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  • Writer's picturePanthergirl

car talk

Long time readers of this blog are quite familiar with many of the malapropisms, non-sequiturs and generally outrageous comments that have made my mother a continuous "sauce of entertainment" to family and friends for years.

When we were kids, she loved telling us how popular she was as a teenager and how she was the first girl in her neighborhood to drive AND OWN a car. It seems she was also slapping a lot of hands away from her gas-pedal-knee.

A love of cars and driving is something that she and my father had in common. Even though neither of them made much money, we always owned brand new vehicles ("You don't want to buy someone else's headache!") But although he loved these cars, my father, a notorious tailgater, would inevitably rear-end at least one other vehicle before too long. He even managed to do it while driving home from the dealership once, sticker still affixed to the window. At 10 years old, I felt like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" as I was simultaneously shocked and thrilled by the blue streak of obscenities that followed. (this was just one of the 16 motor vehicle accidents I've been in, number subject to change depending on just how long it takes you to read this thing)

Fast forward to the 1980s, a few years after they sold our family house in Brooklyn and moved to Orlando. In their 70s, they were cruising down I-4 at 85mph proudly driving a new, "gold package" cream-colored Ford Crown Victoria which we dubbed The Police Car. My dad was at the wheel and my mother was riding shotgun, and my two nephews (15 and 13 years old at the time) were sitting in the back seat. The front windows were open all the way and big-band music was blaring.

When the wind inside the car had reached gale force, my mother whipped around to my nephews and yelled: "HEY...ARE YOU KIDS GETTIN' A BLOW JOB BACK THERE?"

Way to traumatize the grandkids, Mom!

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