Criminey! Look Ma, No Mapquest!

Sorry for the extended absence, but I’m in love.

Don’t choke on your fish oil pills, Eric . . . it’s not you. I’ve fallen for a woman. Wait: it gets steamier. I don’t know her name.

I’m not certain what she looks like, either. Sometimes I imagine a short, mid-30s blonde librarian, like Shirley Jones in The Music Man. Other days I think she’s older, bookish, bespectacled -- Donna Reed sans Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. (Also a librarian, actually.)

I picture her as well-read, with a comprehensive knowledge of Faulkner’s Mississippi backroads, Irving’s New England byways, and Nicole Richie’s Cali freeways.

But maybe she’s not a reader. Maybe she’s never ventured beyond “The Amazing Race” on CBS. In which case, she’s not really my type.

It hardly matters. I’m a smitten kitten.

Where Madame GPS System goes, I will follow.

GPS arrived in New Orleans several months before Eric. When Eric asked how GPS and I met, well, I lied. I value honesty in relationships, but I’m a bigger fan of not looking stupid. “I bought it awhile back,” I said. “I was tired of getting lost all the time.” Eric nodded. “How much did it cost?” Hmmm. “500 bucks,” I said, silently praying that Eric would not insist on Googling GPS systems when we got back to my apartment. “Not too bad,” he shrugged. “Ready to get sno cones?”

Here’s the sordid truth: I did not buy GPS for myself. It was a gift from my mother. I wasn’t terribly concerned about my busted internal compass, but Mom had grown a bit weary of fielding frantic calls from the highway, e.g. “Mapquest told me to turn left on Madison Avenue, but now I’m at Millard Fillmore Drive, and I think I’m getting on the interstate! Can you search online for the nearest gas station, or possibly arrange a squad-car escort?”

Yes, I’m 26 years old (nearly), and I still phone home for help. That’s not the embarrassing part. When Mom lovingly introduced me to GPS, I smiled, expressed gratitude, and, after Mater Familias turned her back, shoved the system in my glove compartment. See, I was sure GPS was a nice gal and all, but I wasn’t exactly ready for a relationship. I had issues. “Cold feet,” some say. Specifically, I was scared to drive farther than Winn Dixie.

That’s why I made Eric do all the driving when he visited last week.

(I’m not going to say much more about Eric’s trip to NOLA. If you’re one of my four or five friends who reads this blog, then I’ve probably given you most of the Goofus Musings/Murky Words Rendezvous details, anyhow. If you don’t know me, you don’t care. And if you know me but you aren’t my friend: hey, who are you?)

Unfortunately, Mr. Words couldn’t play chauffeur forever. He left on Tuesday; the American Psychological Association convention started in the Quarter on Thursday; and by Friday I was composing flowery apologies to GPS. “Sorry I’ve neglected you for so long. Don’t hate me.”

GPS flickered. She sighed. She said: “Please drive the highlighted route.” And we were off.

Our affair has not been without potholes. “Recalculating” is GPS’s code for “You messed up, babe.” On a particularly bad stretch, GPS advised me to “make the first available U-turn.” I have lost my temper with her, as Eric can attest. I have cursed her. She, however, has not once raised her voice. And she’s always guided me home.

That’s the best thing. As long as I have GPS, I can get home again.

I’ve heard people compare a good romance to the feeling of “coming home.” I guess the idea is that “home” isn’t a street name -- not Bourbon or Basin or Tchoupitoulas. It isn’t about knowing where you are. Or even who you are. “Home” is just another way of saying “you’re okay.” You can eat the whole sno cone, then show off your wild-cherry red tongue. You can sing Dr. Seuss’s Whoville Christmas song in the middle of Jackson Square, completely sober, and count on a chorus. You can unleash your goofiest, dorkiest self, and not feel particularly goofy or dorky.

Dorothy got it right: there’s no place like home. I might start calling GPS “Dorothy.” How does Dot feel about driving in Boston, I wonder?