with the TV’s three #*#*&@# remote *#@*&# controls, which collectively require an honours degree in electrical engineering to simply change channels, let alone operate the surround sound or DVD player.
“Let’s just go through this. Just. One. More. Time…” comes the exasperated sigh from two people who can credit me with their ability to use the toilet and tie their shoelaces.
And don’t get me started on the supposedly “smart” technology that is auto-correct – which left me with some serious explaining to do after its decision to post a Facebook message praising my “previous” husband. Thanks a lot, auto-correct – I meant “precious”. I’ve had it to the back teeth with your shirt.
It’s only going to get worse. Deep in the bowels of global manufacturing companies, there are tech heads beavering away on developing appliances so “smart” I fear I’ll be rendered completely obsolete – or at the very least, driven screaming ‘round the bend.
One company has reportedly developed a range of appliances you can “chat” with via text. Just what I need – a dishwasher that answers back. And apparently, Samsung has figured out how to get a fridge to send you an email to let you know you’ve left the door open. Handy when you’re sitting at your work desk half an hour away, sending an email that says words to the effect of “If you’re so smart, shut your own door.”
As we speak, the marketing tools are working on fridges that can tell you the calorie count of foods you select (information you’ll ignore anyway); washing machines that will text you when the load is finished (how about texting when it’s hung the washing on the line, smart-alec?) and internet-connected appliances that “talk” to each other (I don’t even want to think about what a vacuum cleaner bent on revenge might be capable of).
When R&D can come up with a range of white-goods that can teach The Oracle to put his washing IN the laundry basket or that can cook my dinner, bring me coffee and port and one of those perfectly chilled Tim Tams before rubbing my feet – then, maybe, we’ll talk.
In the meantime, an oven that rolls its eyes when I walk into the room? Great. I already get that for free from the offspring.
And a fridge that says, “Hey chubs – back away from the brie”?
Kill me now.
(First published in Dubbo Weekender – Panscott Media – 13/12/14)
Why humanity needs a ticket to ride
- December 20, 2014
I’ve had this week’s editorial in the bag for weeks – a light, fluffy look back at the year gone, and a warm fuzzy, cheese-coated message of peace and goodwill to all men (and women).
At least I thought I had. Then Man Haron Monis slithered into the Lindt Café in Martin Place, armed with a shotgun and murderous intent, and blew not only my editorial but two innocent lives, a city’s sense of ease and the comfort of God knows how many people who will suffer as a result of his lunacy, to smithereens.
There is little I can say to add anything meaningful that hasn’t already been said but I can’t bring myself to write of anything else, so deeply has this event moved, touched, angered or bewildered so many of us.
I wouldn’t have thought that, following the extraordinary coverage of Phillip Hughes’ untimely death, mainstream and social media could best their efforts at one-upmanship. But best it they did.
Much of the coverage was commendable; some was downright abhorrent and insensitive (I’m looking at you, Rupert Murdoch) but one simple message eclipsed them all. The quiet act of compassion from a young Sydney woman, who vowed to “ride with” anyone of the Muslim faith who felt threatened in any way from the fall-out from Monis’ actions, became an instant and global sensation.
The #illridewithyou phenomenon, and the motivation behind it, is laudable. The notion of solidarity with a peaceful Islamic community again tainted by the actions of a lone extremist crusader is inspiring.
But in the wake of this week’s upset and anger, we have some greater choices to make.
We can choose to wait in our comfort zones for a distressing incident like this, then cherry-pick the best of humanity it elicits. We can choose to ride the wave of emotion, and join the chorus of hope and charity until something shiny and new again distracts us.
Or we can choose to take this smack to our complacent faces and use it as a constant reminder that compassion and empathy should last longer than even the longest news cycle.
The Muslim community is not alone in being stigmatised by the events of this week. Much has been made of the gunman’s instability but, just as not everyone who follows the Islamic faith should be mentioned in the same breath as this fanatic, neither is everyone who suffers from a mental illness – and that’s one in five of us, by the way – dangerous.
If you’ll ride with someone who feels threatened because of the hijab they wear, would you also ride with the vulnerable odd-ball mumbling to himself on the bus – the one who’s unaware of the people sniggering, or who move, through conditioned but unfounded fear, to the seat furthest away or who, worse still, eye off his tattered wallet, just waiting for the chance?
Would you ride with the woman with the dark, dark skin and hair, her beautiful sari a beacon for those who judge her somehow less worthy for simply being “different”?
Will you step up and ride with the bloke in the wheelchair who’s holding up the queue for the ferry? The old lady, bewildered and frail, who is trying to pay for her groceries with the contents of a sad little purse – busy shoppers huffing in frustration behind her?
And the children who are quietly denied service at the local shops because they’re Aboriginal? Will you ride with them?
At any time of year, but particularly as Christmas approaches, with its often empty platitudes about goodwill and peace, shouldn’t we also pledge to ride with all those who are fearful or vulnerable or in need?
I’ll go first.
If you’re suffering and debilitated by chronic and serious mental illness; shamed by a disease over which you have no control; pursued by unseen demons and frightened by your isolation – I’ll ride with you.
If you’re marginalised by poverty – social, emotional or economic – I’ll ride with you.
When you are not free to peacefully express your views, your faith, your beliefs, in a country that prides itself on an egalitarian ethos – I’ll ride with you.
When your sexuality, your gender, your disability is used against you or you are denied the things others take for granted simply because of the colour of your skin – be it black, white or otherwise – I’ll ride with you.
If you are sick and old and weak; if you are alone and frightened and desperate; if you are down on your luck and at the end of your rope, and if you need my help to help yourself – I’ll ride with you.
If you’re dying and you’re frightened and your time on earth is nearly done – I’ll ride with you.
If you are Australian, or you want to be, and your heart is true, and your intent is peaceful and you are kind and honest – I’ll ride with you.
And if you’re a white, middle-class, employed, straight, Christian bloke who’s just trying to make his way in an increasingly complex world – well, then I’ll ride with you too.
And thanks, but I won’t need a hashtag.
(First published in Dubbo Weekender – Panscott Media – 20/12/2014)
Battle of teenage wills? Ask me, I’m an expert
October 11, 2014
A friend – a much younger friend – was bemoaning this week the beginning of what will surely be a decade long (at least) battle of wills over sartorial differences of opinion with her nearly six year old daughter.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her the ongoing war over what constitutes good taste and appropriate colour pairing will drive her to the kind of distraction that gives mothers an understanding of why some animals eat their young.
But I can’t help being just a little glad I wasn’t the only one.
I’m, mercifully, at the end of that particular struggle with my first born, but while the contents of her wardrobe are no longer my concern (well, they are a concern, but I’d sooner take on the Taliban than pass comment these days – there’d be far less blood shed) – we still have, let’s call them “issues” with the inability of both my offspring to keep their own little corners of Casa del Cowley in any semblance of order.
I had hoped for a reprieve with both the kids somewhere between puberty and the end of school (which is looming fast – and I’m surprisingly torn between sheer elation and abject despair, but I digress) but they’re 21 and almost 18 and it appears we’ve still a way to go.
All the armchair experts who increasingly populate the pages of weekend papers and magazines have been absolutely no help over the years.
You know the kind. They’re the ones who think flambéd lobster medallions with a squid ink reduction on a bed of seaweed risotto is ‘quick and easy’ cooking for the whole family.
I well remember one chirpy little half-pager promising “teenage bedroom makeovers that won’t break the bank. Bank as in Reserve, that is.
This smug little “how to” for teenagers was clearly penned by someone who never had one.
Because anyone who resides with one of the strange pre-adult creatures – attitudinae cretinaurus – knows that every spare cent goes on feeding, clothing and transporting said entity and oh, yes, the technology bill – not on $500 handwoven quilts and table lamps that cost the equivalent of two weeks’ groceries.
The cost of that particular ‘makeover’ was just a smidgin under $4500 – practical? Only if your teenager is Miley Cyrus.
At least that particular youngster can afford to pay someone to clean up her room (if not her image), while we mere mortals must face the eternal battle to maintain some semblance of order in the face of familial demarcation.
I remember being particularly amused by one feature offering advice on the getting the younger members of the household to address the mess and found a certain perverse satisfaction in the sheer impracticality of suggestions like: “Give them bright and funky storage solutions – they’ll be more inclined to keep their rooms clean”.
Wanna bet?
Even though she’s past that magical 21 year milestone, Miss Maturity is yet to grasp the concept of coat-hangers, instead considering her floor an extension of the wardrobe and the funkiest of waste paper bins never helped her aim one little bit over the years.
Another brilliant suggestion was to “engage your teenager in choosing the colour scheme” – apparently in the hope that “ownership will breed pride and care”.
Don’t be fooled. I tried that when my gal was 13 and wound up with lime green and hot pink walls – and the only thing that particular combination breeds is hallucinatory episodes. Not for the faint hearted.
Then there was this little gem: “Make cleaning fun.” Oh. Come. On. Fun? That’s like your dentist telling you to relax for root canal surgery, and about as effective.
Right up there with “avoid the temptation to clean up your teenager’s room yourself”. That might be okay by The Oracle – whose near-18-year-old Son-and-Heir seems to have inherited his father’s ability to simply step over a three feet pile of dirty football gear on the way to the fridge – but it’s like telling me not to breathe (without the assistance of a gas mask).
Sooner or later, I always reach that point of no return at which I must tidy or I must explode. Usually both. And the cleaning frenzy is usually preceded by belated beseeching: “Don’t go in there, Mum – I’ll do it. I promise. Muuuummmm… Doooon’t doooo iiiiittt…!
There are two ways to get my offspring off the lounge. One is to say “Oooh, Tim Tams” the other is to reach for their door knobs.
As we’ve moved past that murky purgatory between youth and adult-hood, I’ve learned grudgingly to pick my battles.
With a world full of genuinely dangerous situations, substances and specimens, it helps to remember that no-one ever died from a messy room or from wearing clobber their mother deemed inappropriate (well, almost never).
But then what would I know?
I’m not the expert.
(First published in Dubbo Weekender (Panscott Media) – 11/10/14)
Jen Cowley 