Fiddledeedee

Two thirds of my children are sick today.  And have I mentioned that my children inherited The High Maintenance from me?  Therefore, I am posting something a little something from a year ago.

And while I’m thinking about it, about the trip to the dentist for the deep cleaning.  I really had nothing to fear.  Because the dental technician put the fear of complete gum deterioration in me at the last visit a month ago, I began flossing as though my life, and gum health, depended on it.  It did the trick, because she said that she had never seen so much dental improvement in a patient.  So, it wasn’t bad.  And I didn’t have to exist on a liquid diet.  Sadly.  The moral of the story is:  FLOSS FLOSS FLOSS.

Now, on with the GPS story.  And btw, I have since made peace with “Gypsie.”  In fact, we have an understanding.  She doesn’t get snippy with me, and I won’t accidentally mow her over with the van.

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(originally posted November, 2008)

This morning I set out for an appointment, which we”ll just affectionately call the Annual Scraping of the Cervix.

The only positive about this outing, was that I really couldn’t bring the children. As educational as it might have been, the therapy that would follow is simply too high of a price to pay.

And without the children in tow, I looked forward to a nice long drive. Alone. I knew the solitude would do me a world of good.

Only I wasn’t alone.

My appointment was in a part of town in which I almost always lose my way. Since it’s just once a year and all.

It doesn’t matter that all 3 of the doctors who delivered my 3 children all have offices on this particular street. And that in the last 10 years, I’ve been there at least 135 times. Per child. Give or take.

I still lose my way.

So, Fiddledaddy lent me his GPS.

You know, that technological gadget that is all powerful and all knowing. Like a big eye in the sky, it watches and knows where you are at all times. And more importantly, where you are going.

Kind of creeps me out.

I slowly typed in my destination and then stuck the thing in its holder on the windshield. And then SHE began barking out orders to me. Without even giving me time to pull out my sunglasses.

“In point three miles, you will make a left on Familiar Street. MAKE A LEFT…”

This is my neighborhood, lady, I know where I am.

Frankly, I thought she was a little testy.

Here’s a little trivia about me: I don’ like to be told what to do.

Then, I took a street that wasn’t on her pre-approved route. “RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING,” she hollered at me.

As though I were a petty annoyance to her delicate sensibilities.

Made me want to pull into the nearest parking lot and do a few doughnuts. Let her FREAK OUT.

But I was running a tad late. As was evidenced by the flashing digital clock on her display screen indicating my approximate arrival time.

Pity.

Then there was one nice long stretch of highway that allowed me to enjoy a little solitude. I was deep in thought, listening to talk radio, when with no warning whatsoever, she bellows “IN POINT 6 MILES YOU WILL TURN RIGHT.”

Which resulted in my nearly wrecking the car.

The least she could have done would be to clear her throat first.

If you are thinking to yourself, “Man, this blogger is wound tighter than a spring,” you would be just scratching the surface.

When my heart stopped palpitating, and I was fairly certain I wasn’t suffering a coronary, I opened the window and threw Ms. GPS out into the oncoming lane of traffic.

In my head.

Fiddledaddy would immediately notice that his girlfriend was missing. She has a MUCH different attitude when he’s driving. As she purrs to him in her velvety voice.

I don’t know what this GPS stands for, really. And frankly I don’t care.

The only thing that comes to my mind is, Get Prozac Soon.

The end.