Don’t you be getting in my face! Seriously.

I hate to tell you this but I am tired of being told what to do. For instance, this morning. I’m at a hotel in OKC. On business, people. I go downstairs to breakfast, and right off the bat a sign by the waffle maker says, “Don’t overfill waffle iron.” I don’t even know how that’s possible. If you overfill it, the extra runs down the side to the overfill-catcher-thing below. Problem solved.

Then the syrup. “Please don’t overfill syrup cup.” Seriously? Why would anyone do that? I did accidentally leave the handle thingy in the “on” position, and it did run over. A lot. But Jeeze. That syrup flows at a trickle. Old men pee faster than that. Or so I hear. And I needed some eggs and orange juice and milk, all the way across the room. It wasn’t my fault the syrup cups were small.

The milk is another thing. It comes in those little bitty cartons. I started to open it, and right there in black and white where you could hardly see it are the words, “Open other end!” Are they kidding me? I was all like, “Don’t you tell me what to do!” And I opened that end right there. It was kind of shredded when I got it open, but it’s not like it’s going to be re-used. Recycled maybe, but that just means they chop and crunch and mash and it comes back as a tampon. Which probably says, “Insert this end.” Is anybody stupid enough to not follow those directions? I think not. You got to know when to fold them.

And, of course, the Queen of Telling Me What to Do is my GPS, Myrtle. That’s her name. Regardless of her theory, I don’t think the problem there is so much that I can’t follow directions as that she bosses me in a bitchy tone of voice. Nobody likes to stop to pee, get back in the car, and hear, “Recalculating. Recalculating.” As if that’s such a chore. As much as a navigation system built into the dash costs, she should thank me for giving her something to do instead of earning her keep standing on a street corner.

And just try going five feet off the road, like when you’re trying to find the spoon you want to eat your yogurt with. You know it’s on the passenger side floor. You just don’t know which thing it’s under. The cacophony accompanying that little move is akin to that of drunken Brits whose team has just won the soccer championship. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and not that I’ve ever lost a spoon on the floor and tried to find it while I’m driving. I will say I was once forced to eat my yogurt with a hair barrette I found in the center console.

Anyway, one little veer onto shoulder of the road and Myrtle is all “Unverified area! Unverified area.” As if. There’s a highway five feet away and I know very well it’s verified because the Highway Department put those little bumpy things on the shoulder to wake you up if you fall asleep driving. Not that I ever have. And besides, Myrtle gets signals from a satellite. How can she not see where I am?

Which brings me to another point. Why do I have to update Myrtle every year? Number 1, she added a considerable amount to the price of my car. Number 2, as I mentioned above, it’s powered by a satellite people!! Eye in the sky. Way up in the sky. It could show me Bangaladesh, if it wanted. It sends me signals so I don’t have to listen to regular radio. It orbits things.

And yet Honda charges me $199 a year to give old Myrtle a re-boot. Seriously, Honda? And guess what? Even when I pay that $199 the ungrateful bitch still refuses to tell me there’s construction ahead and won’t route me around it. Of course not. She lets me take the detour and starts screeching, “Unverified area! Recalculating! Make a U-turn as soon as possible!”

I’ll tell you the truth. Sometimes I have to get out of the car, sit on the curb, and put my head between my legs.