Harriet and Stanley, a lovable couple in their late 80s, had just moved into a new home after decades in their old house. But this wasn’t just any home—it was a “smart home,” equipped with all the latest voice-activated gadgets, courtesy of their enthusiastic, tech-savvy grandson. “Everything’s voice-controlled now,” he said with a proud grin, clapping his hands as he gave them the tour. “You can talk to the lights, the thermostat, the TV—even the fridge tells you when you’re out of milk!” Harriet narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Does it tell you when the milk’s gone bad? Because your grandfather’s been drinking expired milk since the Nixon administration and says it ‘builds character.’” Stanley simply shrugged and replied with his usual dry humor, “Hasn’t killed me yet. Might even be the secret to my longevity.”
That evening, Harriet decided to test the system. Standing in the center of the living room, she spoke clearly, “Turn on the lights!” Nothing happened. So, she raised her voice, “TURN ON THE LIGHTS!” Still nothing. Stanley, lounging in his recliner with a newspaper, didn’t look up. “You’ve gotta say, ‘Hey Smart Home’ first,” he muttered, sounding far too entertained. Harriet took a deep breath and shouted, “HEY SMART HOME, TURN ON THE LIGHTS!” The microwave beeped, the lights stayed off, and for some reason, the thermostat dropped to a frigid 60 degrees. Stanley, now wrapped in a blanket, grumbled, “Well, guess it thinks we’re preparing for winter.”
Not one to give up easily, Harriet tried again the next day. She wanted to hear some of her favorite tunes and gave the command, “Hey Smart Home, play some Frank Sinatra.” For a brief moment, there was silence—then the speakers erupted with blaring gangster rap. The bass shook the floor, and the lyrics were so fast neither of them could understand a word. Stanley covered his ears and yelled, “This sure ain’t flyin’ me to the moon!” It took 45 long, chaotic minutes, a phone call to their grandson, and a near meltdown to get the music to stop. Harriet was unimpressed. Stanley swore the speakers had it out for them.
That night, just as they were about to go to sleep, the kitchen fridge joined in. From across the house, a robotic voice announced, “You are out of eggs.” Harriet sat up in bed, confused. Stanley, half-asleep, groaned and yelled back, “Then go get some!” There was a pause, followed by the fridge responding, “I didn’t catch that.” Harriet turned to Stanley with a deadpan look. “We’ve been married for 60 years. I thought retirement meant I’d finally get to boss you around without interruptions. Instead, I’ve got a refrigerator with attitude.”
By morning, they’d had enough. The smart house had proven to be too smart—and way too sassy—for their taste. Harriet went around the house, unplugging devices one by one like she was defusing bombs. The lights, the speakers, the fridge, even the thermostat—they all went dark. Stanley handed her his old flip phone, the one with the buttons she loved and the ringtone she’d had since 2003. “Let’s just go back to yelling at each other the old-fashioned way,” he said with a smile.
In the end, Harriet and Stanley realized that while technology can be convenient, nothing beats the comfort of simplicity and familiarity. Their home may not talk back anymore, but it also doesn’t drop the temperature without warning or blast inappropriate music when they’re just trying to relax. And in their book, that’s a win.
Would you like me to turn this into a funny Facebook caption too?
