|Posted on October 3, 2013 at 3:30 AM|
au•to•ma•tion (ô t -m sh n) n. 1. The automatic operation or control of equipment, a process, or a system. 2. The techniques and equipment used to achieve automatic operation or control. 3. The condition of being automatically controlled or operated.
For the most part, automation is supposed to be our friend. It makes our lives easier. Redial on the phone is a good thing. It comes in really handy when you’re calling into a radio station to win that prize. Traffic signals that sense the flow of traffic so you don’t have to stop at 2 am when no one is in sight is sweet. And, well, that’s about it for me. Automation is my nemesis.
Piddling after you’ve piddled – Yes, yes, of course. We all want to save water. But, those automatic water faucets at public restrooms are for the birds—literally. Dutifully washing my hands, I haven’t even gotten to F in the alphabet when the thing turns off. And the soap spits out a fraction of Brylcreem’s ‘little dab’ll do ya.’
“No soap for you! Next!” sprays the water-Nazi.
I’ve tried to defeat it by waving my left hand in front of the sensor while my right hand stands by. Try washing and soaping one handed. Suddenly I’m a Tim Conway skit.
Keep moving, nothing to see here - The cousin of the faucet fascist is Otto Flusher. Not to get into any graphic detail but I want to make sure everything is as Dr. Oz says it should be. Can I just take a quick peek?
I’m not even upright yet and it’s all gone. What if I was one of those gals who just gave birth at the prom? How would I know? Sometimes, I’m just adjusting myself a bit on the seat and swoooooosh! Move along sister!
Once I just entered the stall and was prepping the area with a seat cover and--floop! My sunglasses fell off my face and were sucked into a mad spiral. Before I could snatch them back, they were on their way out to sea.
I have been doing this potty thing since I was 2, I think I can handle the timing myself, thank you very much.
Auto-crack – This texting feature was undoubtedly designed for the Gen-Y’s who can’t spell, can’t add—what do you do? But, really. It’s like trying to tell a story and having a control-freak in the group who can’t wait and has to fill in the blanks. I know what I want to say, let me finish!
Me: Sheady, what would you like for d-i-n-t-e-r?
Siri: Steady, what would you like for dinner?
Me: No, twit. It’s ‘Sheady” and “dinter.” It’s a joke between us. It’s a Madea thang.
Siri: Naudea thing.
Then, of course, there are the messages that can get a boy in a lot of trouble.
Me: Cory, do you need me to pick you up?
Cory: No, Mum. Emily will give me a rise.
Me: TMI, son.
Cory: A ‘ride!’ A ride! Damn autocorrect!
I’m sure I’ve left out amazing automation that has benefitted man and womankind. They just don’t come to mind while I'm freakishly waving my hands under a paper towel dispenser that is not automatic. But, I do have some thoughts of my own. I’d paid handsomely for a device on my coffee cup that senses tension and automatically squirts a shot of Kahlua.