Drama with the GPS

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My husband Adam and I took a road trip to Mississippi last week for his job. We brought along our handy dandy GPS, because we were under the false impression that it would be the answer to our road tripping prayers.

We named the GPS Sheila, but decided to pronounce it all redneck like and actually call her Shayla. By we, I mean Adam, because he is forever naming random items.

We put our destination in and pretty much left our road travel fate in Shayla’s hands. The only problem was that she got a little angry when we strayed from her directions.

If we stopped at a gas station, Shayla would begin shouting that she was, “recalculating.” She was really pretty hateful about it. Persistent, also: She would shout “recalculating” until we got back on our path.

Shayla honestly got a little out of control. She started taking us on crazy roads, and I think perhaps she is the crackhead, anthropomorphized version of a GPS. Like if your GPS is Albert Einstein, mine is Amy Winehouse. Except we call her Sheila/Shayla and she isn’t British like many GPS voices. (Which makes me sad, I desperately wanted a GPS with a nice foreign accent.)

Anyway, at some point in our trip Shayla starts having us make turns every 1.5 miles onto back roads that looked as if they were rarely, if EVER, traveled. One of them was even half gravel. I’m not even kidding. It was like the episode of The Office where Michael trusts his GPS and follows its instructions exactly as given. In the end, the GPS drives him into the lake. That was us. Michael Scott just following the GPS until it takes us somewhere bizarre.

(This is a nice time to insert how much I LOVE THE OFFICE! Love, love, love!)

Most of the trip was spent cussing Shayla. Like the time she directed us to turn too early and then blamed the turn on us.

RECALCULATINGRECALCULATINGRECALCULATING!” Shayla shouted. As if she was the one put out by her shitty directions?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK SHAYLA!” Adam screamed in frustration, “You keep giving us all of the wrong directions.”

This went on and on and on. The directions weren’t incorrect. They were just long and full of turns. The sort of directions your grandmother might give you to the grocery store, because she doesn’t believe in the interstate. That’s Shayla. Your fitful granny.

You would think we would wise up on the way back and find our own path, but if you did think that, you would be wrong. We put our fate in Shayla’s hands? Again! She took us home a completely different way, and in the course, drove us through four different states. FOUR DIFFERENT STATES.

DAMN IT, SHAYLA!” Adam screamed some more. The only problem was that Shayla doesn’t respond kindly to cursing. Shayla doesn’t respond kindly to anything. In fact, she seemed to lose satellite signal not long after that. Leaving us shit out of luck and following the maps on my iPhone.

But eventually, we did get home. Shayla is buried in my trunk beneath all of the crap I never, ever get plan to get out like stray flip flops and the pieces of gravel Allie picks up when she wants to collect rocks. Shayla is there, and I’m pretty sure she will stay there for a very, very long time.

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