Spoiler Alert!

No, I'm not going to give away anything about LOST or GREY's this season. Simply because I'm the only person alive not watching those shows. But I can tell you that some f'ed up girl with an eating disorder WILL be named America's Next Top Model! Oh, wait, wrong blog entry...

No, I'm talking about a spoiler, as in car parlance. As in, if you check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ (which you most certainly should if you don't want to walk around sounding like a 40ish suburban mom) you will discover is...

SPOILER (noun): An aerodynamical feature that 'spoils' the air flow by forcing any air that reaches it into the shape, pushing the rear end of the vehicle downwards, this is used to improve handling. As in "I was racing my rice grinder and got up to 100 mph but started to get some gnarly upforce. Man, do I need me a spoiler!"

Those of you who know me know that I'm anything but a gearhead. My car - which I call Ugly Benzy - is always coated in a layer of dirt, child snack detritus and loaded with soccer gear, backpacks, yoga mats, spin shoes, real estate brochures and who knows what else that takes my 15 city/18 highway mileage down to about...oh...let's say 5 mpg.

But, I digress (when do I not, really - isn't that what a blog is, a big DIGRESSION?). Anyhoo...

Ugly Benzy had been screeching at me for some time to get a tune-up. At every stop light, each stop sign, she would shudder and scream..."Damn, girl, these brakes are OVER. I mean, they are sans pad, down to the rotor, yo! Hie thee to the service center, asap!"

So, after embarrassing myself and my progeny around town with Screechy Ugly Benzy, it was time to go to one of the places I most despise...the car dealership...and particularly, Le Fletcher Jones. Understand, I never has me any kind of a "jones" for Fletcher. Not only because you can't drive out of there for less than $1K, but also because the parade of sheer freakery there is not only mind-boggling, but also nausea-inducing. A vivid reminder of why I said I'd never come back to Newport Beach to feather my nest.

But, I digress...AGAIN.

My eight-year-old daughter - who is sage beyond her years (in some areas, you'll see what I mean in a minute) - accompanied me to Club FJ. She, of course, was lured by the free Nintendo Wii and the Starbucks-meets-service-center ambiance. While I unloaded all of the gear from the car - a feat no less impressive than saddling up a herd of Dromedary camels for a trans-Saharan trek - she enjoyed the games. When it was time to get our "complimentary" (as if we're not paying for it in these heinously padded service bills) rental car, I let my daughter choose it.

ME: "Hey, honey - you can choose from the silver or white small cars, or the black or silver SUVs. Which one?"

SHE: "Oooooooh, mom - for SURE the small silver one. It is hella cool!" (Seriously, she said that - this girl is ghetto fabulous already, but please don't tell her private school teacher who already hates me - See the Sweater Incident blog entry).

As I approach the too-small-for-our-sub-saharan-trek-gear trunk, I notice something. A SPOILER. WHAT THE?! Didn't spoilers go the way of the 80's dodo? Hasn't their survival been severely compromised by global warming or something?

I didn't want to create a scene - I pride myself on being one of the only people who don't wait for the Mercedes loaner at Club FJ. "I will take whatever car, in whatever color, in whatever condition is ready NOW please, thank you very much," I have been heard to utter.

So...I let it RIDE. And I do mean RIDE, baby. My daughter and I took corners, floored it (40 in a 25 zone!) drafted (not really, that's a little too Fast and Furious for me - but if Vin Diesel or Paul Walker had shown up at carpool, we'd a been going Tokyo Drift all da way!).

Heck, I was almost sad to give up Sexy Spoiler for Ugly Benzy when the time came. I handed the keys to the Enterprise Representative (was he looking at me a little differently - a little lustily - a little "hey this is one hot-spoiler-lovin' MAMA?"). I may never know.

A bigger question remains. Am I a bad role model? Have I "spoiled" my daughter with the spoiler? After all, when the time comes - I want her to go for the guy with the hip VW microbus or Thing. I want her to covet a classic Mercedes or a retrofitted bio-diesel Benz. I don't want her going for the guy in the IROC or the dude in the Trans-Am.

Do I?