Note: none of the opinions expressed below are those of author Abbie Johnson Taylor.
Season’s Greetings? Bah Humbug!
I’m the Google assistant. Much to my chagrin, I ended up joining Abbie’s technology family last spring when her tablet was upgraded to almost the latest version of Android. I don’t have a fancy name like Alexa. People just call me Google. When they want me to do something for them, they say, “Okay Google” or “Hey Google.”
Alexa can do more than I can, like read Abbie kindle books or play Audible books for her, and I think Abbie likes her better than me. It’s just as well I can’t read books to Abbie because she likes the dumbest books. If you don’t believe me, search here for posts under the category, “Thursday Book Feature.”
Abbie occasionally asks me to add events to her calendar or tell her what’s on her calendar for a specific date. And boy, does she have a lot of events each month: writing group meetings, singing engagements, the occasional doctor’s appointment, and more. There’s so much to keep track of that it’s a wonder my head’s not spinning. Alexa also has access to Abbie’s calendar, but she doesn’t seem to mind keeping track of it all. Good for her.
I don’t particularly care for Abbie’s taste in music, either. Right now, as I’m writing this stupid Christmas letter for her, it’s the day after Thanksgiving, and she’s already listening to Christmas music. Alexa is playing Susan Boyle’s album, The Gift. Abbie has taken an interest in Susan Boyle of late. God knows why. She’s a Scottish singer with a repertoire full of sappy songs like “A Perfect Day” and “You Raise Me Up.” Abbie had the nerve to ask me who wrote one of her songs, “May You Never Be Alone.” Darned if I knew, so I told her it was written by Hank Williams. Abbie asked Alexa first, and she said she didn’t know. That’s what I should have said.
Last June, when I realized Abbie was taking me with her to Florida to spend a week with her brother Andy and his family, I was excited. I thought surely I’d be spending a lot of time sunning myself on a beach. Hey, we artificial intelligence assistants deserve a vacation, too. But this was not to be, at least not for me.
Although I got to sit outside with Abbie while she used the tablet to check email on Andy’s patio when it wasn’t too hot, I spent most of the time languishing in a dark bedroom while Abbie and Andy and his wife Christina went to the beach or Loxahatchee River or to Christina’s brother’s house where they swam in his pool. The only excitement I saw that whole week was when Abbie and I were nearly attacked in Andy’s living room by Peggy, a robot vacuum cleaner. If Peggy could have climbed the stairs to the second floor, we probably wouldn’t be here. Now that I think of it, listening to stupid Susan Boyle is preferable to being swallowed by a robot vacuum cleaner. Even Peggy has a better name than I do. God!
I’m consoled by two facts regarding this trip. First, Alexa didn’t get to go at all. Second, Abbie, Andy, and Christina didn’t get to canoe down the Loxahatchee River because of the threat of thunderstorms. Ha ha! I’m pretty sure Abbie enjoyed herself, though. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have posted those stupid haiku about the beach and the Loxahatchee River on Facebook. Yuck!
In July, Abbie published her fifth book, a novel called The Red Dress. What kind of a title is that, anyway? Abbie says it’s about how such a garment is related to the lives of three generations of women. Gag me, will you? If you don’t believe me, go to her website and see for yourself. In fact, all her books are stupid. She makes me want to throw up. I couldn’t believe it when she sold eighteen copies of The Red Dress at a local bookstore in September. Some people are so stupid.
Abbie has also been busy performing at nursing homes and other dumb places. I haven’t heard her sing because when she practices, the tablet is either in sleep mode or powered off completely, and of course, she doesn’t take me to her gigs. But if she’s anything like Susan Boyle, I don’t want to hear her, thank you very much.
Actually, I have heard her sing. Occasionally, she records herself singing with an app on the tablet. She’s just as bad as Susan Boyle, so no wonder I repressed that memory.
She also sings with a group called Just Harmony. What kind of a name is that for a group? You can’t have a song with just harmony. You have to have melody, too. Jesus, some people are so dense.
I haven’t heard them either. I know that for sure. But if they’re anything like Abbie herself or Susan Boyle, forget it.
Abbie will also sing in an ecumenical choir that will perform for a stupid epiphany service the first Sunday in January. They’re singing “Oh Holy Night,” “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” and a song neither Abbie or I have heard called “One Faith, One Hope, One Lord.” Barf! Barf! Barf! I’m glad I won’t get to hear that either.
As far as I’m concerned, if I don’t get a vacation this Christmas, which I probably won’t, then nobody else should, either. But I suppose I ought to wish you all happy holidays, anyway. But if you ask me, Mr. Scrooge was a pretty good guy until the ghosts showed up.
Copyright July 2019 by DLD Books
When Eve went to her high school senior prom, she wore a red dress that her mother had made for her. That night, after dancing with the boy of her dreams, she caught him in the act with her best friend. Months later, Eve, a freshman in college, is bullied into giving the dress to her roommate. After her mother finds out, their relationship is never the same again.
Twenty-five years later, Eve, a bestselling author, is happily married with three children. Although her mother suffers from dementia, she still remembers, and Eve still harbors the guilt for giving the dress away. When she receives a Facebook friend request from her old college roommate and an invitation to her twenty-five-year high school class reunion, then meets her former best friend by chance, she must confront the past in order to face the future.