There Will Be Blog

My GPS has a warped sense of humor.

The GPS is a wonderful invention, or was until it developed a personality, which immediately became aberrant.   But as a recent transplant to the eastern megalopolis,  I am at the mercy of my GPS, which shall remain nameless for reasons that will shortly be (was that a split infinitive?) apparent, but it rhymes with "schmom-schmom."

So this week I made a trip--nay, a pilgrimage--to my eastern home office of Herndon, VA.  Herndon is hard by the Dulles airport, 15 miles west of the D of C. And got there with only a few harrowing road experiences.

Coming home was another story.  As a good boy scout, I usually pack maps and a backup route in case technology fails me, but I was running late and let myself be lulled into a false trust of the evil "pom-pom."

Having a rudimentary knowledge (read: none) of the roads in the area, I thought Miss Phyllis, the voice of my GPS (rhymes with "bomb-bomb"), would take me along wide and fast freeway arteries between big cities (DC, Baltimore, Wilmington, Philadelphia) and along clear and intuitive belt routes to skirt the congested center cities.  If I disagreed, with her, I would just navigate by the unambiguous (read: ahahahahaha!) road signs and dead reckoning.  Or the stars.  I'm flexible.

But Miss Phyllis has a sense of humor.

It started as it always does, with the GPS alarm noise, that sound of fingernails on a blackboard in a dumpster full of broken glass.  Miss Phyllis gave me a Hobson's choice: stay on the road you think you understand and suffer a 110 minute delay, or put yourself in  my hands with the prospect of taking "alternate" (read: not on any map) route to save 92 minutes. It's not really a choice.

I chose Miss Phyllis, and down the rabbit hole we went.

I paid a toll to get on a freeway.
Within minutes the fingernails and dumpster noise again: I could save another 20 minutes.
Off the freeway and back on the opposite direction.
Another toll.
Another fingernails sound;  I could save 30 more minutes.
Off the freeway and back on the original direction again.
I paid a toll.

Inexplicably, Phyllis took me through the airport rental car return loop. (I am not making this up.)
I got on another road, paid another toll.
There were traffic jams, diversions, off the freeway, on the freeway.
I was so turned around I had no choice but to follow Phyllis.
You can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave.
Indeed.

Suddenly I was driving past the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson Memorial--not on the freeway zipping past them, but in the street traffic! You know, red lights, potholes, construction barrels, congressmen, local pizza delivery guy.  We headed for the Pentagon, and I wouldn't have been at all surprised to find myself driving its halls.  They're wide enough.

It went from bad to worse.  I got stuck behind three gravel trucks racing each other between lights on the streets of downtown DC. Miss P took me east across town, circling, serpentine-ing, spinning, veering.  I swear we went so far east that I saw roads signs in French.  Couldn't have been any less helpful to me.

It was at this point I imagined the night crew in the offices of the GPS company watching a huge screen showing my tortured path and writhing in laughter.
"Lookee!  Phyllis got another one trapped!"
"How long before he'll realize?"
"Oh, she's good."
"However much we're paying her, it isn't enough."

I despaired. I was confused.  I was anxious.  I was acrimonious. And finally, I was resigned. I resolved to contact the GPS (rhymes with om-nom-nom) company and give them a piece of my mind.  I resolved to take them off the Christmas card list.

I resolved to...but wait.  In today's digital world there is another way to get revenge.  Instead of firebombing their offices, I'll mess with their reputation in the new media.  I'll post the story!

There will be blog.*

*Not even close to an original reference.  There is even a whole blog named this.  But instead of a good time, I had a good story...