I recently converted to a smartphone, only to find out I needed a smart TV.
If you recall, I wrote a few years ago about my love affair with my big TV, which at 42 inches took up my entire living room.
Not that I was complaining.
I loved its gargantuan screen, which made footballs look as big as watermelons and bachelorettes' heads the size of hot-air balloons.
Maybe because their heads were full of hot air.
But now my big TV looks tiny, since now there are 47-inch, 54- inch, and even larger TVs, at a fraction of the price that mine cost.
Yet I remained loyal to my big TV.
I want one marriage that lasts.
I hadn't even heard of such a thing as a smart TV until somebody mentioned it to me, and I thought they were kidding, and then when my other TV died, I replaced it with a smart TV.
I admit, I didn't even know what that meant when I bought it. All I knew was that the price was right, and that they weren't charging extra for its brainpower.
So I got it home and right off the bat, I knew my new TV was smarter than I am because I couldn't even understand its remote control. It's black, and in the center is a little cube called the Smart Cube.
I'm not making this up.
All I'm doing is telling you what my TV tells me to.
If I press the Smart Cube, onto the screen pops something called the Smart Hub.
We get it.
My TV is smart, not humble.
I looked at the array of buttons on the Smart Hub, astounded. They were buttons I'd never seen before on a television, like Shop TV.
It's not a television, it's a store.
I didn't push the Shop TV button, for obvious reasons. If I start buying things from my TV, my new address will be the poorhouse.
Which would not be Smart.
Then there's a button called Social TV, which I gather is for any parties my TV wants to attend or clubs it wants to join.
There is even a button for Fitness, which I fully intend to avoid, again for obvious reasons. I pressed it just to let you know what it says, and it contains something called Cardio Blast and Sexy Beach Abs.
Luckily I don't need either of these things.
My cardio is already blasted.
And I avoid sexy beaches.
Then there's a button called Schedule Manager, which sounded kind of controlling, but I checked it out. Immediately, a black box popped onto the screen that read: "Set the current time and date first."
I found this tone so bossy, I opted out.
Not only that, but I couldn't figure out how to do it.
If this TV is is so damn smart, why doesn't it know the time and date?
So do you.
There's even a button for a Web Browser, which I pushed and discovered that I could actually go on the computer from my television.
So my new TV is a store, a gym, a secretary, and a computer.
There's only one thing it isn't:
So it's not that smart, after all.
Lisa Scottoline's latest novel, "Keep Quiet," is in stores now, and look for Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella's latest collection of humor essays in "Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim."