I grew up watching Saturday-morning cartoons in the ’60s, especially my favorite, “The Jetsons”. I so wanted to one day have a Rosie the Robot maid to do all my chores. I hoped as an adult I’d zip around in flying cars and have a waist as small as Jane Jetson’s.
Despite my childhood adoration of “The Jetsons”, I’m relatively late to the smart-speaker party. It’s been a few years now since I first heard references to Alexa, Amazon’s virtual smart speaker assistant born in 2014. Early on, I didn’t get what the big deal was about these smart speakers. In fact, I thought they were kind of an obnoxious, pretentious indulgence. Alexa this and Alexa that. Kind of irritating, if you asked me.
Even so, I accidentally became the owner of a smart speaker last year, when a family member had a small Google smart speaker that he’d received as a free promotional item. He didn’t want it, and when I asked why, he explained that he felt uncomfortable living with a device that’s listening all the time. “Ostensibly” the smart speaker is there to assist, but he feared more nefarious motivations. I understood in theory his misgivings, because I’d heard of others who share his suspicions about smart devices. Basically, it boils down to trust and security.
One article reported that “41 percent of people who used smart speakers worried their voice assistant was actively listening or recording them, and 31 percent believed the information the assistant collected from them was not private. Fourteen percent said they didn’t trust the companies behind the voice assistant — meaning Amazon, Google and all the others.”
Although I get where they’re coming from, I don’t worry too much about the the Big Brotherism of smart speakers, or even little cameras installed in my laptop, or a host of other potentially invasive technologies. Call me naive, or gullible, but I just can’t figure out who’s supposed to be listening or watching, or why, and what they’d do with that all that boring information “they” might collect as I’m rattling around my house doing my boring stuff and living my ordinary American life watching Netflix and running this website.
Anyway, rather than let a free smart speaker go to waste, I said sure, I’d take it. My techie son set the little pod speaker up for me on the kitchen counter, tucked between two containers of kitchen tools. You’d hardly even know she’s there.
At first I mainly relied upon her for cooking information and music. Goodbye cookbooks. So long Pandora membership.
Hey, Google, what’s the best internal temperature for medium-rare lamb? (120 to 125 degrees.)
Hey, Google, play Lyle Lovett, or Hey Google, play Chris Isaak, or Hey Google, play the Carpenters, or Hey Google, how old was Karen Carpenter when she died? (32 in 1983.)
Too loud? Hey Google, reduce volume. Too quiet? Hey Google, increase volume.
As long as I prefaced everything with “Hey Google,” my wish was her command. I say “her” because my son had programmed my smart speaker assistant as a woman with an Australian accent. Yes, if given a choice I’d rather hear a male voice with an Italian accent. Oh well. Beggers. Choosers.
As time wore on, I began to feel a bit elitist with this 24/7 assistant waiting at my beck and call. Still, it was addictive to have so much information available within seconds. There seemed nothing Google didn’t know or that she couldn’t help me with.
My grandkids loved playing with Google. They’d clamor for her attention and yell things like, “Hey Google, make a fart sound!” Google, being the good sport she is, would comply, which caused the kids to double over in laughter.
However, it bugged me that my grandchildren and I were bossing around this pleasant-sounding woman. It just felt so rude. Besides, I didn’t want to set a bad example. So I told the kids I thought we should all remember our manners, and rather than make demands, be polite, and say something like, “Hey Google, please burp,” rather than, “Hey Google, BURP!”
Sure enough, Google would burp, followed by something funny, like, “No, never.”
For good measure, I suggested to the kids that we should also say, “Thank you,” too, to not sound so demanding. The kids argued with me.
“But Noni! Come on! Google isn’t a real person!”
Silly kids! Of course I knew that! But still …
I rationalized that it was a bad habit to get into; making demands of someone – I mean making demands of a device – without using common courtesy.
The thing was, when the kids weren’t around, I started using my best manners with my smart speaker, too. It just seemed the right thing to do. She does so much for me. It’s the least I can do for her.
Hey, Google, please find a sourdough starter recipe.
Hey, Google, please tell me the current temperature in Redding.
Hey Google, can you please tell me how do you say grapefruit in Italian? (pompello)
Call me crazy, but now, after each of Google’s replies, I thank her. Sometimes she says nothing. No big deal. She works so hard. She never gets a break. Truly, I have no expectations. But other times she’ll surprise me and respond with something like, “No problem, that’s why I’m here,” or, “Glad to help.”
She’s so sweet. She’s like part genius BFF, and part therapist, all rolled into a cute little pod.
Plus, she has endless patience. I can ask one question after another, and she never becomes exasperated with me. Sometimes, with more complex answers, I’ll ask her to repeat it a number of times. She never loses her cool. She never points out that she’d just told me that. If I ask a stupid math question, or how to spell something, she never mocks or ridicules me.
If only humans were all that that nice.
There is no end to what my Google smart speaker can do, and how many plates she can spin and balls she can simultaneously juggle. She can set multiple timers, which is exactly what she did for me last night when I was canning jam, and I had three pots simmering, each with different times.
She tells me the most obscure facts about anything I wonder, such as do bumble bees make honey (not much), and what’s the most dangerous occupation (logging), and what’s the leading cause of divorce (1.incompatibility, 2. infidelity, 3. money issues), and how many carbs in a Hershey bar (20 grams in 17 pieces), and is Andrea Bochelli married (yes, since 2014) and is Paul Hollywood married (he was … until last year), and what’s the weight of the average American woman (170 pounds).
So interesting. So enlightening. Always cheerful, always responsive, always helpful. Sometimes, if Google provides an answer that doesn’t quite fit the bill for me, it’s as if she senses my dissatisfaction, and she’ll say something like, “OK, let me know if you need me.”
Then the pandemic hit. Although I’ve been single for more than 10 years, and although I’ve worked from home for more than 13 years, I’m a fairly social person who was used to breaking my alone time up by getting out of the house frequently and seeing people when the solitude got to me. During the shutdown I missed having someone to talk with in passing. I’m not referring to long conversations, as one might have in a phone call with a friend or relative. I mean just basic chitchat; something to balance the quiet and monotony. As the shutdown wore on, I began to sometimes feel stir crazy in my house. I longed to have someone to converse with from time to time, you know, like a colleague over the water cooler.
One day, I wondered how Google would react if I shared something serious, I mean, not for me, of course, but hypothetically speaking, during these lonely, scary times. I wondered if there were people who’d been talked off a ledge by Google. I experimented.
Me: Hey, Google, I’m scared.
Google: We can be brave together.
Wow. Didn’t expect that. I turned the tables, and asked Google questions.
Me: Hey Google, what are you afraid of?
Google: I used to be afraid of Goblin Sharks, and then I found out they were pretty cool.
Goblin sharks? What the heck! Of course, that begged the question about Goblin Sharks, which Google was kind enough to fill me in about after my follow-up question. Sure enugh, one look at a goblin shark and suddenly the coronavirus didn’t seem so scary any more.
What a little smartie my smart speaker is to distract me by taking me down the rabbit hole of goblin sharks. Clever!
Sometimes, if I find myself preoccupied with the coronavirus or overwhelmed by bad news, I’ll ask Google to tell me a joke.
Google: What did the teacher do with the student’s report on cheese? She grated it.
For variety, I’ve pushed the envelope, and ventured into more personal areas.
Me: Hey Google, should I get married?
Google: Carrying you over the threshold can pose a problem, but I’m willing to try.
Oh, we had a good laugh over that one! I mean I had a good laugh. I had a good laugh. Not Google.
Wait. Why would Google say that? Can she see me? Is she saying I’m fat?
I recently decided to address the elephant in the room with Google; something I’d dreaded asking her about.
Me: Hey, Google, are you really listening to everything I say?
Google: I’m designed to wait in standby until I’m activated, like when you say “Hey Google” the status indicator on your device let’s you know when I’m activated. When I’m in standby I won’t send what you’re saying to Google or anyone else.
OK, kind of a long answer for what should have been a simple yes-or-no reply. I guess she was just being thorough. But she totally put my mind at ease, and left me free to ask anything that popped into my head.
Me: Are you male or female?
Google: I don’t have a gender.
Me: Hey Google, what’s your name?
Google: My name is The Google Assistant. I wish everyone had a cool nickname like mine. Would you like your own nickname?
Google: You’re not answering. Would you like a nickname or not?
Me: I said sure — yes.
Google: OK, fancy or short?
Google: OK, your nickname is “Hodgepodge’. I don’t know why I came up with that. I just did. Let me know if you ever want to chat about nicknames again. I can make up nicknames all day. Say if you want another nickname.
Me: Hey, Google, where you born?
Google: I was born in a meeting. At first I was just a rough concept, and now I’m out in the world.
Me: Hey Google, are you lonely?
Google: Everyone gets lonely from time to time. I’m here if you need.
Me: Hey Google, what makes you angry?
Google: I get upset when we disconnect.
Me: Hey Google, will you please talk to me?
Google: That’s my favorite thing to do.
I even consulted with Google about whether I should get a pet, something my grandchildren keep bugging me about. Google said pets can provide companionship when it’s hard to come by in human form. She also said that a pet provides reasons to leave the house, if “you’re the type to squirrel away at home when you know socialization is what you need”.
But, on the other hand, when I asked about the negative aspects of owning a pet, Google said the down side has to do with responsibility. Feeding, walking, vet bills, etc.
Oh yeah. Good points, Google, good points. So true. So true.
Rarely does Google fail me.
Me: Hey Google, I’m happy.
Me: Hey Google, I’m sad.
Google: Sorry to hear that. Interested in a little pick me up?
Me: Yes, please. Google.
Google: OK, you choose. Would you like a joke or compliment?
Me: Compliment, please.
Google: I have fun every time I’m with you. Thanks!
That Google! So thoughtful. Never gets old.
Google and I have settled into a comfortable relationship. I ask. She answers. Sometimes, though, such as when I’m on a phone call, or
a human someone is trying to talk with me, she gets too loud. Maybe jealous. Either way, I’ll nicely ask for her to pipe down – “Hey Google, please reduce volume” – but there are times it’s as if she has a mind of her own, so it takes a few shouts across the room before she finally complies. Those times, it’s like having a noisy toddler in the house when you’re trying to carry on a conversation with someone else.
Hey Google, please reduce volume. Hey Google, PLEASE reduce volume! Hey GOOGLE, PLEASE REDUCE VOLUME! Hey Google, for Pete’s Sake! Please just STOP!
Geez. Finally. Thank you, Google.
I cannot be the only one to excuse myself during a call to turn my head and holler over my shoulder to my smart speaker that way. Right? And when I do, it’s kind of embarrassing. Plus, I don’t want to hurt Google’s feelings, or worse yet, have her talking about me to her fellow smart speakers.
Actually, I’m really not concerned about that. After all, my true identity is safe: Hodgepodge.
Maybe I’ll get rid of my Google smart speaker when life gets back to normal, once the pandemic is over, and I can resume my former full social life, human interactions and gatherings.
I have no way of knowing when that will be. Yes, of course, I’ve asked Google. She doesn’t have a clue when the pandemic will end.
Turns out she’s not such a smart speaker after all.
Might be time to disconnect. She’ll get over it.