May 16, 2007 by Marj Hatzell
The words “Men” and “Directions” seem to go together as well as Oil and Water, do they not?
My husband did not come with that little internal flashing red light that tells him when he’s made a wrong turn. The man cannot find his way out of the smallest mall in the county, let alone the-unnamed-builder’s-supply-store-whose-initials-are-HD. He can find a bathroom (and use it) anywhere we’ve ever been. But please, for the love of all that is good and holy, never, EVER ask this man for directions.
Darling is the type of driver that has no idea where he is going. He is scary, really. He constantly makes quick turns, comes to a screeching halt and has to reverse direction. This is to places he has been many times. Each morning when he leaves for work I get nervous, knowing full well that he may get lost on the way to work. If he sticks to the main numbered roads he does well enough (but misses exits, then has to turn around and that is when he gets lost). It’s the back-roads that do him in. And, oh boy, do we have back-roads ’round these parts.
This morning Darling had a very important meeting in Lambertville, New Joisy, otherwise known as the-place-who-wants-to-be-New-Hope-but-isn’t. Nice, quaint little town with Inns on the river. The directions on the hotel website take you from points North, East, South and West. We live less than ten minutes from Philly Airport. So naturally, Darling chose the directions from the Philly Airport, right? I mean, we literally have to drive to the end of our street, make a right turn, and drive until we hit I-95. You know, the big highway that goes from Maine to Florida? Yes, that 95. So, it makes sense (at least, to people who can find their way out of a paper bag and all) to get on 95, take it across the river, hook up with 29, which goes RIGHT INTO LAMBERTVILLE. Just before I dragged Bugaboo to the bus Darling called. He said he printed directions but the bottom got cut off on the printer and he couldn’t figure out where to go. Thinking I had a few minutes to tell him (assuming, of course, that he took NINETY-FIVE) I told him I’d call back as soon as Bugaboo was on the bus. I was going to Google it (can you believe I used that as a verb?) and call him back. As soon as I walked in the door from Bugaboo’s bus the phone rang. Again. Darling was rather impatient (read: pissed off) and
demanded asked nicely that I look up the directions for him pronto. I looked at the directions and began to read them off. From the very-close-to-us-so-close-that-we-can-hear-just-about-every-plane-take-off-and-see-them-too airport. From 95. You know, the highway that is a mile from my front door? The one that runs from MAINE TO FLORIDA? He stopped me mid sentence. “Uh, I didn’t go that way. I am getting on Route 1. Heading West. Looking at a Turn Pike Sign.”
That sound you heard was my jaw dropping to the floor.
Apparently he found the directions from “Points West” and followed those. They told him to get onto the Turn Pike, take it east, make a right, make a left, go this way, jump through a hoop, sacrifice your first born child and make sure the moon is aligned with Saturn. Then ask Scotty to beam you down and set your Phasers on Stun.
Did you know that Pennsylvania is WEST of New Jersey? That means if you want to drive to New Jersey from Pennsylvania you should drive (going out on a limb here) East. EAST? As in, towards the sun, since that is where it RISES. You know, like we are going to visit his sister? Yeah, THAT New Jersey.
I should know about Darling and his fantabulous sense of direction. This is the man, after all, that asks me which way to turn to get to
Mecca TJ’s. He is also the same man who if I tell him which way to go he yells politely protests. The same man that gets Irish when I don’t say anything about which way to go and he misses the turn.