Dont Mince Words

Ever notice how geezers will wax nostalgic about some car they used to have decades before? Last night, as my life flashed before me, I fondly thought of my Jetta and nearly shed a tear.

That five-speed was spunky and the turning radius could have been envied by the NYPD. What I loved most about it was the sunroof. When I moved to Manhattan, keeping the car was impractical between garage fees and insurance. Regretfully, I sold the Jetta.

Last night I was coming down Fountain near Highland in my stodgy, unfun Honda Accord when some dumb bitch in a fucking LANCER decided to pull out of the left lane and in front of me. Not really the smart thing to do in Friday traffic in a construction zone with gravel.

I slammed on my breaks and fishtailed like a pickup truck on black ice. I did something else Angelinos don’t do often. I honked. I laid on that thing until the smell of burnt rubber dissipated. Miss Lancer gave me the whoops wave. That’s when I began my gesturing. Both hands in the air, I looked like an Italian flipping pizza dough.

This is the moment I missed my Jetta. Because that’s when the sunroof would open and my middle finger would be in the periscope up position. Sometimes I’d wave it side to side through the roof for minor infractions. However, Miss Lancer would have deserved the vertical up/down fuck-you-dumb-female-driver-giving-us-all-a-bad name gesture.

Ah, those were the Jetta days.

Since I have no sunroof in the Accord, I high beamed Miss Lancer until she took the 101 off ramp. That’s when I gave her one final honk. Hopefully she’s learned her lesson: during rush hour in Hollywood, there’s going to be someone in the other lane. I learned you can never be too young to remember great cars.

I think Freud, Jung, Dr. Phil, Dr. Spock, and Judge Judy would all agree we learn through example. I’m starting to feel like I could probably never parent except remotely while wearing an orange jumpsuit making a call from the yard.

My “example” was a walnut-stained, one-inch piece of plywood with a leather hang cord. Dad picked out the wood, and used his saws and sanders to handcraft the paddle. (You probably missed this special episode, “The Punisher,” on Yankee Workshop). This hand extension hung on a hook on the inside of the basement door. When my brother or I screwed up, we’d hear our name, our crime, and the squeak of the basement door opening. Dad, very stoically (being an executioner could have been a change of life career for him) would remind us again what we did wrong, we’d have to bend over and get our paddling. The experience was never traumatic. It was simple pre-teen humiliation – something to hold us over until he could bring out the big guns such as groundings, extra chores, etc… when we got too old for the paddle.

I don’t think I’m the only one to accidentally run across Super Nanny or Nanny 911 and watch with COPS-like enthusiasm hoping the misfit kids get their ass beat. I may be single, but it is kind of cool to see a deserving-kid getting it. On the few occasions I’ve been in Big Lots, I’ve witnessed two Hispanic mothers whale on their brats. Kids have always chosen the grocery store for their meltdowns, but black moms have no problem correcting that bad behavior quickly. We may be in an age of “spare the rod” and timeouts, but I smile and give the mother the visual high-five when they opt for the big can of public whoop ass.

Now I’m dating a guy with a three- and six-year old. Imagine the horror when I discovered he was one of those counting dads. You know this tactic. “Blah-blah, I’m going to count to three. If you don’t _____, I’m going to ______.” He would get to 2.75 when the six year old would finally concede defeat, for about three minutes, then the bad behavior would start again. Each time, I’d roll my eyes and try to keep my mouth shut by flashing back.

“What would my dad do?”

I can say, my dad, without hesitation, would give me the raised eyebrow you-are-going-to-get-your-ass-beat look. He’d would grab my arm, take me outside the restaurant, remind me again why I needed to behave and if I didn’t, I’d never get to come out to eat again. Eating out was fun. Getting out of the house was fun. I behaved.

When the six-year old boy was up to bad behavior infraction number seven, I gave up and spoke up.

“You know, your Dad works hard and it is really special when he takes you out. I don’t understand why you won’t listen to him,” I said proudly refraining from using cuss words or from channeling my inner oh-no-you-didn’t Puerto Rican.

The kid looked at me like I had three heads – too young to understand I had no jurisdiction and too young to know how to roll his eyes back at me. He went on misbehaving.

I gave the eye roll to my boyfriend instead. One-part “are you going to do something” and one-part “I never want to have sex again.”

He got up and smacked the kid on the ass. I gave him the visual high-five. The kid behaved the rest of the night. I smiled the rest of the night.

I’m dating a mini-van driving soccer coach who spanks. Dad would be proud.

I’m number one. I don’t usually consider Spring my season. I’m more of a fourth quarter girl; however, the tides are changing. Two very unusual things happened to me recently. I got a full-time, permanent job and a boyfriend within the same 30 days.

Nearly all my jobs have been fourth quarter hires where I’m part of the end of the year “use it or you’ll lose it” budget spending frenzy. The MAN grants FTEs and that same man shall take-ith away positions unfilled. I get hired and do a few things right around the same time the old timers are burning up their time off before the end of the year.

Romance cycles always peak in early November. If you don’t find someone before winter, you are usually screwed until after Valentine’s day. RC and I met at the end of February. Perfect timing.

Now I’m faced with an even more unusual dilemma. Or as a friend put it, “Now that you aren’t trolling Monster.com for jobs and match.com for men, what will you do with your free time?”

I spent my first week home revising my resume after work. Anyone who has been laid off one, two or a bazillion times like me knows, it has to be fresh and up-to-date. The second week I found myself spending a lot of my free evenings with my boyfriend and making lists of things I need to do.

I asked my friend what employed, attached people do in the evenings. “Marna, they watch American Idol.”

Oh yeah, I forgot. I think I’ll log on to my bank account and wait for my direct deposit to hit, that is until my boyfriend gets here to entertain me further. Or, I could do something really novel and get back to. . . writing.