road trips, british men, and an anthropomorphic gps device

We get in the car, my mother and I, all set for the 7 hour drive from San Diego to Phoenix. My iPhone is plugged in, ready to play the audiobook I downloaded, when my mother looks at me and goes, “Yeah, no. We need to plug Nigel in.” And I’m all, “What do you mean ‘yeah, no’? And who the fuck is Nigel?”

She rolls her eyes, hates that I cuss so much, and pulls a black pouch out of her gigantic, you-don’t-even-want-to-know-what-the-hell-is-in-here purse and points enthusiastically at it saying, “This is Nigel!”

Confused, I ask, “you named a black bag Nigel?”

She opens the pouch, takes out a small GPS device and says, “THIS is Nigel.” And I’m thinking, “okay lady, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?” while she plugs it into the car’s power outlet thing and types in our destination.

We start driving. She’s cradling the GPS in her hands like it’s a small puppy. Everything is fine and normal (ish), until it’s not. Until there’s a booming male voice instructing me in a thick, British accent that in 400 yards, I must “merge onto the motorway.”

“Um, what the fuck?”

“THAT’S NIGEL,” my mother yells, clapping her hands in delight. He’s BRITISH. I named him NIGEL. And I’m like, “Okay, really? What did they put in your breakfast this morning that they didn’t put in mine?”

“Nigel will get us home!” she chirps. I make the “you’re so far past the average person’s level of crazy” face. She picks the GPS up and starts whispering to it, all “My unappreciative daughter doesn’t like you very much Nigel, but it’s okay, I still loooovvvve you.” And I’m like, “Caren, so help me, I will eject you AND Nigel straight onto the side of the mother fucking motorway.”

To which she smirks and is all, “Ha! Good luck getting to Phoenix without Nigel’s proficient navigational abilities.” And I’m like, “touché crazy lady, touché.”

Posted in: day to day shenanigans, i heart my crazy mother