My Blatant Prejudices on the Road

I’ve received some negative feedback lately surrounding my gym routine. “Chass, you work out too hard.” “Chass, you aren’t a spring chicken. You’re going to pull something. “ “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve had two kids. Some things just won’t ever look right again…” For the record, I do not do squats and flip tires and pull sleds because I want to look awesome on the beach. I do it so my heart won’t convulse and explode when some assholette (it’s a word because I just used it in a sentence) whips her itty bitty car in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, spill my effing venti dark roast with cream all over my vehicle, while simultaneously shooting me the bird.

Every once in a blue moon (maybe weekly…), one of my lovely children will let some naughty words fly. I used to say, “Ohhhh my… Well, their dad is a welder and he works nights so you know how that goes…” The excuse is becoming lame and transparent, since they haven’t seen Ren since last April and he’s been in jail since July. (If that’s news to you, please go to the verrrrry earliest blog post and read until you run out of tissues. I do that from time to time… shhhhhh…) My children know dirty words because traffic and people in it completely make me lose my shit. I try to say, “Awwww, darn,” or “My goodness, you silly son of a gun…” but it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, and pretty much impossible to clean up my language in traffic. I’m not giving up hope. Maybe some day “You silly goose!” will subconsciously fly out of my mouth just as readily as, “You sorry sack of shit” does now. Maybe. Until then, here’s a list of my blatant prejudices on the road, and some of the reasons I judge and curse people I don’t even know almost daily. Okay, for sure daily. You already know I’ve taught my kids bad words… Why lie now?

#1) If you have work boots upside down between the bed and cab of your truck, I will let you merge every.single.time. You may even get away with slowing down a few miles per hour (only a few) after you get in front of me. I love you work boot guys. I always thought my husband was his sexiest when he was in his work boots, jeans and t-shirt ready for work. Maybe the thought of a man actually working for a living is just crazy attractive to me. I don’t know. I don’t make the rules. Work boots in the back will get you places, bro. Just a little behind the scenes hint from this girl. Use it at will.

#2) If you have a tiny little car and an enormous ichthys on your vehicle, do not cut me off and shoot me the bird simultaneously. You’ll get a dose of stink eye that will melt your back tires. Now, ten years ago I would have pulled over and whipped your ass. Thirty-three year old me will curse you and judge you and give you dirty, dirty looks. Now, that isn’t what Jesus would do. I know that, but sometimes my temper forgets. At least I won’t whip your ass or flip you off back. Progress. Its a process, friends, not an event. I am a believer and love Jesus with my whole heart, but we all have our immaturities, and “Traffic Chass” probably isn’t the best example of Christianity or God’s love. It goes without saying that I will never have a Jesus Loves You bumper sticker or the likes of it. Not a good witness, people. I know it. If you’re speeding around, spilling people’s coffee and flipping them off, peel that shit off of your vehicle and have an extra beer after you put the kids to bed. There’s less shame in that than showing the whole world your ass. It helps, believe me.

#3) If you have an itty, bitty, teeny, weeny vehicle, drive like it. Know your place in the food chain of vehicles. I almost killed a family of four yesterday because they whipped out in front of me in a tiny Honda. If I’m bigger than you, it takes longer for me to slow down. Seriously, I’m not just being an assholette. Physics is not on your side. Again, I don’t make the rules. Also, bigger vehicle equals bigger blind spots. If I can’t see you whipping around in traffic causing chaos, I cannot slow down, back off and let you continue your dickery (shhhh… I used it in a sentence…) undisturbed. Most of the time, I am transporting my two and three year old. Unlike the ten-years-ago me, I will let you prove to the entire world that you are stupid and inconsiderate in peace. I don’t want trouble, conflict, collisions or high blood pressure. If I can’t see you, I can’t effectively avoid you. Slow down, use your blinker and merge when the lines say you can, Tiny Tim. The road is no place for “little man syndrome” or “attention whore syndrome.” I see you, and I will validate you with my severe stink eye. We are all stressed and in a hurry to get somewhere. I do realize all of this is common sense, but that’s an almost extinct commodity these days. I’m not counting on it to pull us through.

#4) Do not drive it like you stole it… especially if no one ever anywhere would ever want to steal it. Do not dress it up. Just like you can’t turn a whore into a housewife, you also cannot put custom rims and a system in a rusted out 1971 Plymouth Cricket and call it awesome. Remember that Adam Sandler song, “Piece of Shit Car…” (Here’s a link if you weren’t a teen in the 1990s…) I had a friend who will remain nameless that fit the bill. However, he had no idea and was under the impression that his vehicle was the hottest, most coveted car on the road. He himself was not one bit hot, so he banked hard on that horrible atrocity of a car to land him chicks. He had it reupholstered in blue and black zebra print to match the custom paint job… Sad. No one could save him from himself. We were at the lake one summer and I literally heard him tell a girl, “Don’t get so excited, baby… Its just a car.” She was not excited. She was laughing hysterically AT the car. He mistook her fascination and uncontrollable giggling as genuine interest… again, sad… but true. Please learn from him. Call it what it is and have realistic expectations. Four bangers need exhaust systems just as badly as my lawn mower. Don’t embarrass yourself. Remember, we are laughing at you, not with you…

#5) I do not want to play “name that tune” with you at every stoplight, stop sign, railroad crossing, etc. Neither does anyone else. I promise. I have a fabulous Bose system in my vehicle, and I use it at will. I blast NWA, Aretha, Hank Williams, Jr. and Bleu Edmondson whenever I feel like it. If you don’t feel like it, that’s okay, because you’ll never know. I know how to work my volume knob and I do often. I don’t want to know what music you have playing, or if you have any playing at all. Further, I don’t care to have my rims rattled off by your unintelligible bass. If my son says, “Mama, what’s that noise??” and its your stereo… I may roll down my window and request that you turn it down… Your music shouldn’t teach my kids naughty words or sexual positions. When Kannon fathers a child at 15 because Ludacris suggested “tappin’ that ass in the public bathroom or in the back of a classroom,” we are showing up on your doorstep. Have some moral integrity and give your “nice” speakers a break.

#6) Newer doesn’t mean better. If your 2014 Cadillac with custom plates cuts me off, then slows down to 55 in front of me, we have problems. Automatically, Outkast’s “Roses” starts playing in my head. Guess what, I genuinely prefer my vehicle over yours. It may be two body styles behind, but it has some balls under it and gets the job done nicely. I’ll be driving mine long after you’ve gone upside down on yours twice… because you are silly and have bought into the mentality that newer is better. Don’t act like your poop smells like roses out there on the road. You need just as much smell-good spray, as my grandma used to say, as the rest of us, even though you probably fail to use it. And, if your attitude on the road says anything about you in general, you probably don’t know the value of a polite courtesy flush, either. In short, we won’t ever be friends, and I’d prefer that you didn’t even buy me a beer. Harsh, but I feel quite strongly about this. Driving a fancy schmancy vehicle does not make you exempt from using your blinker or stopping for a school bus or any other general rule of the road. Be nice. Oh, and good luck paying that thing off.

#7) Tailgating is not allowed. Ever. If you crawl up my ass on the road, I will brake check you. Immature, absolutely. Some things can’t be helped. And really, you deserve it. I’ve done this to my own mother on several occasions. Cause and effect, people. If I have a car full of people or am in an exceptionally lovely mood (won’t happen), I may simply slow down to 20 or 30 miles per hour below the posted speed limit. I can have a Sunday drive any day. Sun roof open, windows down, excessively big sunglasses on singing at the top of my lungs while the radio blasts (… but not excessively loud…) old school Alabama… all while going 30 in a 65 miles per hour zone… with you on my ass getting progressively more and more angry by the moment… oh, and there’s a mobile home on wheels next to us so you can’t get over… Okay, so you get the picture. Stay back. You should be able to see my back tires. If you can’t and you push the issue, they may wind up in your lap. No one wins if things go that route.

#8) Last but definitely not least, do not “holler” at me at a stop light… or really, anywhere. Thank goodness my windows are tinted almost illegally and the howling children in the backseat usually make even the hoodiest of hood rats think twice… but sometimes I still am the lucky recipient of compliments such as, “Hey, Fine Ass… You comin’ to my place?” (last Monday) or, “Hey, me and my buddies are going to XYZ. Follow us there.” Okay… just no. Who do these people pick up like that? Who are these people? How can we keep them from breeding? I’m someone’s mom, and if I’m out past 9:00pm, its because the kids had to pee four or five times while we were grocery shopping and it took us two and a half hours to get nine items. And seriously, maybe you can tell I’m female, but that’s about it. Hit up the 86-year-old grandma sitting on a phone book in the Lincoln Towncar behind me. She looks lonely.

Eight is my favorite number so I’m stopping there. The moral of this blog post: Get your head out of your behind and follow the rules of common courtesy and social interaction on the road. Cause and effect. You’re nice, I’m nice. You’re an asshole… well, I speak asshole, too. Save us all some irritation and mind your manners.