Me, Myself, and ... Our Xbox One

Yesterday I mentioned that the newest addition to the Pihl household was a new and sparkly Xbox One.

Rumor has it, you can walk in your door and simply speak to the Xbox, and it will do what you have asked of it (assuming you speak Xbox, of course).

Let's examine that last sentence, shall we?

1. Speak to the Xbox - So, it's official.  I'm speaking to inanimate objects on a regular basis now (thanks, Siri).
2. It will do what you ask of it -  Hey Xbox, make my jeans from my college days fit.  Xbox?  Xbox!  Okay fine.  That's probably not an approved Xbox command.  But it should be.  For reality though, refer to number three below.
3. Assuming you speak Xbox, of course - Aaaaannddd.... I sure don't.

Mr. Pihl scheduled himself to remain at work a smidgen longer than I had to last night, so I came home with the intention of whipping together some dinner and inhaling it while fighting to the death with learning how to use Xbox.


See that? 

No, that wasn't a typo.  Not "the Xbox".  Just "Xbox."  I'm coming to terms with the fact that speaking to the inanimate object regularly means that said inanimate object deserves my undivided attention.  

Here's a game!  I spy with my little eye... something delicious!  What's that?  Beer AND wine?!  

Yes.  Don't judge me.  Red wine is necessary by default anytime I have to mess with electronics.  The beer matched up much better with my Hungarian stir-fry concoction of leftover meat from Hungarian cabbage rolls and sauerkraut.  Could you imagine what horrors would await me in the promised land if I had tried to pair Cabernet Sauvignon with a Hungarian stir-fry?

Bad things, man.

Bad things.

Anyway, shouting variations of "Xbox, ON!" repeatedly was getting me nowhere, so I manually powered up the dagumned thing with the controller.  At that point I began to try to add my own account to Xbox, since I'm obviously not this guy:

Though I do have an appreciation for the real Mr. Pihl's muscles.  Very much.

Is it hot in here?  Ahem.  Don't mind me.  I'm a newlywed.  Eh, where was I?

Next I began to create my own login account, which ended up turning into a Microsoft.com account meets Xbox fiasco.

Do yourself a favor, and sign up for a Microsoft account on your computer well before acquiring an Xbox One (unlike me).

You can thank me later.  I promise, you don't want to be like me.  Because if you were like me, you would spend 14.6327691 minutes cursing the Xbox's lack of communication with your email, cursing your Macbook's wireless connection, and cursing technology as we know it.

Really.

I finally created an account.  And an avatar.  

At that point in the night, Mr. Pihl announced that he was heading home.

I'm certain that Xbox was using its own inappropriate language in response to mine, but she was holding it all in.  Inanimate objects do that, sometimes.

The moment Mr. Pihl walked in the door, B got excited.

Hello?  Dad?  Dad's home?  DAD!  Dad, dad, dad, DAD!!!  You wouldn't believe what mom's been saying!  Bad mom!  How are you?  I love you.  You're so much cooler than mom.

After nearly five years I have learned how to speak "B".

She's a tattler.  And she has a serious infatuation with Mr. Pihl that would concern me more if she wasn't of the avian species.

Anyhow, Mr. Pihl apparently speaks "Xbox."

Show-off.  He got home and had Xbox eating out of his evenly-spoken, properly-annunciated hand.

The only way I could get Xbox to behave was to use a (scarily accurate) version of my mom's "teacher voice."  You know the teacher voice.  The voice that says your name low and slow, elongating the last syllable just a leetle too long.

Ex-BOOXXXX.  Xbox!  EEX-boooxxx.  Xbox, watch TV!

Mr. Pihl is still a show off.  And I still can't speak Xbox.  And for me, Xbox still only replies to teacher voice.

Can't we all just get along?

Ah, why hello beautiful.  You're more my speed.

Where would Xbox be without my Cabernet Sauvignon?

In the gutter, I tell ya.  

Your friend (with increasingly Luddite-like tendencies),

Amy-But-Pihl