I’m having a bit of a problem with my husband — or to be more precise, with his girlfriend, Vera.
Before you start getting worried, I should probably explain that “Vera” is just my name for his phone-based navigational software.
My problem is he listens to her instead of to me, at critical moments in our relationship.
Take, for instance, the critical moment that occurred on a recent drive back home to Long Island from North Carolina.
We were just south of Washington, D.C., approaching a big messy interchange with minimal signage.
I had a simple suggestion. “Why don’t we just get on the Beltway, then take I-95 north until we reach the New Jersey Turnpike? Like we usually do?”
But my husband had other ideas. Or rather his little friend Vera did. She pointed us toward “Intersection of I-395/I-195/Route 50 South.” At least I think that’s what she said.
I took out my own phone and tried frantically to figure out what Vera was talking about, before it was too late.
“Why is she saying that?” I snapped at my husband. “Route 50? South? We just came from there — why ever would she send us back?”
Not to mention that as an even-numbered highway Route 50 doesn’t even go south; it heads either east or west, to Ocean City or, for all I know Death Valley.
Where’s the big paper atlas when you need one? Oops! I had left it home, and had no reliable backup to work with.
But no matter what you looked at, heading south on anything just sounded wrong.
“So,” I gently asked my life’s partner, “Are you going to listen to Vera’s crazy plan? Or to your wife?”
It was a fair question.
Never mind that in the past, when he has obeyed my hastily barked-out directions, we have occasionally been known to end up crossing back under the Hudson River to the side whence we came — or over the Brooklyn Bridge likewise — or experiencing some other debacle of navigational prowess that no fair-minded observer could possibly blame on me.
“What’s my third choice?” he said.
“There is none!” I snap. “And we’re running out of time. Vera wants you to make a decision in 50…30…20 feet!”
He took her advice. Not mine.
“O…kayyyy,” I said, “I can take a hint. You don’t need me anymore. That’s all right. I’ll just listen to some podcasts.”
“What about?”
“Oh, finding new directions — living my best life — jettisoning toxic partners — the usual.”
“What?” He almost ran us off the road.
“I’m kidding! But you should have listened to me.”
As it turned out, we never took anything “South.” Instead, at the very last second a portal opened up in the time-space continuum, and right there in front of us was the entrance to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. So we took that.
It wasn’t my first choice, but it would do. “But don’t think I’m forgetting that you listened to Vera instead of me.”
After that, things went well enough for me to listen to my podcasts. Or, as my husband would put it, I fell asleep. That suits him fine. That way he can carry on with his girlfriend, the telephone navigator.
Everything went well, that is, until something went wrong. Again.
We were near Baltimore, finally approaching I-95, the road I had wanted to get on in the first place.
Except we couldn’t. A night-time road crew had randomly closed the only entrance ramp from the road we were on, and started digging it up! No warnings, no “detour” signs…Nothing!
“So, tell me: What does Vera have to say for herself, about this?”
“Um, nothing.”
“She’s ashamed, I guess.”
“No, I mean it says ‘no signal’.”
Of course. We are lost. Lost! At the crossroads of Somewhere and Somewhere Else in the middle of industrial-looking Baltimore.
This is Not. My. Fault.
In fact —come to think of it — it is Vera’s. “You realize it’s all Vera’s fault we are on this stupid road, needing that stupid interchange, in the first place?”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right. It’s really YOUR fault for listening to her instead of me. But I’ll forgive you — as long as you never do that again.”
Suddenly my phone started working, and I was able to navigate. And a happy trip home was had by all. Except maybe Vera.
