Some day soon, Miss Crankypants will join thousands of fellow baby boomers in one of the most hair-raising rites of getting-so-old-you’re-taking-care-of-Mom-or-Dad. She’s talkin’ ’bout the TALK. No not that talk–although Betty White doesn’t seem to be slowing down on the dating scene. Miss CP is talking about the DRIVER’S LICENSE TALK. You know, the one where you must gently explain to the person(s) who gave you life that they are no longer fit to get behind the wheel and back into the garbage can (again).
As a survivor of Mom forgetting to raise the garage door before backing out, Miss CP knows this isn’t going to be easy.
And exactly when do you “Lower the Boom” on Mom? Do you wait until she’s on a first-name basis with Officer Speedtrap? Or do you broach this delicate subject after Pop drives right through Starbuck’s and you don’t mean the Drive-thru lane?
Miss Cranky can just imagine the histrionics of a parent whose car keys you’ve just confiscated. Antics to put the Little Old Lady from Pasadena to SHAME.

Miss CP: Mom, we need to talk.
Ma: (Grips walker and backs into corner) Now wait just a gull-darn minute! The last time you said that, I nearly ended up on Life Support.
Miss CP: What did you expect? You tried to bite the guy giving out flu shots!
Ma: The bear spray was over the top, Missy.
Miss CP: Well this isn’t about preventing a pandemic. It’s more about that sedan you crawl into and then gun it until you get to the store.
Ma: Why don’t you come right out and say it?
Miss CP: OK. (deep breath) I’m concerned about your driving, Mom. There. I said it.
Ma: (cackling) Listen, I was driving a tractor when I was eight! Why I’d already driven cross country before you were a twinkle in that no-good father of yours’ eye.
Miss CP: You were a great driver then, Mom. It’s just that now . . .
Ma: We can get a new garage door. What a whiner! (Thrusts walker menacingly)
Miss CP: What about the neighbor’s fence? And their dog. Mom! You nearly ran over the neighbor’s dog!
Ma: Dog yaps all night anyway–keeps me awake. I was doing you a favor and this is the thanks I get? You’ve always been an ungrateful brat! Where are my keys?
Miss CP: That’s it. Your keys are history. From now on, I’ll do the driving.
That squeaking sound you hear is Mom, shuffling away on her walker. She’s gone on a silent hunger strike until her driving privileges are restored, egged on by the neighbor’s dog’s howling, “Go Granny, Go!” Miss Cranky is toast.