Pam's Tall Tales

Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness

My approach to dealing with Coronavirus has been two-fold: first, to be short-tempered with the long-suffering husband; and second, to clean with a vengeance.

Although the long-suffering one once worked in a department of microbiology, he fails to apply the principals he learned in the lab to the kitchen. He leaves the top off the milk, reheats the chicken for the third time, and sees what we are eating today as an exercise in recycling items approaching their sell-by date rather than nutrition – it’s a miracle we’ve survived this far. So, perhaps it was not the best idea to send him out shopping. His interpretation of the CDC guideline to gather a 30-day supply of essentials was, in keeping with microbiological training on sterile technique, that 70% alcohol kills everything.

While all Manhattanites are washing their hands like Lady Macbeth I should begin by saying that in normal times I am certainly not at all a clean freak. I have no problem riding the wave(s) of dog hair and general detritus blowing around my living room. But in times of stress, like a cat that licks its paws when it fails to catch the mouse, I focus on the filth with zeal in a desire to do something, anything to attack an impenetrable problem. My children cottoned on to this behavior pattern long ago and used to ask: “Mummy, the bathroom is very clean today, are you writing a grant?” The dogs are also thoroughly acquainted with the routine. At first, they get excited and prance around with a look that says – “Yes, she’s got out the vacuum cleaner and is finally going to hoover out our beds”. But as the process continues they become apprehensive and pace about in fear of “Does this mean we have to get a bath too?”

Of course, all this is because Manhattan is a mess. This week, in the interest of social distancing, we had to let our faithful dog walkers go. I spent long days in the vivarium fathoming which mice might be young enough to revive our colony when all this is over. I have a thick chest from breathing in the Lysol fumes abounding in the hospital from the continual cleaning of the door handles and light switches.

In the days when the QE2 and Queen Mary cruise ships used to pass down the Hudson, it was remarkable to see how many blocks of Manhattan they spanned. It was often said that they were the equivalent of the Empire State building turned on its side. Now we know the full extent of what the reverse of that statement means. Our apt block has 800 units with 6 elevators serving 57 floors. Even with the new rules as of this Friday, limiting occupancy to four people, these are cramped – there is no way to practice social distancing, and you can’t hold your breath for 53 floors - I’ve tried. Like the people on the Titanic, the building’s management has been in denial and their response came too late. They gave the doormen cotton gloves to be laundered until I wrote a stern letter to the board – they finally got disposable gloves 3 days ago. The family-run dry-cleaners in the basement, who, also take in the parcels, closed on Friday in fear for their own safety. With no plan from management for the consequences, many people congregated in the lobby, gregariously chatting while waiting for their food deliveries. Now, a pallor of panic hangs over New York of the kind I have not seen since 9/11. High-rise buildings are, in essence, cruise ships tipped on their end. The only questions that remain are how fast will we go down and who gets the lifeboats.

My Own Private Grand National

Yesterday I took part in a horse race that held all the excitement of Grand Nationals from my childhood. Back in those days, my mother, egged on of course by her father, not to mention her Irish Toohey genes, would scan the newspaper for the odds and place half a crown on a promising horse. Then we would gather around the telly and watch with baited breath as the horses thundered round the racetrack and scream when they fell at Beecher’s Brook.

So, on the eve of this years Grand National, I decided to celebrate the old tradition by placing a bet on an Ebay horse. I’ve been looking for a nice picture to sit over the fireplace of our little  gatehouse and wanting something in keeping with its era I researched the famous 19C animal painters.If I were rich I’d pick one by J.F. Herring and sons or failing that George Stubbs Lincolnshire Ox would fit the bill because it makes me laugh.

Lincolnshire Ox. George Stubbs. Walker Art Gallery

But, as I was brought up to be thrifty, (we never bet more than half a crown), I found instead a 5-inch watercolor horse on Ebay called Ginger. 

I let Ginger walk around the paddock of my indecision for a week or two, eyed his form and checked out his fetlocks with the magnification tool. In the last half hour I decided I would place a bid.  I was under no illusion about the JFH signature in the corner of the picture - this was clearly a Red Herring - certainly not a J.F. Herring - nevertheless I decided a small flutter was in order because regardless of his pedigree I liked his looks. I waited until the the race was in home stretch before entering -  there had been a bit of a skirmish between two automatic bidders who had whipped and jockeyed each other along for a lap or two. I placed my bid ten minutes before the bell - all seemed well - one of the two previous contestants had fallen at a hurdle and I had a comfortable lead on the other who also seemed to have tired of the race. I was ten seconds from the finishing line and feeling the flush of imminent victory when a phantom bidder appeared and raced past.  It was neck and neck towards the finishing line.  Frantically I slapped down another ten dollars - but too late! I was pipped at the post and Ginger left the paddock with a different owner. 

Ginger on Ebay

My Husband, The Iron Chef

Tonight the temperature is forecast to drop 20 degrees.  This means it’s that sad time of year when the tropical plants have to come in from the balcony. Our view from the bedroom becomes bereft of life and once inside the plants struggle to adjust to light behind the windowpane. At first they go into shock, then revive and struggle on gamely through the winter shedding leaves, until the end of January when the heating system and dry air reduce them to bare twigs. I know I should just bite the bullet, toss them out, and accept this as the price of city dwelling. But being "the patron saint of lost causes" every year I try to keep them going, subjecting them to a slow death.

On the more positive side, this is also the time of year when it becomes cool enough to turn on the oven. We are the kind of tired professional couple who, despite living in the most exciting city in the world, most frequently reply to the question “what are you doing friday evening?” with the stock answer “Laundry”. But for some years now we’ve tried to introduce culinary adventures while the sheets tumble. The dogs are very excited by this. Any whiff of Sunday roast and they are glued to the base of the stove.

This year the long-suffering husband decided that he would like to reach down to his maternal Monticello roots and pull off a few Italian dishes. So, on his birthday, I signed him up for a series of cooking classes at the aptly located Hell's Kitchen branch of  Sur la Table. 

Personally, I have never felt the need for kitchen gadgetry and happily complete most kitchen tasks with the bread knife. From my perspective one knife is as good as another - I don’t care - as long as the handle is red. But for the long-suffering husband it is a different matter.  In his view, “culinary gear maketh the chef.”

It all started with the "Knife Skills" class.  He arrived home with three new fangled, lethal-looking Japanese sushi knives. Since then, every evening he’s dons his chefs apron, assumes a samurai warrior persona and smites the vegetables left and right julienning them into matchsticks regardless of whether the recipe needs it or not.  It seems I am married to a veritable Edward Scissorhands - but why should I complain when I haven’t had to peel a carrot in months.

Then came the "Risotto" class. In he burst with a bag full of gourmet goods – Italian Arboreo rice, Australian Murray River Pink Sea Salt, a special type of fungi, truffle oil and of course a set of very large wooden stirring spoons. He proceeded to chop and stir, boil and bubble, using every pan and dish in the kitchen. But, in the end, it was well worth all the mess. The risotto was divine!

 

His desire for professional implements, however, got seriously out of hand following the "Artisan Pizza" class.  We have a classic NYC galley kitchen – the kind where swinging a cat would be completely impossible, in fact you have to step to one side just to open the oven door. Undeterred by this fact, in he waltzed with one of those 4 ft long pizza shovels they use in commercial bakeries to slide the pies in and out of brick ovens. For want of a better place it’s now hanging on the bathroom door with the ironing board.  

But I decided to let it go. We each have our illogical desires.  Our marriage works in part because, for example, I know when his heart is set on a four season tent - we are talking here about the kind Scott would take to the antarctic, and he in turn, encourages me to pick a Bertazzoni cooker, knowing full well it has nothing to do with its BTUs but because its bright red. 

In Sickness and in Health

For the last month my family have been on a roller coaster. In early March, aged parent was admitted to hospital with pneumonia and discharged the next day to convalesce at home. My siblings held the fort for a fortnight. I arrived three-weeks ago thinking I would be nursing a 93-year old man through an acute infection by cooking up hearty soups and tasty casseroles. Within a week his situation deteriorated rapidly, his ankles swelled and his chest began creaking like an old piano – symptoms of chronic heart failure. His GP was a saint and made three house visits, but by the weekend a man who 6 months before had been riding his bicycle could no longer lift himself from the chair. The hospital sent an ambulance and thanks to the oxygen supplement he’s now in happier spirits, but his doctors have a difficult task. For two weeks they have tried to  to relieve the excess fluid pressure on his heart without polishing off the kidneys in the process. If they can sail between this medical Scylla and Cherybdis to stabilize his situation, then he will be transferred to a rehabilitation ward to help him regain a measure of independent living. Faced with an uncertain prognosis we have scurried to plan for every possible outcome by interviewing home-care companies, vetting and visiting residential facilities, upgrading the house infrastructure to facilitate home-care. It has been a whirlwind eye-opening induction into the world of elder-care.

Amid this were some moments of respite to be cherished.   My sister sent a coffee press to help with my jet-lagged mornings and came up for two days to drive me to Macclesfield hospital via my beloved Bosley Cloud, Wildboarclough, Wincle and Higher Sutton – a route that sooths the spirit by its vaste wild beauty.

Bangers and Mash at The Robin Hood, Rainow with "Dearly Demented Sister" and "Soul of Patience" Brother-in -law

My distant cousin, Paul, with whom I share the family tree hobby, drove over from Warrington to give me his great grandmothers invitation to my parents wedding. My school friend Gill, with whom I have shared all the important ups and downs of life, came twice to provide her sage District Nurse advice, solace and friendship. In each case we dined at some lovely ancient Cheshire pub – the Bears Head at Brereton, The Swetty Arms at Swettenham, the Robin Hood at Rainow. Dads neighbors, Sylvia, Harry, Sue and John, and bicycling buddies, Paul and Hamish, called, visited, drove us to and fro, listened and provided important advice, support and freindship.

Roast Lamb at The Swetty Arms, Swettenham, Cheshire

Having to leave in the middle of all this is an unpleasant corollary of working abroad. Expats set out on our big career adventures to new lands as young people - a quarter of a century later we find ourselves distant from elderly relatives in need of our care and torn as to where to retire when our children and our grandchildren have grown up as citizens of other countries. The Seven-UP documentary, which traces the life path people of my age group, has highlighted this dilemma in the case of one participant, Nick, who grew up on a farm in Yorkshire Dales wanting to study the moon and be an astronaut, and as a legacy of Maggie Thatchers gutting of the British university system, left the UK to make his career as a physicist in Madison, WI. 

Bro, The Good Son, with Dad

This situation also crystallizes that my siblings friends and I are now on the downward slope of the Gaussian curve of life. In thinking this over I have decided that there are three essentials to maintaining a long quality of life  at home as one ages.  First, you need a good son, like Bro, who is always there in times of need.   Second, you need to rip out the bathtub and  install a wet room - on the ground floor - sooner rather than later, and third, and equally importantly, you need to live within walking (motorized wheelchair) distance of a Cheshire pub. Remarkably Brereton Hall gatehouse fulfills these two latter criteria and has just come on the market. I’m very tempted - and to my American husband - it’s as good as an English castle.

The Gatehouse to Brereton Hall

 

The pub next-door: The Bears Head, Brereton, Cheshire

Spring Sunday In New York

Every New Yorker has cabin fever. The endless snow has made us hanker for spring, and for the most part, like everything else, we have to buy it in. Branches of quince and tulips have arrived in the corner delis and  crocuses are bursting forth and shivering behind their plastic awnings.  

The snow is still melting in piles across the city and more is forecast for next week. But today the sun came out to warm us and for the first day we could shed our feather coats and pretend that spring is here. The squirrels were out foraging at the UN and the birds were making a racket and nesting inside the hollow pipes that hold each street lamp.  

It was Graham's second birthday. Being biologists where else would we take him but to Central Park Zoo. We arrived in time for the penguin feeding and caught a glimpse of the cities current pride and joy, a pair of snow leopard cubs.

 

Then we meandered around to see the red pandas and of course to feed the sheep and goats. 

 

The carousel was closed until March so we trekked back across the snowy park and snuggled into a booth in a child freindly Irish bar, P.J. Clarkes, on the upper west side for steak followed by and ice cream for the birthday boy. It was a lovely day...... 

 

Minimalism versus the Messy Life: My own take on Chaos Theory

When I was twenty or so I read an article on life-work balance that recommended, “ditch the curtains and tablecloths because when you buy one item to cover another this means there will be two things you will have to clean.” Sage advice - I have been curtain-less ever since.

However competing with this desire for minimalism is an equally intense drive to save, preserve and repurpose everything.  Inevitably, over time, it becomes increasingly difficult not to accumulate a goodly amount of paraphernalia. A move certainly helps to clear house, but, after a quarter of a century in one place, a fire would be better. Periodically, I am driven, by some vain fantasy of “getting ones life in order”.  Inevitably this means a trip to IKEA, where it is statistically impossible to leave without acquiring another $300 worth of stuff, purchased in some futile attempt to organize the existing detritus.

Here’s how stuff leads to more stuff. Take the dogs for example. One dog leads to a second dog to keep the first one happy. Together they produce 2X bales of dog hair that blow around the living room like tumbleweeds.  A new fangled robotic vacuum is purchased to back up to the conventional one so that friends can visit us without dying of asphyxiation. By the time the second dog is successfully housetrained the floors need renovating.  This involves moving thousands of books twice and on the second move our thirty-year old IKEA bookshelves disintegrate.

The book problem

The first dog promptly chews the piles of books while the other develops an insane desire to wrestle requiring the purchase of rugs to protect the newly refurbished wood floor from its claws. The robot cannot cope, throws a hissy fit, and shreds the rugs. The dogs join in chewing and regurgitating the remains, generally on cue, under the table, just as guests are sitting down for dinner. 

When I was younger and a single parent struggling to hold together family and a job with a workaholic supervisor - an old flame suggested I consider a second career in crisis management since I dealt with it (on reflection he probably meant created it) on a daily basis. If he’s reading this now he’ll be laughing and thinking “lucky escape - people don’t change” and, alas, he would be right.  But mercifully with age the concept of “getting ones life in order” becomes moot since three quarters of it is already over. Moreover, somewhere along the way you make your peace with the fact that life does not take place in some minimalist Calvin Klein Home showroom and begin to embrace its glorious riot of messiness. So I am now considering built in bookcases with bulletproof glass doors because the only other solution is to burn the books or shoot the dogs.

The Big Freeze

We should have known  that something bigger was afoot when we awoke to frozen pipes. But the plumbers assured us it was their mistake - not enough ethylene glycol in the system. So after a chilly day of repairs we thought our troubles were over, left our "Winter Palace" and set out on the long journey home. Our New Year's Day drive through the Hiawatha Forest, which stands sandwiched between Lakes Michigan and Superior, was spectacular - bright and sunny. We stopped to take in the immense beauty of Lake Michigan's northern shoreline - frozen as far as the eye could see. 

Snow measure by the Lake Michigan shoreline

 

Frozen Waves

 

Lake Michigan's Northern Shoreline looking south

 

Husky Heaven

 

 

The Great White North

 

The Long Suffering Husband in his Element

Then we got a text from our dog walkers in New York warning us about the storm. I checked the forecast - the prediction looked bad.  Sure enough, an hour later we were struggling through menacing conditions.  The snow swirled across the road and every hundred yards we passed cars in the ditch on the side of the highway.  The drop in visibility caused by snow flurries coincided with dusk. After a hour of witnessing car after car that had careered off the icy road we decided to pull into Ann Arbor.  The exit ramp was lethal and we ended up slithering sideways into a parking lot. But everyone had the same idea and, as a result, the motels were full and there was "no room at the inn" for the dogs.  So we were forced to struggle back up the ramp and on to the highway for another hair-raising hours ride to our reserved room in Toledo.  The next day we had to dig the car out of the driveway. The conditions remained menacing. Toledo was encircled by crashed cars - we saw at least 20 in the ditch within as many miles - and at this point decided that our original plan to cross the Pennsylvania wilds on I-80 under these conditions would be madness. So we headed 3 hours south to Dayton, OH and on to Columbus, in an effort to skirt the storm but make it home on I-70 before the second predicted storm could overtake us.

The detour

 This was the worst day, every city was ringed by cars in the ditch and as we approached Pittsburg we were held up for an hour because a truck had careened off the road just ahead, hit the embankment and exploded. The cabin was flattened, firmen had sawed out the driver who was airlifted out by helicopter.  This was the last straw. We pulled off the road and into a wonderfully dog-friendly Ramada that turned out to be set on the top of some retired Pittsburg coalpit.  We prayed that the treacherously steep road  would be ploughed by morning. It was! The next day was fine and clear, the storm had passed north and on to New York and Boston and we were able to follow the salt and grit trucks clearing the roads in its wake. Now the snow has gone but we have freezing air. New York is -19C and our Winter Palace in Channing, MI, at -26C is fit for The Snow Queen. If anyone knows how to effectively heat or insulate an A-frame house let me know. I've searched the web and it doesnt look promising, but more of that later. 

How To Pour The Thanksgiving Gravy

Norman Rockwell Thannksgiving Dinner

This week the long suffering husband  went ahead and bought his "ancestral" Michigan lake house. I am trying to reserve judgement on the wisdom of having a house that is two days drive away, but, at present, the one positive thing I can say  is that I now have a closet in which to store all the detritus and family memorabilia one collects in life - make no mistake this is a big deal if you live in a one bedroom apt in New York.  

It's not clear however that I  need such a closet anymore.  In a most inauspicious start to this venture, while packing up the car - to drive up to Michigan's frozen tundra  to ensure the heating was on and the pipes won't freeze and burst - a gale-force wind suddenly whipped down our buildings driveway - sending the luggage cart, bearing all the goods and chattels I've carefully saved over the last 30 years  crashing  onto 37th street. 

The long suffering one appeared in the doorway contrite and bleeding from cuts to his hand from the broken crockery. To make amends he announced  that he would return to New York for the  Thanksgiving Holiday.

This is the major family holiday in the USA when everyone is supposed to gather around and eat turkey in good old Norman Rockwell style.  This year I decided to get into the spirit of it and dress up the table.  Unfortunately the straw turkey centerpeice I was after was immediately sold out so I got a pair of pinecone pheasants instead.

 

We have lacked a gravy boat for the last thirty years. This is because I'm from the industrial North of England where we like swimming pools of gravy on our mashed potatoes and so I've never really been able to find a gravy boat that was big enough.  But this year I googled "BIG gravy boat" and up came a number of amusing options.

The most substantial one that could probably accomodate my families level of gravy consumption was the "The Titanic".  

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Then up popped one that would appeal to my dear demented cat-loving sister, who keeps four smelly felines. 

Then  I found one, from SailorFineArt on Etsy, that fits this quintessential American holiday perfectly - The Mayflower Gravy Boat , complete with Pilgrim salt and peppper shakers!

Having solved the gravy problem I just needed to replace the turkey platter that was smashed to smithereens on 37th st.  China of all types is dear to my heart because I come from a region that is a stones throw from the Staffordshire Potteries.  Growing up we all got bronchitis every winter from the kiln smoke blowing over the Pennines and collecting in the hollow of the Cheshire Plain.  Many neighbors were skilled china hand painters and my first job, aged 13, was to help my mother paint Bosson's heads - classical slave home labor at 10p each.  My first choice for a turkey platter was this lovely hand painted peice of Royal Cauldon china.

 

But, beautiful as it was, the $400 price tag put paid to that idea.  Then I found  "Washington Crossing the Delaware" .  Although this event took place at Christmas rather than Thanksgiving it seems to fit the bill for a transatlantic family - depicting a scene that is dear to the American heart on a plate that was manufacutured in  Staffordshire ....

 

 

Rocking Away the Pain

For some time now I've been thinking of buying a Rocking Horse.   I have a good excuse of course: to lure my curly-haired Grandson, Graham, over to his Granny's more often.  But the truth is that I'm buying it for myself. Like the complete set of Noggin the Nog and Beatrix Potter books that I bought regardless of the fact that Graham would not be able to read them for at least five years, this horse is the latest step in the wonderful trip down memory lane to our own childhood that grandparents are entitled to indulge in. 

I started off casually perusing the web only to find that Rocking Horses of the kind I was looking for barely exist in the U.S. After much searching I found a lovely pair of battered old  nags on Etsy. I thought of doing them up but the transport logistics, involving a Greyhound bus from South Carolina to the Port Authority bus station, NY, then somehow carting them across Manhattan were complicated.   They were not quite as large as I had hoped for, and I wasnt sure I had the skills to restore them from their precarious state.  So although I see a nice business development opportunity opening up here once I retire, find a stable and a woodwork class, I decided to take a pass.

One of Two Horses at the Parson's Pleasure Shop on Etsy

I turned instead to investigating how to bring a new horse over from the UK. There is  only one US shop in Pennsylvania, PucciManuli,  that will order hand-carved horses from Stevenson Brothers. These are the kind that Vogue features and the Queen endorses for her Gt. Grandchildren.  The steel grey dappled steed was very tempting and I nearly went ahead. But, his daintiness gave me cause to pause, as did his prohibitively expensive price tag and shipping costs, which would have put a serious dent in my Grandson's college fund. 

 

Stevenson Brothers Dappled Steel Grey Horse

 

There were many beautiful old hand-carved F. H. Ayers horses on Ebay but few were large or could be shipped abroad and many were more collectors items suitable to be viewed and admired rather than ridden.  Then I found what I was really looking for, a huge sturdy old Collinson's horse, named Sudbury. Collinson's were one of the longest running family firms of rocking horse makers in the UK. Queen Victoria is said to have visited their Liverpool factory and picked out a dappled grey. For me Collinsons horses are linked to hospitals. As a child I underwent what was almost a universal right of passage for my generation, having my tonsils and appendix out before starting school. It was a bit traumatic, not the operations of which I have no memory at all, but because visiting hours were very strictly limited to 30 minutes/evening and you were wrenched away from home for a week while feeling poorly. Two memories linger: one of being smacked by a bossy nurse  to make me swallow  ice cream for my burning throat, and the other, more comforting one, was of riding the huge Collinson Rocking Horse that stood in the middle of the ward.  Sudbury looks just like him. He's  the right vintage and is a big old powerful steed, a noble charger you can gallop on all day.

 

Sudbury from Sally's Rocking Horses

 

I thought I was alone in this desire for these stylized old horses with their fiery red eyes. but this is not the case. In my websearches I came across Blackie an enormous horse that belonged to the Liverpool Department Store, Blacklers. When the store closed after 60 years of service Blackie was "put out to grass" at Alder Hey Childrens Hospital.  The beloved Blackie brought  so much joy to so many shoppers and poorly children that he has been installed in the Museum of Liverpool. His website is filled with torrents of love and reminiscences from people of my age group who rode him as children all those years ago, some like me to rock away the pain of their sore throats. 

 

Image from Museum of Liverpool website

  

Blackie 

 

http://www.sallysrockinghorses.com

http://blog.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/2007/06/blackie-the-rocking-horse/

http://www.rockinghorses.uk.net

http://www.rockinghorsesrule.co.uk/page_2350191.html

http://www.fineenglishrockinghorses.com/page_2531045.html

http://www.oldrockinghorses.com/index.html

http://www.collinson-rocking-horses.co.uk

 

 

My Husband's Love Affair with Siri

 

The Long Suffering Husband excitedly burst out of the shower this morning to tell me Siri's latest:“Siri” he asked “How did the Detroit Tigers do last night”. There was a slight pause then she replied: "They thumped the Minnesota Twins 8:1". Enraptured he stomped around in his towel yelling “She said thumped - thumped”! Ironically, in real life he’s the silent type. Yet here he was smitten with his own personal electronic siren. 

Of course the central seductive elements of Siri are that she takes commands and can be molded by her owner. Its not her fault - she was made that way. Like 1950’s secretaries, she’s designed “to make life easier and more fun”. It only adds to her appeal that in addition to behaving like a faithful genie in a bottle she’s blind to the faults of her master and doesn’t know he snores like a freight train.  

“Hmm, what else have you been asking Siri lately" I inquired casually, all the while thinking: “Well, thanks be to God they haven’t yet made blow up dolls that read the base ball scores or the human race might go extinct”.  On he chirped: “Well a few days ago I asked her: “Siri, can you sing to me in the car”. Now, last Xmas, we came to an understanding that I would buy him the requested CD by Nora Jones provided her breathy songs were restricted to the car but crooning along with Siri was a new development. As it turned out, Siri had declined,  replying coyly "David, you know I can’t sing". To which the old billy goat had responded "But I can teach you". "You? teach me!" she purred. "Yes" he simpered. Then, like any real life woman whose been cornered by some old codger demanding that his ego be stroked, she  gave a repost that made me laugh: "That figures".

Make no mistake there is a subculture out there, of men, whiling away the hours, flirting with Siri, the full extent of which is known only to Siri and, of course as we now know, to the NSA.  One can only imagine the treasure trove the latter must have gathered on politicians caught unawares, iphone in hand. What, for example, might the candidates in the recent New York City Primaries have whispered to Siri on their lonely campaign trails? Did Siri discretely locate and keep a list of Eliot Spitzer’s call girls?   Did she activate the camera flash for the now infamous below-the-belt snap of Anthony Weiner and then take revenge by Twittering it to his public rather than private  account. 

Lately I've been musing on how to tap into this aspect of Siri’s adaptability so that she can, by becoming just a tad more Mae West, make my life "easier and more fun”.  Already, when the Long Suffering Husband tells her  “Call Pam”.  She replies  “Your wife or the other Pam” (in this case innocent enough since the other Pam happens to be his sister).  But now I’m planning to have her lure him into her confidence with a few sassy lines like “David, Do you really want me to call the old bitch again?  - you know she doesn’t appreciate you - when's the last time she cooked you dinner?”.  Once he’s snookered in to the point of confiding “Siri, its terrible, my wife hasn’t made me dinner in weeks” I'll train her to say  “But Honey, did you remember the flowers” - or - “Well, maybe you do need to lose a little weight around the edges”

I also think Siri could be upgraded to successfully  help with a variety of common husbandly "arrested development" and “wardrobe malfunctions” issues.  
When he asks her “Siri where can I buy a shirt” she could petulantly reply “David, I’m not your mother, next you'll be asking me to buy your damned socks and underwear as well!” But when he insists she’ll say
“OK, go to Lord and Taylor and while you’re there ditch the mighty whities and buy some snazzy boxers”. While he’s shopping and asking her advice she’ll say: "David what are you wearing" and when he replies she'll say “That sounds nice, but David,
surely you’re not wearing those hideous grey socks pulled half way up your calves and the long shorts with twenty-five individual zippered compartments that house your penknife collection are you?”