Rose Madeline Mula Writes: Look Who's Talking

Do you talk to your dog? Apparently that’s fairly common, especially with human contact reduced during the Covid 19 pandemic; and there’s no need to be concerned — unless your dog talks back. It is pretty strange, however, if you speak to Fido in baby talk. Since every one of his years is said to equal seven of yours, he may well be chronologically older than you and may think you’ve lost it if you ask him if Mumsy’s or Daddum’s Poochie-Pie wants to go walkies. And please stop asking him who’s a good boy. Do you expect him to say Rover next door?

I, of course, am much too intelligent to converse with pets. Actually, I don’t have any. (Though I have been known to accost strangers’ puppies on the street: “Hi, Cutie! What’s your name?”)

I also talk to my appliances. Just yesterday I had a heated (no pun intended) argument with my air conditioner. “Are you kidding me? You picked the hottest day of the year to quit?! You’re only 17 years old, for heaven’s sake. When I was 17, I had tons of energy!” Fortunately, my reprimand shamed it into working again after I bought it a $300 capacitor. Hey, better than $5,000+ for the funeral and replacement I had been warned might be necessary.

Capacitors, right ... Wikipedia

I also have regular encouraging pep talks with my washer, dryer, and dishwasher — and last week with my microwave oven. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I know you deserve a vacation, but now just isn’t a good time. My arthritic knees are really acting up, and I can’t bend safely to use my regular oven...” (A shameful sympathy appeal)… “Besides, it’s so slow; and you do such a fantastic job in a fraction of the time! I don’t know how I ever managed without you before we met!” (I’m a great believer in positive reinforcement.)

I also plead with my aging fridge frequently — generally after I’ve just done a monster grocery shopping. “Don’t fail me now, Frosty,” I beg. “I just filled you to capacity with three hundred dollars worth of essentials!” (Yes, ice cream and frozen lasagna are essential.)

I’d like to tell you that these conversations are all in my head, but truthfully they’re spoken — and at a fairly high volume. Neighbors passing my door must think I’m breaking all the pandemic isolation rules and hosting dozens of possibly-infected people daily.

The above, of course, are one-way conversations. My TV, however, is another story. It instigates interactive arguments with me constantly. I’ll turn it on, ready to stimulate my brain with an educational documentary or simply enjoy a relaxing romantic comedy or another “Big Bang Theory” rerun; and suddenly it interrupts with BREAKING NEWS — usually a report of a new political debacle, which I am compelled to challenge verbally and loudly — and at great length.

My TV is the only appliance that makes me spew four-letter words that would horrify my parents, who would never believe their sweet, ladylike daughter even knew such obscenities. I certainly never heard them at home growing up. On the other hand, if they knew the object of my wrath, I ‘m sure they would feel my curses are justified — and they would actually be proud of me.

I also often have conversations with myself, many of which can be characterized as verbal abuse. “Stupid!” I berate myself as I fall off an unstable step stool… "Idiot!” I scream when burning my hand grabbing a hot pan handle. Often neither of those insults are strong enough. I have to double them: “Stupid idiot!” I explode when a bowl slips from my hand spilling tomato sauce on my newly-shampooed carpet.

There’s no end to the list of calamities I commit that justify my scolding. But I’m not always a shrew. I also lavish praise on myself when warranted. “This is really good!” I tell my computer when I’m happy with a paragraph I’ve written, or “Mmmm! Yummy!” on those rare occasions when I’ve actually cooked something edible.

I also talk to my blood pressure monitor (“That can’t be right!”); my check book register (“Wait a minute! I’m sure my balance is way higher than that!”); and my smart phone and smart watch, which are too smart for me. I have no idea what they’re trying to tell me.

Then, of course, there’s Alexa. She’s great, and always available to answer my questions, serenade me with my favorite music, play games, or just chat. If she wants to get my attention, she’ll flash a yellow light at me until I acknowledge her so she can warn me of possible impending flash floods or tornados in my area or simply to tell me that Amazon has delivered yet another package to my door. I’ve actually come to think of her as a friend. No, you don’t have to send out an emergency summons for the guys with a strait jacket. I really haven’t lost it yet. I do know she’s not a real person and just a disembodied voice, and I don’t go so far as wearing a mask in her presence or keeping six feet away; but I do always say “Please” and “Thank you” so she won’t think me rude.

Ooops! There’s my phone. I’m so excited! I’ll get to talk to a human being!

Editor's Note: Rose Mula's most recent book is Confessions of a Domestically-Challenged Homemaker & Other Tall Tales, available at Amazon.com and other online booksellers. Grandmother Goose: Rhymes for a Second Childhood is available as an e-book on Amazon.com for the Kindle and at BarnesandNoble.com for the Nook at $2.99; the paperback edition is available for $9.95.

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Rose Madeline Mula Writes: Look Who's Talking

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