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When you don't have a pet, inanimate objects can be ascribed personalities. How often do you hear of people who have a name for their car?
In France, I have created personalities for two very favorite inanimate objects. Or, one could argue, they have defined their personalities for themselves.
The first is lovely Oscar. Oscar is a rather willful pool robot who goes where he wants, when he wants. He scours the bottom of the pool just as my old Roomba vaccuum did the carpets at home (before a chronic battery problem sent Roomba off to the next dimension). And by just the same, I mean in some random, peculiar pattern that seems to insist on going over some ground repeatedly and some never at all. The theory is one drops gently Oscar into the shallow end of the pool, he wanders purposefully for the next two hours and then dutifully returns to the beginning spot where, like a small child, he waits patiently to be lifted out into the loving embrace of the pool owner. But Oscar has his own independent mind. He will stop in the deep end and languish there like the kid who refuses to come in from the playground and ignores you in the hope you might just forget he is there.
But there is something hypnotic and charming to Oscar. Over a series of days, he actually does a pretty good job. And, if you turn him back on and gently pull on his floating electrical cord, you can get him close to shore. At that point, it can be a bit of a wrestle to get him up and out of the water, but it can be done. It is then the fight to remove his "diaper", clean out the assorted detritus and re-dress him for the next day. It all works.
I never understood the idea of owning a pool. In Vancouver, at best you get six weeks where the warm water of a pool beckons. I know - having watched the next door neighbours pool get little to no use over the past twenty-five years. But here, I get it. Not only because the useable season is extended. But more to the point, because it is just nice to look at. Your own little lake of blue. Oscar just makes it all the more fun. Whether I spend the summer swimming or not is likely irrelevant. Oscar and blue make a great combination.
As for Gigi. Well, her full name is actually Gigi Persil and she is my GPS. Gigi is a capricious French girl. While I have chosen her voice to have a neutral accent, in the background I can just hear her say, "Sacre Bleu! Qu'est que tu fais maintenant? Alors, allons-y."
So how did you decide on this name, Nancy, you ask? Well, her initials for starters. French for second. And well, Persil just cracked me up. In England, Persil is a detergent and it seemed fitting to name an automated save-your-bacon-clean-up-your-wrong-left-turn-mess a product that is designed to keep things clean. She has come in handy numerous times when I have missed a turn. A deep sigh, a quick regroup and she plots a new course. Persil is also the French word for Parsley. And my usual co-pilot, who has a very uneasy relationship with parsley, feels about the same when it comes to the GPS. Where I am willing to let go and trust, he clasps the Michelin map firmly to his lap and second guesses Gigi. Now, what you don't know about my Michelin map is that it has some provenance. It was the map I owned when Tiana and I first came to France together in 1997. She was eight. Apparently, they have even managed to build new super highways in the intervening fifteen years since the maps were published. You can imagine the frustration this causes poor Doug. Gigi may periodically puzzle - she took me down a gravel road in Italy once - but with a little persuasion and teamwork, we found our way.
She sometimes gives me the silent treatment when I need her most. But isn't that just like a (French) woman?
As for the rest of the objects of the house, nothing else has been named as of yet. I am not unduly fond of the washing machine, the dryer stopped working but nature filled the gap with a line and pegs to hang up clothes, and I keep hoping if I ignore it long enough, the dishwasher will unload itself.
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Lynne
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Ah...Gigi...
I have fond memories of both Gigi & Oscar...and not-so-fond memories of both the washing machine and the dryer; I find it apt you have not named them, Nancy. As for the incredible vacuum machine that literally sticks itself to the marble floor, apparently never wanting to leave...how about General Patton?? xoxo Lynne