A few years ago, Dougie gave me a GPS unit as an anniversary gift. Be jealous, ladies. At the time, I accepted it with a mix of appreciation and bemusement. Ohhh, sure, I tend to get lost sometimes. Okay, a lot. Okay, I’ve actually gotten lost so many times that it’s become a running joke with my family. But an anniversary gift? Come on, man, where’s the romance?
The king of the practical gifts had struck again. Then he said, “So you can always find your way back home to me,” and I melted. Of course he was also probably thinking, “and cook for me, because I only know how to reheat leftovers” but still, the sentiment was there.
Countless times I’ve pressed the “Go Home” button simply because I had a full bladder and needed the most direct route to my bathroom. The GPS became my friend. I named her Jill. But now, I’m convinced Jill was simply trying to gain my trust – so she could KILL ME!
Over the years, my dashboard demon has tried to dispose of me in various ways. Once she directed me UP a busy Kansas City off-ramp. She’s also lured me under a dead-end bridge that looked like the perfect spot for a meth party including among other odd items, a broken television and an abandoned back-pack. I still wonder what was in that pack. Maybe snacks. Maybe a severed head. It’s probably best I don’t know. Out of sheer amusement she’s also taken me through countless neighborhoods where my Honda minivan stood out like a librarian at a Lady Gaga concert.
Then one day, the evil witch led me right into the den of a crazed lunatic. Okay, it was actually a very nice woman who refused to press charges (God love her) and her daughter (who clearly needs the “strange danger” talk), and in reality, *I* was the only one who looked like a lunatic but – well – let me explain. . .