DirectionLESS.

I am without direction. Not in life, but in my car. I have a cruddy internal compass and I am easily distracted. These two qualities combined make for a very unsuccessful 4-wheeled voyage.

Imagine this: It's hot. It's summertime in Los Angeles. Your air is working and its working hard. You have "Sesame Street Sings the Alphabet" CD on repeat to soothe your sweaty screaming infant in the backseat. You're late, again, and you realize you've passed the street you were looking for . . . again. You're stuck in traffic. You give up. You pull to the side of the road to console your baby and . . . yourself. You eat the plate of cookies intended for the playdate--the one you'll never make it to.

Poor Noah Finn.

My husband must get on average, at least five panicked, frustrated or sobbing (it depends on the day) calls a month from me pleading for him to stop what he's doing at work and Google map me to my destination. It doesn't happen often, but every once in a blue moon, he doesn't answer--he's busy (imagine that, he's at work!). And then I call my dad. My dad lives 3,000 miles away in North Carolina.

The thing is, we have lived in California for almost 10 years now. That's no sneeze in the familiarity bucket. That's a decade's worth of burning rubber on southern California's potholed and pathetically congested paths of earthquake cracked asphalt. Why can't I find my way?

I know where I am going most of the time, but I just cannot reliably seem to always get myself there.

Does this direction dilemma sound familiar to anyone? Please say yes, then I won't feel so . . . lost.