I just want to note that nobody—not one of you—asked if I got to the airport safely.
I mean, obviously I did, but… where’s the love?
Especially since, according to the demon box, my city has been under a flood warning every single day for almost two weeks.*
But the drive itself was uneventful.
I am, of course, full of shit. Are you kidding? I was driving. And Husband was forced to sit, all passive and patient, in the passenger seat. See this post or this one for his track record on that point.
It went about how you would expect, is my point.
ME: (changes lanes)
HIM: Actually, that lane was fine.
ME: (moves over) Oh, right. (spots airport sign) Because I’m exiting here…
ME: (stays in lane) (shakes like damp chihuahua)
HIM: Sorry, but you were getting—
ME: (tersely) Which terminal?
ME: K. See, I think this is how I got turned around before (gestures)
HIM: You need the other lane.
ME: Yes. I can see.
HIM: It’s just—
ME: You know, I think maybe you’re the reason I abuse my GPS.
HIM: I’m gonna need more explanation for that comment.
ME: Well, you’re all shouty and—
HIM: I’m not shouty, I’m just trying to—
ME: You shout.
HIM: Okay, but if your GPS could see the things you’re doing, or about to do—
ME: (now on Airport roads) It—
HIM: This light is green.
ME: I. KNOW.
ME: But I’m also slowing down. You yell at me to do it often enough.
ME: Jesus please us.
ME: So. You’re all shouty and it’s no wonder then that when I get in the car with the nice polite lady who never raises her voice I think, finally, I’m gonna get mine back! And I systematically torture her.
HIM: Again, if the nice lady could see what you’re doing—
ME: And when I go completely off, the most my GPS says is, “would you like to abandon this destination?”
HIM: Okay, but when you’re about to take the wrong exit I can’t ask you if you’d like to abandon our destination!**
ME: You might consider it.
ME: Also, I think it’s telling that you’ve never heard her say these things.
Okay, so I’m realizing now that I maybe need to explain something. One friend (who shall remain nameless because she’s wrong and I won’t shame her further) thinks this falls under the category of Undiscovered Psychiatric Disorder: my impulse and delight in torturing artificial intelligence. She came up with this (wrongheaded, because I’m sure this behavior is perfectly normal and also it totally doesn’t count as sadism if the object is… well, an object) theory while riding in the car with me, listening to poor Google plead with me to turn left… or right… or around while I cackled with delight because I’d decided on a detour to the nearest CVS without plugging it in as a destination. (I needed lip balm, if you must know.)
Anyway, it is a known fact that I mistreat the GPS. Which isn’t a crime (yet, I am reminded by my poor misguided friend) but it is the reason I know how long you can wander before she starts to question whether you’re even going to the place you asked about or if you’re just fucking with her. Husband has never experienced this, because he always turns the GPS off if he decides on additional stops, or simply plots them in.
Note that he’s all sorts of considerate to Google, but I get all the shouting. Even though she’s the one who keeps sending him down random back roads and around to employee and delivery entrances.***
* Every day she tells me it has been extended until sometime that afternoon and to expect rain, and every day is bone dry from above and below. I begin to suspect fuckery.
** It would have resulted in us getting to the airport three or four minutes later. The horror.
*** A glitch I never get, so maybe there’s something to be said for my method.