It was recently pointed out to me by a male counterpart (and I am sure a trustworthy source like Hillary’s email) that after my last rant about woman logic, women are twelve percent more likely to be violent during road rage. After I talked myself out of taking a swing on the unsuspecting dude, I sorta decided to go ahead and let my calm, cool woman logic prevail…hahahaha.
Even I was surprised by how quickly and fluidly the words came in my retort to his ridiculous accusation! And I felt the urge to justify my position because…
I am pretty sure if road rage did in fact occur, it happened for the following reasons:
It was morning, and we are responsible for EVERYTHING in the morning. Kids. Pets. Husbands. Lunches. Dinner. Not many men are around to get the kids out the door along with themselves in a fashionable and timely manner to work and school. I’m past the diaper bag routine, but I am not too sure a teenage son is any quicker. How can something that refuses to shower and change clothes on a daily basis take so damn long in the bathroom? However, he still wants to know if his favorite shirt is clean. So while you’re brushing your teeth, drawing on an eyebrow, and writing a check for school lunches, you find his favorite shirt in the dirty clothes pile, give it a quick sniff, and throw it at him while pouring yourself a cup of coffee. While pouring the cup of coffee, you think about dinner. Dinner must consist of meat and potatoes and no food touching other food, and all you really want to do is pull the cork on the opened bottle of delicious vino and swig until you feel warm and fuzzy. Forget it. Dinner can wait, and if all else fails, there’s a box of Captain Crunch.
When son finally emerges from what smells like a locker room and grunts and groans because he has to make his own breakfast, you’re trying to draw on the other eyebrow, change your outfit for the 3rd time because your shoes make you feel fat. Somehow, you still end up with the black bra and the white shirt, spill your coffee on your white shirt, and have to start all over again.
Your hair looks terrible, and you decided maybe a curling iron will fix the mess, but the dog needs out for her morning constitutional. Your son ignores you when you ask him to let the dog out, so you do it yourself, and the horses whinny at you when you open the door as a reminder they still need fed. So, you kick off your flats, tuck your dress slacks in your muck boots and pitch out the hay.
You return inside to finish fixing your hair, which is now littered with hay, while realizing you are now ten minutes late. You yell at your kid to get his ass in gear, and remind him to brush at least one layer of scum off his teeth or he will never get a girlfriend. (And the irony of this dawns on you. Why would the kid want a girlfriend? One crazy, bossy lady telling him what to do is enough!)
You make it to the car, peel out of the driveway, cold coffee in hand while mentally tackling your day at work, making a grocery list, reminding yourself that it’s been 2 years since you’ve had great sex, (better put that on your to do list), and somewhere in that thought, you remember you still need hairspray. Which reminds you..shit… you’re pretty sure the curling iron is still on. So, you whip a u-turn, note the clock and that you are now 20 minutes late. You swerve around deer, yell at your kid, and mash the pedal to the floor, skid sideways into the drive and rush in the house only to find you actually did unplug the curling iron.
You peel back out of the driveway, cussing squirrels and rabbits scurrying for their lives, you honk at slow pedestrians, and stupid Sunday drivers while giving them the Cali one finger wave. Your curse words flow freely. Your blood pressure is sky-high. You’re blowing snot and breathing fire. And coincidentally, Ozzy Osbourne’s “Bat Outta Hell” is blaring through the speakers, while your kid looks at you in complete awe from the passenger seat.
But, somehow you deliver your son unscathed and on time for school, with an enhanced list of vocabulary words because you broadened his horizons on the drive, and you walk through the doors at work with a smile on your face, coffee-stained shirt, and crooked eyebrows ready to face the day!
It ain’t road rage…. It’s mad mother skills.
Happy Trails & Skilled Driving Ladies,