Regular readers of this blague will remember that Dr. M. has long ago confessed that he suffers from a serious case of "directional disability," or as some call it, "geographical dyslexia" -- which means that he regularly loses his way, is subject to travel-based panic attacks, and is consequently abused by friends and family who refuse to recognize that he's not stupid, just utterly lost.
Advanced technology rides to my rescue. I now own a mobile navigator. It affixes to the windshield of the car, and, using signals bounced off three or four satellites, instructs me how to get from point A to point B. I've fallen profoundly in love with the disembodied female British voice who doesn't criticize me when I make a wrong turn: she just says, very politely, "recalculating." Then she says, "drive point five miles and turn left." What a boon to the chronically lost! I now drive as accurately as a migrating bird. My only reservation: I think that my friend should congratulate me when I get to where I'm going. She should show a little enthusiasm. But all she says is "arriving at destination, on left." What would it hurt her to offer congratulations? I'm not asking for a commitment or for flowers.
The navigator has now moved to first place among my prostheses, supplanting the incisor.