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Soccer Mom Road Rage
Something evil happens when I have three
tons of steel wrapped around me. I feel invincible, like I could take
on the biggest, meanest NFLer and actually win. I suspect this is how
road rage began … some fool felt he (or she) was more in charge of
the common road than the other guy and proceeded to kick some serious
verbal ass behind the safe wheel. Yeah, you tell ‘em who’s boss,
people! HA!
I hereby admit to my vehicular insanity.
As already confessed in Parental
Profanity, which stories I refuse to repeat here, my children have
been privy to my gender/racial/driving-ability slurs from infancy.
They are now at the age, however, where it has become a source of
intense embarrassment to them, if not outright humiliation. The words
escape my mouth before I can take a mental inventory of the car’s
occupants. I’ve laid out a few choice ones in front of their
friends, on more than one occasion. This isn’t so bad with teenagers
in the car. They love it, makes them feel that it’s then OK to let
off a stream of their own highly revered four letter words. They know
I won’t go all mom on them and chastise their lack of the King’s
English mastery. Some of their parents swear like Reality Parents,
too, which is always comforting. It’s the little kids that cause me
acute mortification. Most are still being shielded from the real world
and MTV unless they have older, wilder siblings. Great ...
This isn’t always the case, however.
The other night, I was the lucky car-pooling hag taking the littler
munchkins to basketball practice. Lo and behold, some freaking piece
of backwash proceeded to pull out in front of us, causing me to swerve
across the highway, reducing my life expectancy by half and almost
taking us out of the game altogether. Needless to say, this dumb ass was the latest victim of Reality
Mom’s outrage. After we all regained our composure and resumed a
more normal course, one of the eight-year-olds in the back
innocently remarked in her sweet little voice:
“That’s OK. Sometimes I get so
frustrated, I just have to say ‘fuck.’ I just say it and then
I’m OK.” Geesh …
My older daughter and I about lost it laughing. At least I could
assume her parents weren’t the new Mormons on the block and I felt
much more relaxed about greeting them when they came to fetch her. Mind you, no one has ever seriously challenged me to a road duel after one of my freak-outs. I shudder to think how far my mental anesthesia will reach if I’m ever actually forced to back up my hellacious threats. Could be I’ll be writing to you from the confines of a hospital bed, humbled and broken in places I'd rather not be. Well, so far so good. I can only hope one of the assholes I’ve chastised figures out they drive like shit and will take heed. For now I’ll take whatever comfort I can in the bumper sticker my older daughter bought me for Mother’s Day last year, which reads: “Am I the only one on the road who knows how to drive?!“ You betcha!
© Reality Mom - 2002 |
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