There was a time, not long ago, when I was smarter than my appliances. But now I’m not so sure.

The tide began to turn when we purchased a new washer/dryer set. Before going kaput, our old pair had served us well. When we needed to clean clothes, the washer washed and the dryer dried. Both in accordance with our simple settings and without drama. More importantly, there was no confusion over who was actually in charge.

That all changed when their replacements were wheeled into our laundry room one fine day. The washer — which I call Frick — was situated on the right, and the dryer — Frack — placed to the left. Frick’s drain hose was hooked over the adjacent laundry sink which, sadly, does not have a name.

It quickly became clear that Frick, the washer, was the brains of the operation. Within seconds of booting up, Frick started agitating for registration information. I was happy to provide date–of–purchase and a dealer name but drew the line at inquiries into our foreign investments and vacation plans. After assigning us a Humanoid ID Number, Frick insisted on an internet connection to upload key laundry statistics to the Suds Cloud in order to “enhance our washing and drying experience.”

At that point in our nascent relationship, an enhanced experience couldn’t happen soon enough.

Several background checks later and Frick had us fully cleared for activation in LaundryNet and we could finally get down to the business of actually cleaning our garments. But which of the many control panel options to use?

Frick has all the usual suspects — “hot,” “cold,” “fast,” “delicate” — as well as a bevy of fancier yet ambiguous settings with names like “sanitary,” “allergiene,” and “waterproof.” I’m fairly certain our laundry is waterproof, but I confess I still have not taken the interactive training courses Frick periodically recommends.

In the end, however, it doesn’t really matter because it turns out the so–called controls are merely suggestions for Frick’s all–knowing contemplation and final judgment.

For example, if I try to make a change from “cold” to “warm,” Frick will briefly consider my request before denying it with a loud beep. Sometimes, seemingly at random, he will consent to my adjustment but will simultaneously make changes to other settings that I do not wish to be altered. This will evoke a loud beep from me.

Attempts to outwit Frick, by pressing random buttons at the same time or using reverse psychology, are to no avail. So the fallback position has become to find combinations of settings that he will usually authorize and that most closely approximate our simple wash requirements.

For shirts, this amounts to spinning a dial until it says “towels,” turning the “fabric softener” option on but not adding any actual fabric softener, setting all “special care” options to levels that won’t tear our clothes apart, and, finally, making triple sure that “turbo wash” is off (a long story for another day).

I should note here that Frick does not possess what could rightfully be termed artificial intelligence (AI). He learns slowly, if at all, takes no accountability for his actions, and makes the wrong decision about half the time.

I call it adolescent AI (AAI).

And nowhere is Frick’s AAI more on display than when he is metering out water. Frick is by nature very stingy with water usage and carefully weighs each new load and regulates the amount of H2O used accordingly. But sometimes he overthinks the whole water thing mid–cycle and resolves to reweigh the laundry when it is soaking wet.

Then the fun begins, because at this point Frick has smugly determined that there is an entire trailer load of clothes in the washer, so there also needs to be an equivalent tonnage of water with which to rinse them. To further compound the matter, he has two spin–out speeds — which I refer to as “babbling brook” and “raging torrent” — and I think it will come as no surprise which one he opts for when the washer is completely loaded to the gills with water.

The dominoes really start to fall when the laundry sink — which, sadly, has no name — can’t keep up with Frick’s outflow, and we become quite literally hosed. Waterfalls cascade down the sink to the linoleum floor and seep into the adjacent family–room carpeting. Which is then our cue to hop off the couch, proclaim indignation and recrimination, and madly retrieve the always–ready pile of towels to soak up the mess. And then run the entire process all over again the following week. Truly rinse and repeat in action.

Now that time has passed, I’m happy to say we have reached a kind of détente in our relationship. Frick’s new software download may have helped with that, although I’m not really sure why a washer needs facial recognition. And I’m still concerned that his smart–alecky behavior will spread to other machines in the household. I will take drastic action if that ever comes to pass.

And so if, one day, the toaster starts to reimagine my bagel settings, a certain laundry room appliance will find his Netflix privileges revoked immediately!