Nav Systems: Not Just For Dummies

Tim has always been good with directions. North, south, east, west, side streets, main roads, highways. He knows them all.

Giving directions to someone else though is a different story. He tends to use car dealerships and gas stations as landmarks, and has, on more than one occasion, directed, "Go straight," when referring to a fork in the road.

Since all of this makes perfect sense in "Timmyland", it is unfathomable to him how someone cannot know where the Honda dealership is or which side of the split at the Toyota dealership is "straight".

So two weeks ago when we met Tom, Beth and the kids a the oldest's lacrosse game, Tim knew exactly where to go, never mind the directions Tom read to him from the school. Street names? He didn't need no stinkin' street names. He simply headed toward the Honda dealership, but made a right between the Subaru and the Shell station. Easy.

Turns out, both methods worked and we all met up there just fine. Unfortunately, it was raining by the time we got there, and familial support only goes so far (Yeah team!).

It was decided that, rather than all of us getting soaked, Tim, Rose and I would take the three other kids for a few hours and meet Tom, Beth and Reilly for dinner after the game. (It's good to be the aunt.)

Two hours later, we arranged to meet at a Chinese place about ten minutes away from each of us. Fifteen minutes later, Tom still hadn't arrived. Apparently, he had taken a right at the Audi instead of a left and was headed west instead of east.

"How long have you lived here?" Tim demanded querulously. "Don't you know that passing the Honda dealership means you are headed the wrong way?"

Tom assured him that he had turned around and was headed back.

"Don't come back the same way. It will take too long," Tim barked (someone's blood sugar was running a bit low!) "Get on the highway and we'll meet at the diner instead."

A series of directions involving gas stations and a grocery store followed.

So, off we both went, and although I was not in their car, I'm willing to bet that Beth heard as many colorful terms of endearment for Tim as I heard for Tom (It's a twin thing, and you don't ever want to get in the middle of it.)

Five minutes later, as we approached the diner, the phone calls started again.


"You're on what road?" Tim asked incredulously, the veins in his neck resembling a 3-D road map of their own. "How did you get there? Never mind, it will take you too long to get to the diner. We'll meet you at the Irish place instead."

Tom's response had the veins pulsing rather alarmingly.

Tim began spouting out new landmarks that involved car washes and restaurants. He concluded with, "How dumb can you be? See that thing in the car? It's called a nav system."

Using the main roads that he knew (he wasn't lost, merely taking the long way), Tom got to the restaurant just fine, and the two of them continued their "debate" good-naturedly(as soon as they got some food).

After dinner, we all headed back to Rose's for some cake to celebrate the youngest's birthday from three days earlier.

"Follow me," Tim ordered Tom. Adding, "Otherwise you'll get on the wrong road again."

Several charming hand gestures were given in response.

Pulling out, Tim got on one of the main roadways and...got off the wrong exit, heading east instead of west.

Two seconds later, the phone rang. It was Tom. "See that thing in the car?" he chortled gleefully. "It's called a nav system!"

W is for Women, M is for Men

I will admit, I have been in my share of men's restrooms.

Once, many years ago at a theater in NYC where there was a short intermission between acts and a long line for the ladies' room, one of the women, in desperation, finally commandeered the men's room, and a bunch of us followed her in. My father-in-law (who was standing in a nearby hallway), never quite got over it. To hear him talk about it, you would think we had desecrated holy ground. Till the day he died, he couldn't pass a restroom without shaking his head and muttering something under his breath about Visigoths, Huns or Vikings.

Then there was the time at Versailles when one of the bathroom attendants motioned for a whole group of us to come over and use the men's room. Unfortunately, I was the last one in, last one out, and by that time, the men had reclaimed their turf.

I figured I had two choices at that point. I could either stay in the stall (which had a floor to ceiling door and one very tiny window) until they closed down for the night, or I could try to squeeze out the window. Just as I was measuring the size of the window against my butt (and the two were not compatible), someone started pounding on the stall door and rattling the handle.

Since they both looked old enough and therefore fragile enough to actually be from the reign of Louis IV, I decided to go with option three. I put my head down, wrenched open the door and beelined it for the exit. I still have the impression of a whole row of guys frantically hugging the walls imprinted on my brain. Not good. (That was also pretty much the end of my liquid intake for the day. Dehydration was definitely preferable to repeating that experience!) I could almost hear my father-in-law rolling over.

Last Sunday night though, the tables were turned.

We had gone to dinner at one of the old, historic hotels downtown, and I had visited the ladies' room, which was down a corridor off the main hallway of the hotel. As I was freshening my lipstick at the mirrors in the first of the two rooms, the door came flying open, a man stuck his head in and yelled, "Teresa!"

He halted briefly upon seeing me. "You're not Teresa."

No, and I can't tell you right now how glad I am that I'm not. "Can I help you?"

"No thanks, mind if I look in there?" he gestured toward the second door, even as he breezed by me and started to push it open.

"Um, sure." Don't mind me, I'm only in the ladies' room.

"Teresa, are you in here?"

A muffled, "I'm putting my lipstick on," answered him.

"Well, I'm ready to leave. Now." Wow. Whatever happened to a five minute warning?

With that, he strode back out, nodded at me, and said, "Thanks."

Sure. No problem.

I never did see Teresa, but when I exited, there was no sign of the guy in the corridor or the hallway, and I thought I heard a soft male chuckle.

The Joys of Air Travel

Once again, this week I was on a plane. And once again, it was an ... experience.

First, we were delayed taking off because our flight crew was coming from another plane that was late landing.

I thought, "Good opportunity to use the restroom." So did everyone else, which is why there was a stampede for the one, tiny, little room that resulted in a line longer than the Great Wall and slower than a herd of turtles walking through quicksand. Oh well, it was just a thought.

Upon boarding, we were all told, in no uncertain terms, to take our seats immediately, so that we could leave ASAP (okay, we were not the ones who were late getting here!). Doing so, we discovered our seats were directly in back of a family with a very, very unhappy child. This kid was hitting notes Whitney Houston could only dream about. Even the flight attendants were shushing him.

As we sat there at the gate waiting for "instructions for the flight" (Instructions?!? The pilot needed instructions ? He didn't know how to fly the plane?), one of the flight attendants took pity on us and offered us two seats up front in the third row.

Before he had even finished explaining where the seats were, we were bolting up the aisle like a couple of racehorses at the Kentucky Derby.

Our new seats were much, much better. Here, the screaming child was one row up and across the aisle. Now we only needed to put our hands over our ears instead of trying to stuff them into them. Well, at least it was near the bathroom, and perhaps I actually had a shot of getting in there this time.

No sooner had we settled in though, than the "fasten seatbelt" sign came on and the crew warned everyone to remain seated. We hadn't actually moved away from the gate yet, but apparently they wanted to be prepared to go as soon as the pilot figured out how to put the plane in reverse.

One poor passenger committed the crime of standing up to get his jacket and was chastised over the PA system before being pounced on by two flight attendants. I decided to remain seated rather than risk public humiliation and having to write a one thousand word essay on why it is important to follow directions.

Finally, Doogie Howser got us airborne. Before I could make my way to the bathroom though, a guy from somewhere behind us came running by and locked himself in there for a nice long stay. Uh oh. Not good.

And it got worse. He had to page the flight attendant for help. When he eventually stumbled out, the bathroom was declared "off limits" for the duration of the flight while those of us up front were enveloped in a cloud of vanilla scented spray deodorizer.

So let's see. So far we had been delayed, had our eardrums pierced, been denied bathroom facilities, and now we were experiencing crop dusting from the bug's point of view.

Thankfully, it was a fairly short flight, and we were able to pamper ourselves in the arrival terminal with luxuries like multiple bathrooms, clean air and a decibel level below four thousand.

Yes, I just love to fly.