Oh you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes

My car talks to me. He doesn't jabber on all the time like the toaster, but every lil' while he pipes up. The car came with this voice recognition system that is mainly useful for the navigation option, for which I did not shell out the extra grand or two (I'm cheap, but you already knew that). Seriously, I'm all man, and I don't need no fucking navigator. Plus, I have an amazing ability to find my way. An uncanny directional sense. As long as I can remember, I seem to innately orient myself to the poles. Where was I? Anyway, I only use the voice recognition for phone calls in the car, using the built-in Bluetooth handsfree business. Until yesterday, I was managed by a man's voice. He accepted my commands just fine, but with a non-descript, milquetoast Midwestern accent. It was like talking to myself, frankly. Even though I like the idea of my car being a man, a sleek and fast dude with the growl of a big, predatory cat, I decided to swing off another vine yesterday. He is now a she. And what a she he is. Her words are clipped and commanding. Faintly British. Odd in a Japanese car, but in a hip, Harajuku way. She says the same things he did, but implicit in her words is that she will take no shit from me. I'm cowed by her. And pleased. She efficiently makes my calls for me, but I won't be surprised if one day, when I say, "Call the office" she'll come back with "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Well you can't always get what you want." I think I'll call her Carolyn. I heart her. Of course I'd trade her in a second if they come out with a car that has Jerry's voice.