My husband Steve is now the proud owner of his very first pick-up truck. This truck is even sweeter because we have "shared" a car (my ’97 Nissan Altima) for 3-1/2 years. When Steve’s car died back in California, I’m the one who suggested he drive my car to work while I walk the two miles each way to my job. I’ve hardly driven it since. Then after we moved to North Carolina seven months ago, Steve spent many hours checking out prices until he found the perfect deal. No one can ever accuse either one of us of impulse buying.

This truck came equipped with voice commands. We had to give the truck a name and Steve chose the name Sam. As we drove home from the car lot, we couldn’t wait to impress Steve’s kids with how high-tech we are. (You may remember our adventures with a navigational system from a previous post. We typed in Panera Bread Cafe and the GPS took us to a bread distribution warehouse in a very unsavory part of town. We’re not the highest-tech couple on the planet.)

Steve pushed the phone button and spoke into the microphone in the ceiling.  "Call Kyle," he said. 

Sam answered "Dialing Nita Hughes."

"No, stop! Don’t! No call Nita Hughes," Steve yelled. "End call, end call. Abort!"

I pushed the button to disconnect the call. Now it was my turn. I felt certain that Sam would understand me. After all, I have a very loud voice and I enunciate. What can I say? I love public speaking and I used to be a cheerleader.

"Call Lisa,"  I said.

Sam replied, "Dialing Home."

"No! I said ‘Call Lisa.’ Does ‘Lisa’ sound like ‘Home’ to you?" I yelled into the microphone. "Lisa, moron. Call Lisa."

I think I hurt Sam’s feelings. "Ending call," he said.

Oh well. At least he drives great.