I've made a new friend.

Her name is Christine, and she lives in my mother's GPS.

The name Christine is a nod to Mr, King, of course.

(My name is not, FYI.)

Seriously, though, I've driven all over the Metroplex this week. I went to Dallas to see David, Ft. Worth to see Kristi and Sally, Hurst to see Deadra, and Irving to see Cherie and Rachel. These folks run the gamut of pals from my very oldest friend that I've known since we were three, to a former student of mine that just graduated with her theatre degree.

But to go all these places and not succumb to my truly hopeless sense of direction (Nolan says that I can't find my butt with two hands and a flashlight), my mother leant me her GPS.

I've learned that a GPS is a truly helpful thing. It's a bit unnerving, though, the first time you hear the placid, disembodied voice telling you, "In 1.8 miles, turn left." It gives you sort of a big brother vibe, all rolled up with the creepiness of the book about the 1958 Plymouth Fury come to life.

And even though she's truly a help, there's always room for operator error. If the girl said, "Recalculating," once, she said it four hundred times. I evidently don't follow directions very well. She got huffy a few times, and I swear I heard her roll her eyes more than once, but for the most part, she's a lot like me. She repeats herself ( a lot) when she doesn't get a response, gets a little irritated when things don't go her way, and shuts up when things are good.

I like her. I don't need one, given that I can drive anywhere I need to in my hometown in less than 20 minutes. But if I lived here, I sure would. I'd even have one built into the car, maybe.

As long as it wasn't a Fury.