Driving to work in LA is an exercise in impulse control. I consider it a good day when I’ve made the round-trip, 90 minute drive without attempting – via bloodcurdling screams or iconic finger signage – to inform some selfish idiot that he should be killed.

It’s not that I’m some Type A driver attempting to accomplish an hour and a half drive in four and a half minutes. Quite the opposite. Friends call me “Grandma” when I’m behind the wheel. I’m a relaxed, everyone-in-their-turn driver.

Until some selfish d*** comes along.

Of course, I’m no fool. When some driver performs an act of callow narcissism and I feel obligated to respond, I reserve those helpful assessments for the area outside the “work radius” (that five-mile quadrant surrounding my place of employment). After all, nothing says “fire me” quite like hollering “Assface!” to the jerk in front of you who turns out to be your boss.

Good example: a while back, as the evening twilight was turning to darkness, I was zipping home along a surprisingly open stretch at the top of the canyon I take, where the road narrows to one lane. Suddenly, a red sedan several cars back brazenly gunned his motor, rocketed down the gravel shoulder of the road and cut me off, nearly forcing me to plow through the guard rail and plunge to my fiery, howling death in the canyon below.

Ironically, his wildly irresponsible antics didn’t garner him much, for a hundred yards up the road, we were stopped by a red light.

This was an act of such recklessness and disregard for human life that I was shocked. And flat-out incensed. I sat behind this jerk, fuming, trying to decide what to do. Should I flip him off? Get out of the car and pound on his window? Follow him home and set his house on fire?

I quickly nixed the last option, for obvious reasons ( I had no open containers of gasoline).

Then I remembered that I was still somewhat within the work radius. Take a deep breath, I told myself. Unclench your fists. No one (i.e. Me) needs to end up with a Lohan-style mug shot over this.

But I was still furious. Until it suddenly struck me that the car in front of me looked familiar.

Very familiar. I recognized the license plate.

The driver was one of my employees.

I picked up my cellphone and dialed his number. On the third ring, he picked up.

“Hey,” he replied casually, seeing my name on his screen.

“Bill [not his real name, which I imagine he’s thanking me for],” I said calmly, “you could at least wave.”

There was a slight pause. “Huh?”

“Look,” I said evenly, “in your rear view mirror.”

It was almost dark and he couldn’t see my face, so I flashed my headlights. And, judging by the sudden tremor in his voice, I sensed a certain, shall we say, panic.

“Oh, uh, um, yeah, hi. Is that – is that you behind me?”

“Yes,” I replied, trying to hide my glee at, for probably the first time ever in one of these situations, having the upper hand. “Although I could just as easily be lying in the ravine.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bill is an enormously talented guy, but a terrible liar.

“You almost killed me just now by cutting me off that way,” I said in my most restrained tone. “Have you lost your mind, driving like that?”

Bill’s tendency to pilot a car like he’s trying to take the entire city out in one giant, flaming crash was well known, but I had never experienced it firsthand.

“Oh,” he replied, laughing nervously, his pitch elevating an octave or so, “I didn’t know that was you.”

“So in other words,” I replied, “the only way you wouldn’t have pulled that stunt is if you thought you were doing it to your boss?”

“Did I cut you off?” He sounded as if he had inhaled helium.

“Bill,” I said, calming down a bit, “you’re lucky that, number one, I’m a nice guy, and number two, that I know you. And number three, that I don’t have a baseball bat.” I could hear him swallowing loudly on the other end as I added, “Especially number three.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you shouldn’t be so aggressive.”

“Maybe I should watch who’s behind me.” He obviously thought humor was the way to go.

“I was ahead of you before you cut me off.” I obviously didn’t.

“Oh, shoot,” he said quickly, silently thanking God that we were in a canyon. “There’s a blind spot ahead. I’m gonna lose you.”

I was proud of myself for handling this incident in a relatively rage-free fashion.

And then, THIS happened.

(More to come…)

Last weekend, in a cruel and, I might add, unsolicited bid to bulldoze the tenuous façade of self-worth I have so carefully constructed over the past couple of decades, a friend’s son came to visit.

This young man, Chris, is not, sadly, an adorable four year old. He did not require an Elmo doll and an adult escort when deplaning at LAX. He’s not even a hilariously awkward teenager whose feral mood swings and conviction that God knows only slightly more than he does would insure the swift uncorking of wine the moment he opened his mouth. He’s a 27-year-old med student interviewing for a residency position at UCLA.

In other words, a pretty much fully-realized human being.

A grown up.

I suppose I should take solace in the fact that Chris’ dad is a couple years older than me. And that he leapt into fatherhood at an age when most people are experimenting with grain alcohol and Lesbianism (frequently in that order).

But I mean, COME ON.

As I sat and stared at this articulate Yale graduate who hoped to become a researcher in forms of medicine so advanced I can’t even spell them, I couldn’t help wondering how I had actually become 153 years old. How it had happened that I was no longer the 27-year-old setting out to conquer the world?

I wondered if he could hear my spine creaking, or if he felt the need to speak extra loud. I wondered if he thought he should write down big words or reiterate his thoughts several times in case I forgot them in the intervening moments. I wondered if he looked at me with pity, or amusement, or just disdain.

And then I remembered that he was sitting in my (reasonably) nice little tract house in LA. Drinking my (reasonably) nice little vodka. And holding a copy of my (reasonably) successful little book. I remembered that I was taking a (reasonably) nice little trip to Mexico to see his dad in March. And that I had a (reasonably) nice little job at a television network.

And suddenly, this delightful young guy, who reminded me of myself (albeit smarter, handsomer and 85% more rounded) made me almost grateful for the two decades that had passed since I was his age; and for all the events – good, bad and just plain stupid –  that had served to mold me into the (reasonably) decent man I am.

And I found myself silently thanking Chris Connelly – not only for being the kind of honorary nephew that I can be so incredibly proud of – but for holding up a mirror.

Of course, now that I look a little closer, I could use a little moisturizer. And some Clairol Natural Instincts for Men.

Hey, I’m not 27 anymore.

I had a plan to keep this all under control.

I kicked off our first night together with a wine and cheese gathering for the six of us in my parents’ room. And, like the inspirational story of the loaves and fishes, one glass of wine miraculously turned into three bottles; so by the time we stumbled over to the restaurant for dinner, we were all slightly tanked. This: a) quelled my nerves and b:) resulted in what I perceived to be a delightful meal fraught with witty (theirs) and slightly slurred (mine) conversation.

The next morning, we met at another hotel for brunch, a tasty buffet affair that included live music along with a cornucopia of free booze – champagne, wine, and a build-your-own Bloody Mary bar. And other than having to scream over the pianist, who had a Casio chock full of jazzy horn riffs and backing tracks, everyone got along like gangbusters. My plan to keep all the parental units distracted with liquor and food and music was, so far, working like a charm. Which was fortunate, because I really didn’t know how to score any Vicodin.

The following day, we met at the Pahrump Valley Winery in beautiful downtown Pahrump (which, other than the winery grounds, looks pretty much like it sounds), about 50 miles outside of Las Vegas. And there, as we took a winery tour, I began to notice a bizarre, and entirely unforeseen pattern emerging. My family and my partner’s family seemed to hug each other a lot. And trade stories about their lives and their children a lot. And laugh a lot. They seemed to just enjoy each other’s company – whether there were distractions or not.

By the time we all gathered for dinner at a steakhouse, it began to occur to me that it didn’t seem to matter what we were doing. Or where we were. It didn’t even seem to matter if I was even there (which is another story). It didn’t matter who was sitting next to whom or who might open their fat trap about something embarrassing. The only thing that mattered was having time together. And in that moment, I found myself able to just relax. And finally, totally, enjoy myself.

I don’t know what I had really imagined would happen. My parents are extraordinarily kind and gracious people. My partner’s parents are warm and chatty and delightful. And we’re all at a point in our lives where we realize that life is too short to spend time doing much of anything beyond just appreciating one another.

Maybe, at this ripe old age, I can finally start letting go of worrying about everything not being perfect all the time.

Of course, Vegas could start charging full price again. I could start worrying about that.

For those who’ve read Where’s My Wand, you may remember that Christmas at the Poole home was a cavalcade of gifts, as if The Price is Right showroom had exploded in our basement. As such, I wanted to create a memorable trip for my parents as a nod to the dozens of Christmases at which they had so diligently pulled out all the suburban stops.

I got them a suite at one of my favorite hotels, a super modern non-gaming property where the lighting is so dim and glamorous and the signage so discreet that you generally have no idea where the hell you are. Guests walk around with a determinedly blasé attitude, which tends to crumble a bit by the third time you pass each other in search of the elevator banks or the doors to the valet parking. But the rooms are super tasteful and the view from the ultra lounge on the 64^th floor is breathtaking – the strip is laid out before you like a giant Monopoly board of candy-colored skyscrapers. They even have an outdoor patio where the non-acrophobic can show off by draping themselves nonchalantly across sofas as the wind blows a $17 martini out of their hands.

I also bought them tickets to the Cirque du Soleil show, Ka (my favorite show in Vegas), a wildly inventive show about war and separation and the price of love, or something like that. I’m never quite sure what is happening in Cirque shows, but when the stage goes vertical and warriors continue to battle on it, dissecting the storyline seems to take something of a back seat.

And I made reservations for a winery tour – yes, Virginia, there is a winery – and several semi-glam meals at which the six of us would toast the Immaculate Conception, the Three Wise Men and the Four Aces my mother-in-law was hoping to score on a video poker machine.

Mind you, I have about $1.98 to my name. This stuff was only possible because Vegas is still hurting, deals abound, and I actually enjoy scaring that stuff up online as I sit watching Modern Family or Oprah Winfrey’s Master Class: Dina Lohan.

I did all this to make a memorable trip for my parents. Really. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. After all, they have been ridiculously (and often imprudently) supportive of me my whole life. Whatever concerns they might have had about my sundry stupid life choices, they charitably kept to themselves.

Oh, sure, I suppose it could also have been a bid to gloss over any strained moments that might arise. After all, this was a meeting of the Mexican and Midwest mafias. And my book was sure to come up.

But that’s just silly. Right?

(More to come…)