technophilic-takeover (or one-hundred and one)

I scanned the list that Raj gave me earlier today, positive that I forgot something again for this trip. Eight sets of trousers, ten shirts, a dozens pairs of pants and two pairs of shoes, snowboarding jacket, snowboarding pants, snow gloves, a toque, board boots, the snowboard itself and, of course, a toothbrush; the rest of the bathing and hygiene accoutrements could be bought as soon as I was settled here in Vancouver. In the other bag were a dozen little shirts and trousers, a bright green one-piece snowsuit, another dozen sterilised bottles, three jars of baby food, a can of the powdered formula, a small batch of diapers in two sizes, several teething rings, two dolls, Brown Bear, and battered copies of "The Velveteen Rabbit," and "The Paper Bag Princess." A car seat, stroller, and a blanket lay in a separate pile.

Oh, yes... and the laptop.

"A laptop?" you exclaim in disbelief. Yes, a laptop. I assure you it was not my idea. The damned thing was thrust upon me a scant hour before I left London.

London, eleven hours earlier...

"What," I said in what I hoped was a dead-on impression of a guiltless cannibal out for a midnight snack. "is that... thing in the middle of my daughter's playroom?"

"It's a laptop," answered the woman whom I would soon disown as my sister. The traitor came in from the main living area towing a plate of orange slices for Mira to chew on. She placed it near my baby, right beside that… that… digital monstrosity.

"I can see that. What the bloody hell is it doing in my house?"

"Orli!" Samantha covered Mira's ears. "How many times do I have to tell you to watch your language around children?"

"Sorry," I muttered. "You can't bloo... erm... very well blame me. Who brought it in?"

Releasing my daughter's hand, Samantha crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin out stubbornly. I knew that expression. My mother copyrighted that expression. Sam's version was a pale imitation so it had a lesser effect on me. "I brought it."

"Wha-at?" I threw my hands up in agitation. "Samantha!"

"Orlando!" she parroted, a smirk on her face. I wished then that I were still young enough to get away with yanking her hair. "All the miseries of the world can't be blamed on computers."

"It's dam... darned close." I threw the hunk of plastic and wires my best Superman-heat-vision-glare without much luck. "How long is it going to be here?"

As soon as I said the words, Samantha's eyes twinkled. It was a familiar twinkle, the same twinkle that nearly killed us when she declared that habenero peppers were safe for us to chew on. The exact twinkle that heralded such gems as "I'll bet you can't" and "She's perfect for you" or, the worst of all, "It'll only be a minute." I had a Pavlovian hide-instinct to that twinkle.

"You'll have to ask Mira."

Oh...

Oh, that was just the limit. "You've... you've contaminated my daughter!" I gasped.

"Orli, you're being Hollywood."

Staggering to the nearest beanbag chair, I collapsed, limp with shock. "My own beloved sister, undermining some of the basics of her niece's upbringing."

"I'm not shoving a cable in her nose, for goodness sake." Samantha pulled Mira up into my lap. "Here, sweetheart, show Papa that you're still as wonderful as you were this morning."

Mira took her finger out of her mouth and leaned forward, snuggling her stick-straight pigtails into my chest. "Papa kiss?" She held up a bandaged finger. Not that she was injured, mind you; she just liked to play patient to Samantha's nurse.

I obediently bussed her pinkie. "Did the mean old computer hurt you, Elf?"

Samantha let out an aggrieved, "Oh, for the love of purple pickles," as Mira nodded slowly.

"Miwa onna pootah an owie han!" Mira declared. I translated it as "I, Mira, was playing on the computer earlier today thus resulting in the injured digit presented for your inspection and immediate pain-alleviation."

I lifted her higher up on my chest, giving her three short hugs that always made her giggle. "Don't worry," I said, tapping her snub nose. "I'll make mean ol' Auntie Sam take it away, all right?"

She giggled. "Papa!" Her arms squeezed my neck; she liked to think that she could wrap her arms around me in the same way that I could do to her. My neck was the only portion of my truck where she could do so and thus, despite the threat of asphyxiation every few hours, I couldn't deny her.

"I'm not saying that she should abandon her books and her other toys," Samantha said when the major part of the cuddling was over. "But kids nowadays learn how to use the computer almost from nursery school. You don't want her to be left behind, do you?"

"She's twenty months old!"

"And every week counts. You said that yourself about reading and counting," she added before I could set up another protest. "Don't give me that sulky face."

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are. The Elfling makes that face very time I tell her to it's time for her nap."

"No nap!" Mira screeched, gripping the collar of my shirt, her once-cherubic face screwed up tight and bright pink with fury. "No nap, no nap, no nap!"

"Mira!" admonished Sam, ready to rip out my daughter's death grip.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," I gasped around my blocked oesophagus. "Papa says no nap, Mira, I promise."

As though by magic, she returned to her angelic state: one index finger popped back in her mouth and her free hand playing with my shirt button. I exhaled, relieved. Problem evaded.

Spoiled? My child? Never!

"Honestly, Sam, what's with the computer?"

"I was being honest!" she said. "This is the first time you're going to be filming for more than a month at a time. Mum and I want to be updated daily and immediately. Besides, she's played on mine and Raj's and she loves it."

"Raj was in on this?" My eyes narrowed. "I see now. It's all becoming clear to me now." I pointed a finger straight between Sam's eyes. "First Mum and Fiona wanting a website, now my sister and my PA giving a computer to my child. You're all plotting against me!"

"Papa mad!" cheered Mira, clapping her hands. She toddled off my lap. For a few precious minutes, I gaped at how adorable she looked in her miniature jumper and jeans then, to my immeasurable horror, she made straight for the computer and started tapping away at the keyboard. The screen went from a washed out blue to a cartoon-like background in primary colours with an annoyingly cheerful tune piping out of the speakers.

I put a hand to my heart. "It aches."

Samantha snorted. "The only thing that aches is your ego. She already knows how run a CD-ROM game and use the search engines."

"Oh, the agony!"

"Oh, shut up!" She threw the nearest object, one of Mira's plush dogs, at my head. I caught it neatly and threw it back.

"Shaddup!" Mira repeated, still clicking away at the bright screen.

"Now, who's teaching her bad words?" I said smarmily.

Samantha flounced off to sit beside Mira. My daughter was enraptured by the bright colours and moving figures. She was turning into a zombie before my eyes.

"I don't want a computer in the house," I reiterated. "She can learn all she wants at your flat or Raj's but here at home, we have books, magazines, the radio and, once in a while, the telly. What does she need a computer for in all that?"

"You know, the more you keep her from it, the more she'll want it. No, click on the bunny, Elfling, not the apple tree."

I stared pointedly at Samantha's back but the bloomin' sod wouldn't co-operate and stare back. "What do you mean by that?"

"Grass is greener and all that," she said. "It's just a laptop. If you have it around but don't really pay it any mind, she'll learn to ignore it, too. Just like the telly."

Our telly was suffering from abandonment issues. I think I only flipped it on when Man U had a televised game. Otherwise, it held a good number of my mother's doilies. I'm sure Mira thought it to be nothing more than an over-rated clothes hanger.

"If you'll just let her play," Sam continued, "I can guarantee that in a week, she'll be right back making unholy messes with her clay and running around like a monkey on speed."

"Hrmph." I edged closer to them "What is that she's doing anyway?"

"Problem solving," replied my sister. "See? She's supposed to choose the correct block to finish the staircase so the bunny can get his carrots but there's a pattern that she has to follow."

"How can she--" Before I could finish, Mira dragged the last of the blocks into place. The waistcoat-clad bunny danced a jig and hopped down step by step until he reached his carrots.

"Great job, Mira!" Samantha kissed her cheer and patted her back. "See how good she is at it?"

"Of course she is," I admitted grudgingly.

A twinkle-- yes, the aforementioned twinkle-- returned to Sam's eye. "Want to watch her play the next one?"

Vancouver, present time...

Mira insisted on sleeping with the laptop on beside her on the bed and Brown Bear on the other. Everyone is out to convert me. But I will remain first; I am strong in my convictions... I shall NEVER surrende--

"Orli, mate, Samantha just called to say that none of the nannies she interviewed in London pulled through." Raj came through the door, talking through the earpiece of his mobile and tapping away at his PDA. I swear, the man was born with the things.

"Dammit." I pulled at my hair. "They couldn't make it here?"

"Some of them could, but Samantha didn't like them much." Raj shrugged. "I've called out to a few companies here just so you can have some help while filming. They should be ready for interviews by this afternoon. I've scheduled three appointments around the time that Mira wakes up so you can see how she interacts with them."

Have I mentioned that Raj is utterly indispensable? I wasn't too pleased when Fiona insisted I have a personal assistant; it seemed to be a waste of time and money to have someone telling me what I should do every few hours. Nevertheless, Fi sent Raj to my place in LA a day before I was to leave for Australia. He stuck out his hand, introduced himself as Rajvinder Dhillon, the Nonpareil Personal Assistant, and proceeded to take over my life.

Six months after Raj started working for me, he took a week off. My world went to pieces. I couldn't even find my pants because he wasn't there to tell me. He's frighteningly good at his job. Government leaders should be grateful that he has no aspirations for world domination because he would succeed all to well.

"How did you manage to do that so quickly?" I asked.

"I've got relatives here," he replied.

That was the other thing about Raj. He had relatives everywhere. Yet another reason why he'd be able to take over the world: plenty of family to act as a personal army and a network of spies.

"Pa!" shrieked Mira as she bounced up and down her foam-covered wooden chair.

"I'm here, love," I said, still busy looking over the nannies' CVs. Raj was pointing out his personal picks as I shuffled through the papers.

"Papapapapapa!"

"Hold on, Elfling, we're trying to--"

"Papapa onna pootah!" Mira giggled, jabbing the screen with a stout finger.

We paused, exchanged a look, then peered over her pig-tailed head. Raj sniggered. I... I...

"'One Thousand and One Ways to Do Orlando Bloom?'" I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach and about three litres of blood rush to my head. I tried to pry Mira away from the screen just in case she could read the words. She was doing too a fine impression of a barnacle.

"Number one: in the back of a convertible," read the man who would very soon be fired from his positions as PA/good friend. "Two: in a bathroom stall. Three: Mile High Club."

I covered my daughter's ears. "Bloody hell, mate, do you mind?"

He only went further down the list. "With bubbles and whipped cream. In Jell-o. Bound with liquorice whips. Lap-Limbo? My God, who are these women?"

"Dhillon, if Mira ends up in therapy for this..." My fingers fumbled for the power button. Why didn't these bloody things come with a normal on/off switch? I managed to trip something in the back. The screen when blank as did Mira's face.

Her lower lip trembled. "No Pa?"

I squeezed my eyes. I can resist, I can resist, I can resist, IcanresistIcanresistIcanIcanIcan...

She sniffled, letting a miserable mew escaping from her lips.

Defeated, I snapped the computer back on. Blinding little bits of light coalesced to form my face, the picture I did for a magazine just before the Ned Kelly shoot. I looked like a berk in that half-grown facial hair.

"Against a washer on the spin cycle?" I didn't realise I'd read that aloud until I saw Raj blindly searching for something to lean on-- the kitchen counter as it happened. He then let out a howl, clutching his stomach as though fearing the contents would spill out. If he didn't stop laughing by the count of ten, I would help said contents spill out with a butcher's knife. "Raj, I'm warning you."

"Wait, OB, wait a tic." Raj snorted, lifting his glasses to swipe away his tears. "I haven't laughed this hard since we caught Elijah belly-dancing to N'Sync for Mira." The combination of that memory and this list was evidently too difficult for my poor cyborg PA to handle. His seriousness circuitry snapped and he dissolved into a giggling mess on my rented kitchen floor.

"I'm glad you're amused," I snarled. "I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this. Less than a day after getting the damned thing and she's already being exposed to pornography." Liquorice whips? I shuddered. I hated liquorice.

"Okay, okay, mate, I'm done now." Raj slowly came to his feet, wiping his eyes with a white starched handkerchief. "Oh, that was fantastic. I think I got a good day's work out laughing that hard. Remind me to email that URL to the hobbits. They'll go utterly mad."

"Why would the hobbits want that?" I asked.

He smirked. It was a male version of Samantha's eye-twinkle. "Oh, didn't you know? They've been collecting Orlando Bloom fan-sites for about a year now. You should see the one that's all pink with javascript flowers and--"

I threw up my hands and left the room.

Halfway out, I spun on my heel, hauled Mira up to my shoulder, and stalked right back out. The entire world could try its damnedest but I would not allow computers to permeate my home no matter where I happened to be living. Damned websites. Liquorice whips, indeed.

Then again...

The lap-limbo did sound interesting.