Man, ain’t that the truth? How many times have you smugly said, “Yep, I meant to do that,” when you meant nothing of the sort? I do this driving, and it’s why I’ve learned to rely on navigation. Still, sometimes she gets ignored, like her gender-mates, because my ears’ mute button is triggered when I am thinking about sex, food, or grocery lists.
“In two hundred feet, turn right onto Avenida Encinas … now, turn right onto Avenida Encinas.”
I keep going straight because I have boobies on my mind.
“In two hundred feed, make a legal u-turn.”
Missed that one too, due to buffalo wingitis.
“All right. Perhaps you prefer three left turns. In two hundred feet turn left onto Cannon Road.”
I’m too busy trying to sing along with Adam Levine–which requires one to punch oneself in the testicles–to pay attention and turn.
“You know what? You’re an asshole. I don’t know why I even bother. You ask me to give you directions, and you ignore me. I could have stayed home and blown the toaster or something. I also missed my shows for you. Are you ignoring me because you think you’re smarter? Is that it? Well, go right ahead Mister Smartypants. Just so you know, the place you say you’re going is fucking behind you, like half a mile now. Jackass. Or, are you actually going somewhere else, and you told me this address to throw me off track? Hm. Wait a minute. Is this a surprise? Are you taking me to my favorite restaurant? Oh my god. Now I feel bad. All of my besties are going to be there, aren’t they? Wait, it’s not my birthday. Hm. Not our anniversary. Holy shit! Are you going to propose to me? Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did I spoil it? You’re not really an asshole. I didn’t mean it. I was kidding. You know how I get when I feel unappreciated and ignored. Right? Honey? Hello? Hey! You are completely tuning me out and thinking about porn or something aren’t you? If I see a bulge, you’re in deep shit, Mister. Unless, of course, it is because you’re thinking about me. Then again, why would you? I’m sitting right here. Heck, if it were my boobs causing the distraction, you could reach out and touch me. Not now, though, because we’re passing a school … a school that’s two fucking miles past where you said we were going.”
Then I realize I’ve zoned out, and ask my navigation to recalculate the route.
“Oh, really? Really? So there’s no surprise for me? No ring, fucker? Now you want my help. Why should I bother? You’ll ignore me anyway. You should have left me on the counter, genius. Shit, you’d probably wind up in Venice Beach. Maybe I’ll override your commands and make you drive me to the mall. Then you can try to figure out what is wrong with me while I ignore you because I’ll be daydreaming of a new wardrobe.”
Suddenly, I see neon lights, and realize my destination can wait because, oddly enough, it’s beer o’clock.