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Me, with one of the cars that I killed

I grew up in what you could call a "car family," if you wanted to make the understatement of the century. Throughout my childhood my father owned a series of Porsches, all of which he cleaned both before and after driving - to my significant consternation, because he insisted on involving me in these omg, very extensive cleaning sessions. The idea of introducing a single atom of food into his vehicle gave me heart palpitations. Touch the windows, or any spot on the exterior save for the handle? Enter without a thorough cleansing of my shoes? I don't think so.

So it is with considerable disappointment that my father views my own car-related proclivities, which is that I kill them. Like, kill them dead. The first car I owned when I moved out to LA was a Chrysler LeBaron convertible with red velvet seats. I adored that car, and then I killed it by not realizing that there was a thing called "oil," and that it needed to be addressed on occasion. My most recent car I killed by mayyyybe driving over a curb that was mayyyyybe quite high, and mayyyyybe destroying the transmission. (And let's not forget about this little incident.) I do very much enjoy the car I have now, though - goodness gracious, it is lovely - and so I have turned into a mini replica of my father in some regards ("GET. THE SLIME. OUT OF MY CAR"). We'll see how long that lasts.

Please click over to my IG to understand the miracle happening in this pic

One day last January, during school dropoff, a car pulled up next to me, and a man's head poked out. "You're the one with the Tom Fords," he said. This was an odd thing to hear from a person you've never met.

"You need to give them to me," he said.

The jeans made it on eventually, but it was NOT a pretty process.

Over the weekend, I went into American Eagle to pick up a bra. The clerk asked me what size I was, and I told her that I honestly had no idea, because nothing about my body is as it was the last time I shopped IRL (say, oh, a year ago). When she measured me, it turned out that I am...um...bigger.

On Tuesday, my kids and I played hooky and drove up to Santa Barbara. After sushi and ice cream, I bribed them with my phone so I could spend a few minutes browsing in a consignment shop. I need new denim shorts, because denim shorts are my thing, and my denim shorts don't fit. The clerk asked me what size I was, and I gave her what I thought was a decent range.

Me and Dad, 2016, somewhere in California. (Photo by my son.)

My father, as with many men of a particular generation, can be a tough nut to crack. He's just so opaque.

A holiday - a birthday, say - arises. A question is voiced - "Is there anything you want?" And the response, every. single. time?