The Magic of GPS

The kids are so excited to be going, they can not be more helpful. I should remember this tactic. The possibility that the trip would not come to pass had had a dramatic impact. Their little prepubescent-children-of-acrimoniously-divorced-parents-who-waged-a-bitter-custody-dispute-entitlement attitude, which found them habitually taking things of all shapes, sizes and values for granted was tempered in a way that did not compute.

And so, once the decision was made, we were on our way. Me, Hil, Pat and Betty, my GPS.

Or rather, Scott's GPS. Scott is a quick study. And nobody's fool. He is acutely aware that I am at my hissy-fit-meltdown-stop-the-world-or-I-swear-I'll-jump-off worst when I am lost on the road. To an even greater, epic degree if I am under pressure to arrive on time, or have what I perceive to be a half a cup of gas. Or less.

So he's given me his spare GPS - to save us both a lot of grief. I get the benefit of a fair, impartial, dispassionate backseat driver telling me what to do and keeping me from deferring to my inner compass, the feed for which is clearly scrambled. Scott gets to enjoy the relative serenity of knowing that I am not inadvertently driving 100s of miles out of my way to a neighboring town by way of East Jeezus, or getting horribly lost and driving off the road and into a ditch and bursting into flame, if only figuratively.

I named her Betty because when I first heard her voice I thought she sounded like a Betty. As opposed to the GPS built into Scott's BMW who gives her "advice" in a buttery soft seductive tone of voice that suggests her name is Tawny.

I would not argue with Tawny. I argue with Betty. Does anyone else talk to their GPS? (Thank you for nodding!) I do. Regularly.

It's almost as though she nags me. "Turn right. Turn right." In that monotone delivery. I will turn right, Betty. As soon as the senior citizen in front of me who appears to have died at the wheel, or at least has become genuinely confused, manages to move his vehicle to the shoulder and call the authorities on his I've-Fallen-And-I-Can't-Get-Up gizmo.

And the scolding when you miss a turn she suggests. "Recalculating...recalculating." Just to let me know she's got to get out the map and figure out how to get back to where we should be. Pain in the ass that she is. Sometimes I take her for a spin in my parking tower just to get her all confused listening to the satellites try to tell her how to get out of the jam we're in.

But we are DC bound, and for two thirds of the way I can let the car drive itself. Once in DC, I need a tour guide. Betty will be very handy.

Or so I think.