Family Daze: Misdirected

Now I have several strengths in life, I can line dance. I can put together an Ikea dining room table. And I can even do 250 sit-ups in less than three minutes. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Just kidding about the last one.) But when it comes to finding an unfamiliar place I am, as they say in politically correct circles, "direction challenged." And, trust me, this is nothing to joke about.

The last time I tried driving somewhere new, the dialogue in my head went something like this:

Me: I can find this place, no problem.

Me [fifteen minutes later]: Let’s see, I think I turn left here. Or maybe there. Or there. Or THERE.

Me [fifteen more minutes later]: Dear God, I’ll be a good mom the rest of the year. I’ll start buying real cheese, I’ll vacuum once a week, and I’ll bake bread from scratch. Just plueeeze guide the car to 732 Third St.

That’s when my friend Linda suggested I buy one of those fancy GPS navigational systems. For those of you who don’t know what GPS stands for it’s: Giant Pain in the – ah-hem – Seat. Oh, okay. Not really. It really stands for Global Positioning System. Which means that you just type in the address of where you want to go and viola! It will magically tell you how to get there. Yes, tell. A human-like voice will blurt out directions as you drive.

And if that’s not crazy enough, on the more upscale models you can choose a voice with an accent. My friend Marg, whose GPS cost several bazillion dollars, has a guy that sounds like Antonio Banderas guiding her around town. Unfortunately the Cheapskate Brand model only comes with only one voice: a guy with a somewhat whiny, exasperated tone which sounds strangely like my ex-aerobics instructor.

But I digress.

The first sign of trouble came when I realized I had to "program" it, which I did in the usual Techno-Slacker sort of way by wildly pressing random buttons until it bleeped. Then I mounted it in my car and programmed in "Starbucks".

"Turn left in 50 feet," the GPS whined.

Apparently it had never been to Starbucks.

"Turn left in 50 feet," it repeated.

"No, it’s to the right," I said.

"Turn left in 50 feet."

"No, right!"

"Left!"

"Right!"

"Listen Lady, if you don’t like it you can just drive yourself!"

"Hey, don’t you take that sort of tone with me!"

Okay, so maybe this didn’t happen exactly this way. But it did in my head.

However, the funny this is that it didn’t stop there. At the next corner it insisted I turn right. And then left. Now a wise person would’ve shut the whole thing off and went home. But, since I’m the kind of person with heaps of curiosity, a yearning for adventure, and nothing better to do, I kept going.

And, mind you, it did guide me to Starbucks. That is, after directing me to the mall, the nail place, several fast food places and someone named Chad’s house. Call me crazy, but I started to suspect my teenage daughter programmed it.

Regardless, by the time I got home I was out of patience. And gas.

"Turn right in 20 yards," it said.

"Oh, shut up," I said weakly, "or I’m going to trade you in for one of those expensive models with a foreign accent!"

I know talking back to a machine isn’t necessarily a mature or sane thing to do, but it was financially better than my first plan which was to rip it out of the car, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it.

But instead I shut it off and went peacefully into the house – and secretly longed for the good old days, back when anytime I needed directions I pulled out a nice, and very quiet, map.

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Debbie Farmer is a humorist and mother of two kids, holding down the fort in California. She can be reached at [email protected].