Road Rage, and the Things We Do to Avoid Cursing in Front of Children

Ahh, the things we say to children.

I don't mean baby talk, y'all. I mean the things we say INSTEAD of the swear words we'd like to say but hold back because a small person's big eyes are staring at us.

Another Day, Another Douchebag Driver

Not my husband. Though he used to
sport a hairdo kind of like this one.

My husband is from New Jersey. So it's pretty much encoded in his DNA to swear at other drivers and call them douchebags if they wrong him in traffic.

Well, one day we were driving along, my husband at the wheel, and some douchebag driver cut us off. I looked over at my husband and could see, as if in slow motion, his body tensing up, his vocal cords priming themselves for some quality swearing. Then I saw him check himself because our daughter, age 4, was sitting in the back seat, listening, with her eager mind and elephant memory. 

"You........ You D-BAG!" he finally yelled at the guy, through clenched teeth. Clearly not as satisfying as the real thing, but better than nothing.

Immediately our daughter piped up: "Bean bag? Why did you call him a bean bag, Daddy?"

It has become a family joke. If somebody does a stupid thing, we say, "What a bean bag!" Then we laugh and move on.

Road Rage—As Old as the Model T?

My grandfather, not from New Jersey but born and raised in the midwest, used to yell at other drivers and even shake his fist out the window. "Keith!" my grandma would scold him, sternly (and fruitlessly), from the passenger seat. She was a preacher's kid, and I mean the good kind. (I once asked Grandma if she was familiar with actress and singer Mae West. "Oh, I never liked any of her songs," she responded primly.)

I think I experienced road rage shortly after learning to drive. When you're 16, it's all about, "Oh my GOD, why are these morons driving so SLOW?!" At some point, and I am definitely beyond this point, it's all about, "Oh my GOD, what is WRONG with these idiots driving 75 miles per hour on Lake Shore Drive?!"

I read a theory somewhere that we get road rage because we are territorial, and our car is an extension of our territory. 

I think that might explain a lot. 

It would certainly explain why I get pissed off at the people who live in the condo above us, whenever they have the audacity to (1) talk at any volume above a whisper, or (2) walk across their hardwood floors. Is it their fault that our 100-year-old building has no carpeting and no insulation between floors? Not at all, but dammit, they're disturbing MY quiet evening at home. 

So I sit and stew and dream of the day when I'll live in a real house. Of course, when that day comes, I'm sure I'll feel the same way about my neighbors' lawn mowers, barking dogs, and teenagers' parties. I'm practicing my line now so I'll have it perfect when the time comes: "Damn kids! GET OFF MY LAWN!"

Maybe I should have been born in Jersey.