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Inherited Road Rage in Aisle Five

Candy's Column

Inherited Road Rage in Aisle Five

I allowed Skye to “drive” our shopping cart at the grocery store last evening, much to her delight.  I was smiling to myself as I struggled to make it around the fruit stands — Have you ever pushed a cart with one of those things attached?  It is the Eldorado of grocery vehicles, I’m telling you — smugly thinking how precious we looked, when I heard her yell:


She proceeded to huff and puff, and shake her head, and continue to mutter “Come on!” under her breath throughout most of the baby food, pet, dairy, frozen food and snack aisles, only taking a break to reach out and grab select items that I later found piled up in her passenger seat. (Her bumper should warn:  I BRAKE FOR CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES AND COPIOUS JARS OF POPCORN KERNELS.)

Equal parts amused and horrified, I realized I had created a road rage monster in my own image.

You have to understand, I have dialed my road rage way back since having kids, choosing to point a finger instead of flipping another finger and growling in place of dropping F-bombs.  Pretty impressive considering this is Los Angeles, land of heavy traffic and, thus, heavy amounts of infuriating drivers who believe turn signals and stop signs are optional.  In fact, I had been quite proud of myself for not uttering a single curse word (audibly) in my car with the children present — until, that is, I saw Miss Skye mimicking my frustration, from my words to my headshakes to my irritated sighs.

Not my finest moment as a mom, for sure.  I guess I’ll have to dial it back even more.  To, like, a stern look or a displeased brow furrow.  Yeah, THAT’ll teach Mercedes Guy not to cut ME off again.

Although if we encounter yet another little ol’ grey-haired lady who is blocking the entire pasta aisle with her grocery cart — and flashes us a dirty look when we politely try to get by her — I can’t promise I won’t unleash my road rage mini-me monster on her.


What?  It’s okay if they’re slow and uncooperative and impairing our ability to buy macaroni.  Right?

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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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