Directionally challenged

Smile, I have no idea where I am

Anything in front of me is up and anything to the rear of me is down.  I’m good with that.  It’s East, West, North, or South that gets me confused.  Knowing I’m directionally handicapped is only the half of it.  My husband is no better.  Maybe worse.  And we both blame each other for bad directions.

He told me to pick him up at the Toyota dealership down the road — literally down the road (or up depending on my starting point).  It’s a straight shot after a single right turn out of our neighborhood.  I waited what I thought was ample time for him to get the paperwork for the car repair completed.  Actually, I stalled a little too long — but did I mention my aversion to waiting?

When I arrived, I couldn’t locate my husband.  Knowing how he loves to chat, I figured he had either made friends or they had bound and gagged him with duct tape.  I looked and looked, then feared for my comfort level.  He’d give me the look.  His glare has been known to make a Brit cry.  I asked at the service counter, and they had no record of him.  

About ten minutes later, he pulled in.  He had gotten lost.  I don’t even know how that was possible.

We installed a GPS in our car to save our marriage.  Whenever I’d input an address, and decide to make a side trip, like turnout to buy a “closet” donut or stop to get gas, the GPS lady said, “Make a U-turn when possible.” 

When my husband drove, he still didn’t pay attention.  He’s GPS challenged.  I have to interpret the turns.  Our lovely direction lady says “Left.”  He asks, “Did she say to turn right?”  And I thought it was me he just didn’t listen to.  One morning the GPS stopped talking.  My husband asked, “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” I responded, “she knew you weren’t going to listen anyway.”

Finally the GPS broke.  The touch sensors wouldn’t detect correct letters or numbers.  I’d enter a street address and press a C.  The letter D appeared.  I pressed one letter or number to the left of the one I actually wanted, but there was no way to register the touch pad letters against the left edge of the screen. 

Only one function worked properly — the saved address list of places I’d been.  Like home, my daughter’s house, or work.  One day an early doctor appointment took me far from home.  I needed the fastest route to work afterwards.  I selected my office from the list.  The only problem — the office had moved half a mile from the original address I’d programmed in. 

I figured I could get close and then cancel my request.  Only the Cancel Route sensor didn’t work.  I tapped it softly, firmly, and then beat it within an inch of its life.  For the next few days no matter where I went, the dispatcher from hell, shouted, “Make a U-turn when possible.”

Finally, I caved.  I drove to my old work address at the abandoned building where she announced with a  nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah  in her voice, “You have arrived at your destination.”

I showed her.  I ripped her guts out.  She sits in a box in a dark corner of my garage.  So now who won, witchy lady?