>Smart home li ving

She just wants them to be friends, but Siri has a beef with Jennifer Phin

>>> In my mind, Siri is my glamorous household assistant, a bit like JARVIS in the IronMan movies, if Iron Man was a disheveled housewife and Stark Tower was a four-room apartment with mold problems. Sometimes, the fantasy lives up to the reality; I control the lights, the TV, and my music library across multiple rooms using my iPhone or the Siri remote. When it works, it’s bliss.

“Hey, Siri!” I yell, often pre-dawn, sometimes from bed. “Play Teletubbies!”

And those blessed neon weirdos magically appear on the TV to hypnotize my kid for five minutes, so I can make coffee or stumble to the bathroom or stare blankly into space. “Thank you, Siri.” “No problem, Jenny.” Good times. More often, though, Siri and I have a tense relationship. It usually starts when Siri mocks my accent. “Hey Siri, play Cheers.” Long pause. “Here’s what I’ve found for IKEA dining chairs.” “Cheers.” “I don’t drink, Jenny.” And so on. Then it muscles in on conversations with my daughter. I sometimes hand her my phone to hold if she’s bored in line at the grocery store and she’ll trigger Siri as I’m talking to her. “Can I have a hug?”

“I’d like that, Jenny,” pipes up Siri from her clammy little hands. When she squeals excitedly in response, she gets a frosty “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Living with Siri is, in reality, probably a bit less IronMan and a bit more Golden Girls. We remain together despite odd misunderstandings (Siri’s) and fairly terrible hair (mine). Thank you for being a friend, Siri. Friend. I SAID FRIEND.