Potty Mouth

I used to swear. Ahem. I used to swear A LOT. As I’ve gotten older I’ve tried to tone it down a bit and while it’s not uncommon to hear me drop a f-bomb in polite company I’d say I’m getting pretty good at keeping up appearances as someone with a touch of class. Yes indeed, I’m one classy bitch. Unless you happen to catch me in the driver’s seat that is. Sigh. I know it’s cliché but I have a serious case of Road Rage. Of course moving to Regina didn’t help. I think the worst drivers in the country all come to Regina and hop in their cars as soon as they hear my garage door open. Merging seems to be a lost art here, as is efficiently changing lanes. I can’t take the Ring Road without being prepared for the inevitable hoarse voice that comes after shouting “THE LEFT LANE IS FOR PASSING... YOU FUCKING MORON” over and over again as I speed by on the right. Aggressive driving seems to have no place here. It breaks my heart to see three cars turn on a green arrow where sixteen cars in Vancouver would have been and I swear I tense up at the very sight of a four-way stop. Note to all the drivers out there – politeness has no place at a four-way stop. To make matters worse everyone drives at or below the speed limit. I know it only takes about fifteen minutes to get anywhere in the city but I don’t think that’s any excuse to be so blasé with your time (or more specifically, mine). Besides, aren’t those “limits” a little arbitrary anyway? Driving anarchy, that’s what we need. Now who’s with me?

Gaia, that’s who. It seems that while my daughter snatched the majority of her good genes from my husband, she managed to inherit the Road Rage gene from me (I of course got it from the foul-mouthed road warrior more commonly refered to as my mother). For the last few weeks Gaia has started screaming the minute I snap her car seat into place and not stopped until I snap her back out upon reaching our destination. A few days ago, after a particularly long journey across the city, nearing the end of my patience for baby screaming, I flipped on my signal light and began plans for a quick lane change en route home. I checked my mirror. The coast was clear, save for a sporty black car a good ten car lengths back. Mere seconds later the same black car was purposefully accelerating to close the gap and deny me my rightful place in front of him. This seems to be a Regina specialty. I couldn’t help myself. I shook my fist with fury and screamed.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! THAT’S RIGHT... YOU! YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE! ASSSSSSSSSSSSHOLE!”

Suddenly Gaia got quiet and, I kid you not, she laughed her little baby laugh and promptly fell asleep. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Wasn’t I concerned that my newborn found my screaming obscenities calming? Mildly. More concerning still was the brief moment I seriously considered screaming obscenities as a valid soothing strategy.