We got her for Christmas a few years ago. She seemed like the perfect gift. To my husband, she was another condescending female with comments on his driving. To me, she was a sister-wife. I called her “Julie.” Until I realized that he valued her input more than mine, and war was declared. If Julie said “All your friends are driving off a bridge,” he would probably gun it for the nearest overpass. Why did anyone ever think the world needed a GPS?
I understand, though. I fell for her, too. There’s something very comforting about having someone else tell you what to do when you’re lost and confused. It’s even acceptable that they’re bossy. Because if they’re talking to you like you’re stupid, then everything must be fine. It’s when the note of panic creeps into their voice that you’re up the creek without a paddle, and possibly even more literally than you’d like.
We have discovered that there are things that Julie the GPS likes. Fast food, for instance. She can tell us exactly how to get to McDonalds from anywhere. And there are places that she does not like, as well. She has an allergy to state and national parks. On one memorable trip (oh, believe you me, we have tried to forget), the path she chose for us took us around the perimeter of a park. It took us two hours before we realized that Julie is a lying wench. Despite her protests that she would need to recalculate, we took an unadvised turn and were at our destination in 15 minutes.
And we never learn. We went to the mountains this past weekend, and we decided to see if there was a faster route home. We learned on this trip that Julie likes to pout. Apparently since we hadn’t seen fit to ask her how to get there in the first place, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get us home. And we were in a national park. Double score. It took 15 minutes of hanging her out of the car window in quickly dropping temperatures before she would bother to pick up a signal at all. Hell hath no fury like a GPS scorned, ladies and gentlemen. And she wasn’t finished with us yet. It didn’t take her long to get all passive-aggressive. If I rolled up the window, she would promptly “lose” the signal until I rolled it back down. After this happened a couple of times, she started to get a little mouthy.
“Are you inside a vehicle?” What do you think, genius?
“Are you in (insert random state here)?” Uh, didn’t we already have this conversation when I programmed you?
“Are you driving under trees?” National forest. I think, perhaps.
“Is today December 4th?” Apparently, she was convinced I had suffered a head injury from beating my cranium against the dashboard during our friendly little discussion. I was waiting for her to ask me to name the current President of the United States when my husband suggested that perhaps we could continue without her. I think we can, like maybe for the rest of our lives.
But I know that there will come a time when he will be tempted to pull her out of her hiding place and ask her to take him somewhere. He likes bossy women who think they know everything, and Julie actually comes with volume control.
Just remember, though, Sweetie. She will never load the dishwasher as well as I do.