Maxie, Stop!

Although in South Texas it does not feel like fall, I know our time is coming and I am giddy with anticipation.  Flannel shirts.  Flannel sheets.  Over-sized sweaters.   Pecans on the ground and in the pies.  Crisp air scented with spices.  Ah, I love autumn and I love my home in autumn; it is my cozy place.  Soft lights, a hint of cinnamon and cloves, a cup of hot drink warming my hands and soul, swaddled in a Sherpa-throw, cuddled on the sofa watching a sappy movie or reading a comfy book … this is my haven.  But what once was an easy and natural progression of the year, with shorter days and cooler temperatures slowly inviting us inside to an intimate and relaxing home, is now more challenging than ever.  

I blame it on the Clapper.  “Clap On!  Clap Off! The Clapper!”  What is so wrong with getting up and turning your lights on or off?  It’s a slippery slope.  Granted, the TV remote was probably the first step down that path, although it held little magic when you only had 3 channels to surf.  But with the clap of your hands you could control the lights and the mood. What type of mood is created by slapping sounds? None that I want!

Fast forward to October 2020.  We do not use a clapper, or a traditional remote in our home.  We are a Wi-Fi kingdom.  Our remote has voice recognition, as does our lights (if we choose not to use the equally capable app on our phones), and Alexa can do everything except the dishes.  Talk of warm and cozy, loudly commanding inanimate objects to complete a task is not my idea of hygge (a Scandinavian concept that is used to describe a moment or feeling that is cozy, special, or charming).  At first, some of these conveniences seem enticing with infinite options and ease, the feeling of living the “Jetson” life. At what cost, though?

Maybe the Clapper shouldn’t take all of the blame; my husband, David, must shoulder his share of responsibility.  He loves anything techy.  I am married to a tech-loving musician who delights in the latest gadgets.  In our home, we have smart bulbs; I open my front door and proclaim, “Let there be light” and the lamps come to life.  Each has a seemingly endless array of hues and intensities that can be programed individually, provided you remember what you named it and provided the Wi-Fi works.  But on the occasion when you can’t remember the damn lamp’s name, or the internet provider is down … again … my frustration flairs.  This does not even include the guilt I felt when my sister was house-sitting, and I forgot to share with her the secrets of the lights.  (Okay, I did feel guilty only after I stopped laughing at the thought of her sitting in the dark.)  It is not simply the lamps, it is everything.  Our washer and dryer automatically orders more laundry detergent and dryer sheets from Amazon.  We don’t have to get up to see who is at the front door, or to talk to the visitor face-to-face, thanks to our Ring doorbell.  I no longer browse through our collection of albums (vinyls), or CDs, or even pull up my playlist; I ask Alexa to play Janis Joplin and voila, I’m singing along to “Piece of My Heart” and sounding mighty good!  I miss perusing albums, reading liner notes, deciding who to listen to; it’s comfortable and familiar.  

I’ve been thinking about it, and what I want, what I need, is a fall cabin.  One with a stack of firewood, a wood burning stove & stone fireplace.  (I will forgo the bearskin rug.)  A few large windows will bathe the rooms with soft light during the day and candles will graciously take over that duty come evening.  Uncomplicated.  Simple.  Cozy.

So, what brought on this anti-gizmo rant and desire for a cabin?  Afterall, my husband has always made sure that our home is fitted with the latest technology; this is nothing new.  I have endured directives made to Alexa interrupting the solitude, and the clothes dryer not asking my permission before placing an order. Although I’ve enjoyed the ambiance created by soft, dark-hued lights, I’ve sacrificed coziness when adjusting the settings using my iPhone or barking out instructions to a bulb.  So why the diatribe now?  Because it is autumn, and autumn is mine!  … and also because we have a new mattress, and guess what!  It is a “Smart Mattress”.  Yep. There’s an app for it!  Using my phone I can adjust the firmness, and follow as it charts my heart rate, breath rate, restful and restless sleep, number of times I got out of bed, amount of time it took for me to fall asleep, and the length of sleep.  It readjusts throughout the night to accommodate what it, the mattress, perceives to be my needs.  If only it would tuck me in and kiss my forehead.  Last night I accepted the undeniable comfort of this mattress, set aside my distain for its gadget-greatness and indulged in a restful sleep (the chart confirms my assertion) only to be awakened this morning by my husband’s sleep app that gently nudges him to alertness with a soft and then an ever-so-gradually increasing tonal pattern.  I heard it on the first chime, but I guess our new mattress had lured David into such a deep sleep that even his techy-sleep-app could not wake him.  Certain he would soon stir, I waited so that at least one of us could have a pleasant, cozy, morning, being gently coaxed into the day.   After what seemed to be 5 minutes of a too-happy-of-a-musical-tone-progression for a morning that is already irritating me, I elbowed David.  He didn’t budge.  I prodded him again and he woke, startled, and yell to the device, “Maxie, stop!”. It didn’t.  Again, “Maxie, stop!”  Still nothing.  Why? Because the device’s name is Alexa, not Maxie!  David, who is Maxie?

So back to my hygge cabin idea, let me add to the list, one humble, unassuming, down-mattress bed.

Wishing you a cozy Autumn!