Rage Against the Machine

Boolie: Mama, cars don't behave. They are behaved upon. The fact is you, all by yourself, demolished that Packard.

Daisy: Think what you want. I know the truth.

From Driving Miss Daisy, by Alfred Uhry

Some years ago, my friend Derek met up with me in Paris to go to Prague. I'd been staying with my uncle, and since we had a few hours till our train, he suggested we stay for dinner.

Later Derek said, "At first I wasn't sure which side of your family he was on, but when he started cursing at the appliances, I knew he was related to your mother."

I never shared the story with that uncle, but my aunts and cousins found it hilarious and my mom could at least appreciate it. My other uncle didn't get it: "What's funny about that?" Most people don't yell at objects, explained his long-suffering wife, because it's utterly pointless.

As is trying to correct the behavior. My mother has never met a device she couldn't pick a fight with. They're all recalcitrant, spiteful. Remote controls are the worst: "I didn't push that button! That's not what I wanted!"

I used to point out that, absent a malfunction, electronics do what you tell them to, but she never bought it. She'd done nothing wrong; it was them. Eventually I understood: They sit around waiting for her to pick them up so they can unleash the mischief they've been plotting.

I didn't inherit this colorful trait, but I have other superstitious concerns: karma, Murphy's law. I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. As soon as one thing's repaired, I expect something else to break imminently. And it usually does.