A few years ago my friend Mithra got me a GPS system for Xmas.  It remains the best present I’ve ever received … save for that blow up sheep doll I once scored as a gag gift.  (“Your friends will all be jealous that you have the ‘Love Ewe'”.)

I rely on my GPS wholeheartedly.  If it tells me to turn off steep ravine, you can bet I’ll do it.  I trust my GPS to get me there with minimal fuss and muss, and hopefully without plummeting to my doom.

Today, however, there was a bit of a snafu.  I’m somewhere in the middle of Nebraska.  Like really podunk, teeny-tiny, nowheresville Nebraska.  And my GPS started getting twitchy.  I don’t know if it couldn’t find the satellite in God’s country or what.   All I know is that I spent a good fifteen minutes in Mead, Nebraska, which is just outside Wahoo, NE, dontcha know.  The GPS inexplicably had us circle the town four times before getting us on the right highway.  It was vaguely reminiscent of that scene in National Lampoon’s European Vacation where Clark says, “Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!”

I hate getting lost more than anything else in life.  And that includes bee stings.  I would gladly traipse in to a cave filled with rabid bats providing I could find my way out later without having to ask for directions.

When my GPS went on the fritz, I immediately broke out in to a cold sweat.   I immediately pictured myself buying property in Mead because, well, I was trapped here.

Remember the days of maps?  Yeah, neither do I.  I cherish my GPS and all the wonderment that gets me from Point A to Point B.  Tomorrow on my ride home I think I’ll switch the voice to “Annette” who speaks in a lovely Australian accent.  “Turn right in one mile, mate … and throw another shrimp on the barbee.”

Yep, Daddy is coming home.