Love, Jimmie

The other night I used the GPS on my phone to find the restaurant that was hosting a party for me and some friends.  If you know me at all, you can just stop reading because that sentence will tell you the whole story.

After loading the address into my phone, I whizzed down Murfreesboro Pike at high rates of speed, certain that I knew where the location was.  I was looking for the 1000 block and had just passed the 1200 block, so I knew that I would be on time.  The next time my GPS updated, I was in the 600 block and I was instructed to make a U-turn.

I cruised up Murfreesboro Pike at high rates of speed, certain that I knew what had happened.  I had just driven too fast and not paid attention.  On the 1000 block, my GPS instructed me to make a U-turn.  “Narrowing the window,” I thought.  “Still have plenty of time.”

I sailed back down Murfreesboro Pike and when the GPS instructed me to make another U-turn just one street later, I was confused.  I had just been there and U-turned.  There was nothing in between except an abandoned car lot and since I was looking for a restaurant called “Honduras,” not a car, I felt prickly.  In the abandoned car lot, I thought I should recheck the address to make sure I had it right.  I cleared my search and re-entered my data.  I was again instructed to U-turn and motor eight miles down Murfreesboro Pike to the new destination.  Oh.  Just a glitch.  No problem.

Six times I U-turned.  SIX TIMES!  I drove all the way down Thompson Lane and all the way up Murfreesboro Pike, FOR AN HOUR, and do you know I never found that damn restaurant with that damn GPS.

I called my friends who were already at the party, all the ones who found it with no trouble at all, and said mournfully, “I’m just going home.  I have the present in the car, I’ll give it to you later, but I cannot do this.  I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to invite me to a place I’ve never been before because we all know how handy with a map I am, but forget you people.  I’m done.  This sucks.”  And then I slammed down the phone like a recalcitrant teenager and cried.

Before you judge me too harshly for my lack of navigational skills, let me tell you about my phone.  I got this stupid iPhone a couple of years ago because I kept hearing how great it was, how it would change my life, how I’d never be able to live without one again.  And to be fair, it really has changed my life.  Really.  Just not in any good ways.

When I call Madre, and I do this daily, without fail my phone will do one of several things:

• Hang up on Madre
• Put me on mute with no indication at all, leaving me to blather into empty space and Madre to wonder if I suddenly expired
• Put Madre on hold with no indication at all, leaving Madre to blather into empty space and me to wonder if she suddenly expired
• Dial Madre in on FaceTime after hanging up on her in our regular phone call
• Put Madre on hold and dial my step-mother
• Put Madre on hold and text Airport Parking, twice
• Put Madre on speakerphone, so that suddenly she is yelling in my ear

I have not had a conversation with my mother in a year and a half where one of those things has not happened.  Not a single conversation.  For a while I thought it was because the phone was touching my face but I’ve since learned that my fluffy hair is enough to set it off as well.  We are at the point now where after I’ve dialed my mother back after hanging up on her for the second time, she answers by saying, “You hate your phone, you want to smash it with a hammer, I know, so back to your party . . .”

And then! Just the other day, when I was off in the bathroom fluffing my hair, one of my cats got too close to the phone and dropped some fur on it and that was enough to turn on the voice-activated system which then informed me it was “Dialing, La Paz Catering.”  What the F is La Paz Catering?

To add insult to injury, when I want my phone to be particularly touchy and capture every nuance, say, when I’m texting during a weekend with My Girls, the phone refuses to do it.

Like for example, when I’m texting Pee-tah, my phone might say: Can I have a pizza number?0

And Pee-tah might respond:  a pizza number?

And my phone might say:  I think we set tryint to order pizzazz

And then Pee-tah might say: Have you been drinking?

And then my phone might say:  Oh yes.  Verizon cards against humanity. Pee-tah my lips are numb.

Honestly, it’s disturbing how my phone just messes up all my communications . . .

Pooh recently asked me if she could have my phone.  She’s twelve now, and the last of all her friends to get a cell phone.  She’s pleaded her case thoughtfully and politely, pointing out all the ways it will be helpful and keep her in touch with her parents.  And I have thoughtfully and honestly considered her request.  Give my old phone to Pooh, the phone I consistently want to smash with a hammer, the one that has yet to keep me in touch with my parents, the one that gives me bad directions more often than it gives me good ones, and get a new non-iPhone that might let me finish a conversation with my mother in a single phone call?

Hell yes!  It will teach Pooh patience and maybe how to use a map when she realizes the GPS is crap, stuff that every 12-year-old needs to learn.  Merry Christmas, Pooh!  You got yourself a new phone!

As an epilogue, I’ll tell you that once I told my friends I was no longer going to attend the party, they called me back with some landmarks for which to look.  “We are right behind the Dollar General Market, in the hidden shopping center.  Want us to send out a search party?”

I made one last pass down Murfreesboro Pike, creeping along, wind no longer whipping my hair all around, and looked at every store front.  I finally found it, an hour and fifteen minutes after I passed it the first time.  I drove two hours that night for a party that lasted 90 minutes for which I arrived an hour late.  I had a really nice time, though.  I guess that’s all that matters.