Always Left of Lost

You may recall just how horrible I am with directions and that I am the queen of getting lost. So it’s probably no surprise then that driving in downtown Chicago generally scares the Hanky Pankies right off me. We live out in the burbs, so when I get downtown in the middle of all those big ass buildings, all the streets look just the same to me. And the cabbies? They drive like they’re playing bumper cars on the Indy 500 track. That’s why I was a wee bit concerned when I found out that I had to drive down and pick up my husband from his knee surgery yesterday morning.

Surprisingly, I was able to find the surgery center without any major issues. The parking garage, however, was a whole other story. It was like I’d entered a black hole of parked cars. I mean, really, why must they make those things so damn confusing?! I could NOT find my way out of that garage and into the proper office building for anything in this world. And unfortunately, I somehow managed to weave my way throughout every friggin’ floor of that mind-boggling structure of concrete.

At one point, I ended up in the damn condominium side of the building and even had a personal escort back towards the direction in which I needed to be going. And believe it or not, that STILL didn’t put me back on the right track. I then found myself entering the ground floor 7-Eleven of all frickin’ things. The barely audible cashier was kind enough to redirect me, only to lead me to a section marked “Employees Only” for the maintenance staff of the building. I’m pretty sure there were some cackles and eye rolling going on as I once again tucked my tail between my legs and retraced my clueless footsteps. Really, would it have killed these people to put up some damn maps to tell me where the hell I was for crap’s sakes?!

I was starting to wonder if my poor husband was gonna have to hitchhike his way back home after his surgery, when I FINALLY stumbled onto the actual surgery center office. Halle-freakin’-lujah! I was so relieved to be in the correct location after winding my way through that endless maze of confusion. I was barely able to even catch my breath before my husband was wheeled out of surgery and I was sent back to the recovery area with him. And I felt like crying when they told me to pull the car around and wait for him to be brought down by wheelchair. They clearly didn’t realize that I’d wound around the depths of HELL in order to get there in the first friggin’ place.

After some very careful backtracking, I miraculously found my way back to the car. (Seriously, I think I deserve an award or something for that heroic feat.) And when I pulled around to wait for my husband, I about peed my pants when someone out on the street approached ME of all people to ask for directions. I literally laughed out loud as I told the woman, “You are asking the WRONG person, lady!” Asking me to help you find your way is like asking Lindsay Lohan to teach you good manners.

Just Left Of Lost

    

     You know how some people just have an inherently good sense of direction?  And you know how other people get lost four doors down from their own freaking house on their own freaking street?  Well I happen to fall into the latter category.  I swear I could fall off course even if I had a whole fleet of crossing guards pointing me in the right direction with huge neon flashing arrows.  And even with the GPS system in my car, I often end up driving in circles. Call it one of my many flaws, but I truly suck ass at navigation.

     So you can probably understand then why I had an extremely strong desire a couple of days ago to call up the jackass of a genius who decided to put the nearest Pump It Up in the middle of freaking nowhere.  (If you’re not familiar with Pump It Up, it’s basically an inflatable version of HELL where kids hold birthday parties.)  Even though I’ve been to the damn place fifteen thousand times, I can never ever remember how to get there.  And it doesn’t help that the stupid address apparently doesn’t even exist on my car’s GPS.  I guess it doesn’t recognize BFE locations.  Somehow, though, by the grace of God, I was able to deliver my son to his friend’s birthday party Tuesday afternoon on time and without any unwanted detours.  However, when it was time to pick him up from the party, it was a whole different story.

     My daughter and I decided to run over to Target while the party was going on, so I made sure that I paid very close attention to exactly how I got from Pump It Up to Target.  It’s a very industrial area so I looked at landmarks, I looked at street signs, and I was certain that I’d be able to retrace my route without any problem.  Boy was I ever wrong.  Every building looked the exact same, and I’m convinced that some little shit went and switched all the street signs on me.  I ended up on the road to nowhere, putting me a good fifteen minutes late to pick up my son and one of his friends.  In a panic, I called 411 Info on my phone hoping to be immediately connected to Pump It Up.  As I waited for the transfer, I could just picture my little guy and his friend standing there all by themselves gasping for air in that cesspool of germs.  

     When I was finally connected to Pump It Up, I was then subjected to the world’s longest automated system.  I kept pressing “0” to speak to an actual human being, only to be taken all the way back to the beginning of the damn system.  I wanted to scream at the bitchhole on the recording who kept telling me over and over about all the fun I could have by planning my next party at their facility.  Did she not give a shit that my son was drowning in a sea of bacteria?  After three attempts at trying to get a person on the line, I figured out that I actually had to press “9” instead of “0” — seriously, WTF? Everybody knows that “0” means “operator.”  I quickly explained to the receptionist that I was running late since their building was IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND, and when I eventually got there, my son and his friend were sure enough the last guests to leave.  I apologized up and down and all around to the mom of the birthday boy and whisked the boys into the fresh, clean air as quickly as possible.

     I absolutely dread the next time I see a Pump It Up party invitation in the mail, and, in fact, I may just accidentally throw the flipping thing away.  I am not a big fan of driving around aimlessly and getting absolutely nowhere.  So, in the future, if you want to give me directions to your next shindig, you might just want to attach a personal escort who can walk right next to my car and talk me through the whole thing.  Otherwise, you can bet your ass that I’ll be more than just a little casually late.