Dear GPS

Dear GPS,

Let's talk about how you consistently drive me through the ghetto. I'm talking the worst parts of the worst cities in NJ ever. Yesterday was no exception. I was going to pick up a client's records for work from a really nice, ritzy, neighborhood. No problem. How did you take me? Through the worst section of Newark in the world. Dear lord. So, as I'm driving, this man knocks on my passenger side windows, frantically. I rolled it down enough to hear him say, "Don't you hear all the people honking at you? You are dragging your oil pan! Your car is smoking and sparks are everywhere! You are going to set your car on fire! Oh my god, pull over! I will help you!"

Stop. Jessica is not street smart. Jessica, however, realizing that her car is a lot smarter than she is, would have at least set off a billion buzzers by now and I would think I could hear or feel my car dragging something along side the Garden State Parkway, no?

However, my low air light came on earlier that day, so I was thinking, "OH MY GOD, the car is going to catch on fire."

But, I decided to pull into a gas station about a half block up. I'm, of course, wearing a suit skirt. I try to peer under the car to see if anything was dragging or if there is a trail of oil down S. Orange Avenue. I see neither. So I call my husband and explain the situation to him. Immediately he asks if there are lights blinking on the car. I told him no.

I then asked the proprietor of the gas station if he could help me. He looked under the car and also saw nothing. He had me drive around the gas station a few times and also saw nothing. He then looked at me and said, "They try to rob you and steal car. Not a good place. Get out. Roll up your windows, lock your doors and get away."

Hubs met me on the side of the parkway and he checked out the car. Nothing was wrong with it. Fabulous.

That goes in my ghetto story file for the week.