Monday, July 21, 2008


This Father’s Day, my husband, along with the vast majority of men, got a Global Positioning System (GPS). I would like to say it was a surprise, but since he clipped the photo from the sales ad, and I called him twice to consult on the model while I was at the store, I won’t. But still, not a bad present, and he loves it—or should I say her.

I call her Ms. Garmin, and she has quickly become the other woman in his life. She has taken over several of my duties, much to my relief, I might add. I no longer have to struggle to read the maps. I no longer have to apologize for getting east and west mixed up. I no longer have to strain my eyes to read the road signs ahead. Now when we are traveling, I relax and let “her” tell him what to do. And therein lies the problem.

It seems my husband isn’t used to taking orders from a non-Southern gal. Somehow, we Southern women have a way of sweetening our commands. You know, we can make it seem like it really was HIS idea to take the scenic route and stop by the antique stores since it’s on the way.

But not Ms. Garmin. She’s crisp, harsh, abrupt and doesn’t sugar-coat it when you turn in the wrong direction. Although my husband appreciates her input, it’s her accent, or lack there of, that really irks him.

I began to wonder why not make a GPS with a Southern accent. I would even volunteer to do the voice-over. It would sound something like this, “Turn rite here, sugah” or “Go down past Bubba’s filling station and take a left.”

I even imagine she would toss in a few bits of advice as Southern women are apt to do. For instance, if you make a wrong turn, I can hear her say, “I don’t like to impose, but I don’t believe I would go that way if I were you,” or “Slow down now; what’s your hurry?”

In the meantime, however, we are stuck with flat mid-western snippy-sounding Ms.Garmin. She’s the one responsible for getting us where we are going. She’s the one to blame if we get lost. So, if we drive in circles for hours on toll roads looking for Disney World with three hungry kids because she couldn’t tell the difference between east and west, it’s all her fault now--not mine. As we Southern women like to say, bless her heart.

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