Home, Jeeves

Right around this time last year, I packed up my car and drove to New Hampshire. At about the same time, the East Coast was having some sort of freakishly awful fall storm. Which was, you know, awesome, because if there's one thing that's super fun, it's being in a VW Rabbit with your mom and a bunch of your stuff and a really angry cat for a million and twelve hours AND driving straight into a storm.

Oopsies.

I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter because I'd already sent in the non-refundable deposit on my apartment, and some very nice mover guys had already taken all of the stuff I couldn't fit into my car (like, you know, the couch. And the bed. Stuff that just won't fit into a hatchback), and I needed to get to New Hampshire, and into the apartment, before my furniture arrived. So off we went. Armed with my mom (for someone to talk to) and coffee (because, duh), and my favorite road trip Barry Manilow CD, and a brand spanking new GPS.

Here's a fun fact about a GPS: you can choose which voice/accent the GPS speaks in. How fun is that? After being slightly disappointed that none of my GPS choices sounded like Morgan Freeman (which would have been AWESOME ... it would have been like the Voice of God instructing me to take a left onto I-95), I selected a snotty male British voice.

And then named the GPS Jeeves.

As I was saying: Mom, check. Barry, check.  Coffee, check. Jeeves, check.

Good to go. Storm or no storm.

We left North Carolina in the afternoon and zipped northward merrily, driving through wind and squalls and, of course, singing along with Barry while the cat meowed in displeasure from her crate. All the while, Jeeves offered excellent suggestions.

But then outside of DC, Jeeves suddenly became ... how to say this:

A TOOL OF THE DEVIL.

My plan was to stay on 95. It was, I thought, a good one.

But Jeeves wanted me to take a different route.

I did not know what to do. I looked at my mother. "What did he say?"

"Get on 395?"

"Is that a good plan?"

"I don't know," she said. "I would think it must be a shortcut or something."

I wanted to stay on 95. However, I have a long history of getting lost in places I am super familiar with -- for example, I lived in Rochester for 7 years and never quite figured out where the post office was -- so I thought, well, Jeeves IS a GPS. So, probably, he knows where he is going.

I got off 95.

And immediately drove straight into one of the circles of hell. I don't know which one it was, precisely, but if Dante had been in possession of a car and knew what rush hour DC traffic was like, he would have described what I drove directly into.

PANDEFREAKINGMONIUM.

With the super helpful Jeevesie giving me instructions like "Merge left." I began sniping back at him as though he was a person I could reason with: "Um, Jeeves? I can't GO left right now. Because THERE ARE CARS EVERYWHERE."

I drove past the Pentagon. I drove past other government-y stuff. It was when I saw an exit for Pennsylvania Ave that I totally lost my cool. "This is NOT AWESOME JEEVES. I WANTED TO GO AROUND DC! AROUND! NOT THROUGH! WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!"

"I'm sorry," my mom whispered.

"Meow," the cat said, pitifully. I stewed and steamed.

It took me three hours to get through DC. Finally -- FINALLY! -- Jeeves instructed me to get off at Rock Creek Parkway.

Here's what I know about Rock Creek -- I watch NCIS. Someone gets murdered there EVERY DAMN WEEK.

"Oh, Rock Creek," I said out loud.

"Do you know where that is?" Mom asked.

"Uh. No?" I said. It was late, we were tired, and "According to Gibbs, this might be the murder capital of the DC Metro area" seemed like a bad thing to announce.  I comforted myself with happy Mark Harmon thoughts, interspersed with moments of glowering at Jeeves, who looked back at me impassively.

I have never been so happy to get back on I-95 in my WHOLE LIFE.

We drove through the night. The weather worsened, and then improved. In Rhode Island, happily tooling down 95, coffee in hand once again, singing at the top of my lungs "Ohhhhhh Maaaaaaandy! You came and you gaaave without taaaaaking," Jeeves piped in.

"In 2.7 Miles, turn right onto state highway 126...."

"Oh no, nonononono. Not this time mister. 95 all the way."

"Recalculating," Jeeves said. It may have been my imagination, but he sounded annoyed.

"Who's the navigator now?" I said, smiling, and drove on.