(c) Celine Sparks, 2023
Laban must have been sick of living in the same tent with two daughters bickering constantly over whose closet that tunic came out of because “I’m pretty sure it’s mine,” whose turn it was to put up the chalices, and who gets to ride on the front hump of the camel. He was that Genesis father that gave the wrong bride to the groom.
At our wedding, the music for the grandparents started while they were still in the bathroom, the wrong microphones were used so that nothing got recorded, and the director sent the attendants down at the wrong time, but at least the groom got the right bride. I mean, I hope he did. He’s been stuck with the one he got for 34 years.
He has said a number of times, “I love the wife I have. But I don’t want two.” Jacob got two. And they were sisters. I don’t think anyone could write a prescription for a worse daily disaster.
And don’t miss this. Jacob worked seven years to get who he thought was going to be Rachel. When it was Leah instead, he negotiated a deal to work seven more years to get the first pick. Laban agreed, but said, go ahead and get her on credit a little early -- say about ... next week, okay? It doesn’t take Columbo to figure out he was looking at the empty nest egg thinking peaceful solitude in Montego or at least the Mesopatamian Keys.
I get it. We have two women under the same roof who battle for our attention, who both think they have all the answers, and will interrupt your question before you can finish asking it. Their names are Siri and Alexa, but they will answer to anything remotely similar. Like “black socks” – a frequent morning phrase around here, as in, “Do I have any clean?” (because you may as well check before settling for dirty).
Black socks. Alexa. She thinks it’s close enough, and lights up like a nose on an Operation game when she hears it. But when I’m actually trying to get her attention to get some information or set a timer or find out if Penny Marshall is still alive, she won’t answer me for all the tea in China or Capri Suns at soccer camp. That’s because I’m calling her Siri.
It’s hard to love two women.
It’s particularly hard when you have twin Siris in the same car. I know it’s supposed to be set to where it only responds to your voice. Otherwise, the whole plane would light up over the ocean when one person whispered “Hey Siri,” and the pilot would have to make an emergency landing at the nearest island penitentiary to lock up everyone who disregarded, “Please set your device to airplane mode at this time.”
My Siri is set up to recognize my voice, but apparently my husband’s phone is set up to recognize my voice and his voice. We’re not even sure how that happens, but it’s something like the wedding where your bride can be either Leah or Rachel under a veil, or in the case of a North Carolina mountain one, Charlene Darling or Barney Fife.
Anyway, we have become dependent on Siri when we are lost in an unfamiliar town. The greater the population, the greater the odds. Throw in work traffic, a few pop-up surprise one-way streets, an ambulance or two, and a school bus with the population of Beijing unloading, and you’ve got a feel for the scene we somehow always end up in. By the way, did you know it’s possible to be part of a funeral procession without even realizing anyone died (or was even sick)? Entirely.
But we’re only trying to find a Chick-fil-A. So I blurt out, “Hey Siri, go to Chick-fil-A” before I remember to tell my husband to put his woman under his leg so she won’t hear, and get involved. Of course, his Siri answers, and I say, “Sit on her!” And I just try to tell mine the actual address of Chick-fil-A so we won’t end up like we did one time, I promise, at an on-campus Chick-fil-A of a college that must have had record enrollment, one break between classes, and a student body completely committed to no red meat for this one day. The line looked like that time Build-A-Bear only charged you your age to build a bear, and I looked at the line, and said “They couldn’t pay me my weight to stand in it.”
So anyway - back to the Siri-under-his-leg day - she kept shouting out commands for the nearest Chick-fil-A while her sister was giving directions to the one with the actual address, and my husband couldn’t tell them apart, and he was driving. And it went exactly like this. Not exaggerating.
“In 250 feet, turn left.”
“Turn right.”
“Make a U-turn.”
“Continue two miles to the roundabout.”
“Go straight.”
“Stay in the left two lanes.”
It was like they were intentionally communicating, “Don’t listen to her. I’m right on this. She’s an imposter. I can bench-press 250. Shut up. Make me. I’m prettier. I’m older. Ask my mother.”
This has something to do with why my husband keeps a giant paper atlas between the seats – the kind where you put your finger on a thin red (and quiet) line intersecting with all kinds of blue and yellow lines, and you trace your red line all the way to Reno, fold up the Atlas, and say, “I’ve got it.” It’s just easier.
We’ve learned to turn one of the phones off, which is usually the one that someone is trying to contact us on. Someone who needs to tell us our pipes have burst at home, or our test results are in from the mammogram, or it’s the deadline to apply for the scholarship. It’s always that one we turn off, and not the one with the calls about the last chance for a car warranty or weatherproof windows.
And suddenly, mid-trip, Siri’s voice trails off and in a much lower tone, with far less inflection, she says without emotion as if from a dark cave, “In 2 miles, take a slight right to stay on Green Cedars Doctor.” And we say, “Siri, have you been … drinking?”
I think she’s just mad because two miles back, I called her Alexa.
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