My dad is a force to be reckoned with.

When I was 19 I studied abroad in Chile and ended up hospitalized with dysentery my entire last week there. When I told my dad over the phone that the program coordinator didn’t help me get to the hospital and had yet to visit me, I knew that poor Ivan (ee-VAHN) was in for a verbal beating. And wouldn’t you know it, there he was at the foot of my bed not an hour later. Looking rather weak and defeated, his only question to me was not “How are you doing?” but “How many people report to your dad?”

I don’t know what my dad said to him, but I suspect it was something straight out of an episode of The Sopranos. And the answer, ee-VAHN, is a lot.

My mom is no mat to be walked upon either, though she’s a gentler soul. The way she put it today: “I live in a man’s world and sometimes it pisses me off. Sometimes I’m not tall enough or strong enough, but I’ll find a way to make it happen.” It’s because of her that “I’ve got it!” any time my hands are full and someone tries to help me out. And it’s because of my dad that I let a shitstorm of fury rain down upon the men of Jackie Mauldin’s Auto Collision Repair today.

Let’s backtrack…

To make a very long, very touchy story very short and very PC, let’s say this: Stew’s car was stolen out of our driveway. I let him drive mine in its stead. He crashed it. Nothing major. Still drivable. He handled the repairs where he lives in South Carolina and gave me his car to drive while mine’s in the shop. Body shop gave us an estimate of a week. Then two. Then three. Then four for completion. I’ve been driving my exboyfriend’s car around for over a month. It crushes my soul every time I get in it. Around week three I called the body shop to see what the hell was going on and one who shall remain nameless GLEN didn’t find my concerns worthy and hung up on me. This leads us to present time. The car was supposed to be ready last Monday. Wasn’t. Last Friday. Wasn’t. Yesterday. Wasn’t. Today. WASN’T.

With Stew at the beach this week, I had to drive all the way down there. They said it wasn’t ready and I’d have to come back tomorrow. Freaking GLEN got all “It still has to be built and painted and buffed and cleaned.” To which I replied: “I.will.flip.out.” I told them I wouldn’t leave without the car, that they’d been giving me the runaround for a full month and that the entire situation was a pathetic excuse for customer service.

The owner heard the growing commotion and came out to see what was up. I not-so-calmly informed him of the situation, the runaround and the infamous hang up (GLEN YOU ASS). He said, “Wait right here” and left to check on things. Not 30 seconds later he was back and said the car would be washed and ready in minutes.

WHAT THE FUCK, GLEN? Built, painted, buffed, cleaned… my ass.

So it wasn’t a few minutes. It was more like an hour. But the car was ready. Since doors were replaced, I checked the locks and the windows and slammed them a few times. No go. Something was rattling inside. Yep, sure enough. They went back in for another 45 minutes to fix whatever that was (which, in the end, they claim was not something they ever even touched).

So I finally get the car, right? I get in it and I feel like I’m in a Rolls-fricking-Royce.

I love this car, I declare. I’ll never take this car for granted again, I promise. I look awesome, I think. Such a badass in this sexy little black interior… I’m back, bitches.

So there I am cruising up 85N. Elated. Daydreaming myself into a Rhianna video and thinking, “I should totally get a gun,” (HAHAHA) when PHWOOOOOM. Off flies a piece of my newly repaired vehicle.

OH HELLLLLLLL NAW.

I pull off at the next exit, call the body shop and calmly explain that the car they literally just fixed 30 minutes ago is falling apart.

Not our problem, they say. We didn’t even touch that part. Good luck to you.

And this, my friends, is when rage really set in. I got myself to a Starbucks. Inhaled the Whole Foods I’d picked up.

And gave myself three options:

• You can cry about it
• You can get dad to fight your battle (and probably cry about it)
• Or you can figure it out

I opted for figure it out. And buy M&Ms.

I called the body shop back and let them have it. Said I would absolutely not pay for this new repair nor would I come back to their stupid garage. Instead, I would find a suitable one near my home in Charlotte and send them the bill. At first they said hell-to-the-no, little girl. Even had the audacity to tell me not to “get all excited here.” But then, like magic, he backed down and said they’d pay for it because it “wasn’t worth all the trouble.” Which, in my book, would be admitting fault. I don’t know a body shop anywhere that will sacrifice a penny unless they know they effed up somewhere along the way.

The car won’t get fixed at the new body shop until Monday and I was an hour late for work, but victory was still mine.

So the next time a boy wants to ask me out, my first question won’t be, “Sure, what time?” It’ll be, “Let’s say you crashed your girlfriend’s car… How would you handle it?” And when he wants to know why I’m asking, I’ll smile coyly and say, “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

But we’ll all know the truth now, won’t we?