My husband thinks I’m Siri
Can you remind me to read this later?
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Most evenings, my husband will start making dinner and I’ll put on whatever TV show we’re in the middle of rewatching (right now it’s Mad Men). Once he slides the dish into the oven, or sets the pot to a simmer, he joins me on the couch. As he settles in, he’ll often make the same request: Can I remind him to take the food out in 10 minutes?
When he does this, my head slowly rotates toward him like the Chucky doll’s. We’ve talked about this. I’m no better than him at discerning the exact passing of time. To nudge him after 10 minutes, I’d need to set an alarm on my phone. Which begs the question: Why didn’t he just set one on his phone?
I’ve taken to responding to this type of request with just one word: “Siri.” In our shared language, it’s a complete sentence. You are treating me like Siri. And—just in case this requires clarification—I am not her.
And yet the requests keep rolling in: “Where do I know that actor from?” “What’s the temperature outside?” “How long does it take to get there?” Here’s a text I got from him before Christmas:
“Reminder! I need to do something.”
Here’s the part in the husband essay where I clarify that my husband is a good person. He is kind and respectful to strangers, devoted to his friends and family and, most importantly, he cooks the majority of our meals and takes out the trash. But he is also scatterbrained and unable to send even the most basic text without a typo. It’s this part of him, I know, from which the Siri requests spring. And yet, at my most cynical (and especially when we’re rewatching Mad Men), all I see is weaponized incompetence. He can’t be blamed for the burned food or the forgotten gift, because it was my responsibility to remind him about it. The burden was shifted, without my consent. The buck somehow now stops with me, the person who’s not even performing the task.
Maybe these requests remind me so strongly of Siri because Siri sounds like me. So does Alexa. So does the voice of Google’s assistant. As Adrienne LaFrance wrote in The Atlantic back in 2016, basically all digital assistants are named or modeled after women. Dennis Mortensen, the CEO and co-founder of x.ai (not that one), told LeFrance that “[research] has been done—certainly on a voice level—on how you and I best take orders from a voice-enabled system. And it’s been conclusive that you and I just take orders from a female voice better.” I will save my thoughts on that for my manifesto.
Because while the gender dynamics here are certainly not a coincidence, this is not the only way this plays out. When I’ve mentioned this to female friends, I’ve more than once watched them blanch as they realize, in that moment, that they’re the ones treating their partners like Siri, the ones requesting information from their significant others that neither of them could possibly know without checking their phones. Feminist win!
My irritation is, it turns out, a technology problem. It’s a result of the erosion of human connection I’ve, ironically, long been complaining about. Why deliver food to a sick loved one when they can use DoorDash? Why pick a friend up at the airport when they can call an Uber? Why ask your wife where you may recognize that actor from when you can just open the IMDb app on your phone? Why talk to anyone at all?
My husband is asking me where he knows that actor from because I am the human sitting across from him with whom he’s shared a majority of his entertainment-watching experiences, and because we’re watching a show together. We are not strangers sitting side-by-side in a movie theater, but two people sharing a life. A life made up of TV shows and trips and errands and obligations and celebrations, and dinner that will be ready in 10 minutes. Nine minutes. Eight minutes…
Ha! I do this to my husband, too, but only because our Google Hub has gotten worse and worse over the years at hearing me say anything, and it doesn't have trouble hearing him. I'll say, "Hey Akshay, can you ask Google to set a timer for 10 minutes?" And he'll say, "Hey Google, set a timer for 10 minutes." Our kids find it very funny, at least.
> My husband is asking me where he knows that actor from because I am the human sitting across from him with whom he’s shared a majority of his entertainment-watching experiences, and because we’re watching a show together. We are not strangers sitting side-by-side in a movie theater, but two people sharing a life.
Being asked “what do I know that actor from?” has become annoying to me 😬.
I appreciate the reframe. I could choose to see it as a bid for connection.