My friend J., who is very ladylike, once told me that it’s not good manners to eat in the car.

I think of this every time I do eat in the car, always hoping that J. won’t pull up next to me at a traffic light just as I’m stuffing French fries in my mouth, while great blobs of ketchup drip down on my shirt.

French fries aside, I mostly pick portable snacks to dine on while driving. Bananas, sports bars, pretty much anything I can eat one-handed. (I always like to keep one hand free for flipping off other drivers as needed, another habit I suspect J. wouldn’t approve of.)

But today, when I stopped at a light, I looked over at the car next to me, and watched as the driver began to eat cereal. With milk. And a spoon.

At first, this just seemed silly to me. Hasn’t she ever heard of granola bars? But then, I began to gain appreciation for the thought that went into her breakfast-on-the-go. Rather than opting for a bowl, she’d poured her cereal and milk into a square Tupperware container, which would be less likely to spill. And it didn’t look as though she were sloshing milk down the front of her blouse.

I began to wonder how far she would take this. Did she stop at cereal, or did she eat other meals requiring utensils behind the wheel too? She could probably manage soup with the same square Tupperware system. But what about a New York strip steak that would require cutting? Or barbecued ribs? Or corn on the cob? Maybe all this time, I’d been underachieving with my bananas.

I wanted to roll down my window and ask her, but by that time, I think I’d freaked her out by staring at her for too long. Once the light turned green, she peeled off, clearly eager to put space between us. Or maybe she just wanted to get to the next red light, so she could get back to her breakfast.

North to drop off, asshole.

I still can’t believe this happened.

I was sitting in car line on Friday afternoon, innocently checking my texts, and as a result, a small space opened up between my car and the one in front of me. About three car lengths, give or take. And about thirty cars back from the point where you actually get your child.

And another mother drove around me. Thereby cutting me in line.

Two days later, and I’m still reeling.

It’s not exactly a large school. I sort of know everyone, at least by sight. And since, once she cut the line, I pulled my head out of my ass and moved forward, I got a clear view of the bitch, and now know exactly who she is.

(By the way? Total bimbo. She even has a bimbo name, although that’s probably not her fault. Unless, she was once a stripper and changed it. Which would actually make sense on a lot of levels.)

It’s not like I’m a stranger to school car line road rage. And yes, I do get annoyed by spacey chicks who are more focused on their phones than on progressing forward. I think we’ve all been there. I’ve sat there, stewing, and contemplating a toot of the horn to get things moving, but have thus far resisted.

But to actually cut in line?

It’s unheard of.

It’s an asshole move.

Clearly, she should be punished and shunned.

I went to a cocktail party that night, and lost no time telling everyone who would listen about this. There were a few (gratifying) gasps of horror, and one outright denial.

“I know her, and she would never have done such a thing,” a friend said.

Huh.

Would and did, baby. Would and did.

We took Sam to Disney World a few weeks ago. After spending six hours in two theme parks, we decamped to our hotel. Sam was inexplicably still energetic, and wanted to go for a swim. I agreed to take him to the pool, with the understanding that while he went down the water slide thirty-two times in a row, I’d be relaxing in a chaise with a book and restorative glass of wine.

Which is exactly what I was doing, when two teenage boys swimming in the pool began strangling one another. One wrapped his arm around the other’s neck and squeezed, and then after a brief and entirely serious struggle, they traded places. Finally, when neither one had managed to actually kill the other, they began to splash one another. And me.

“Hey,” I shouted, when the first wave of water hit me and my precious Kindle. “Knock it off!”

I fixed them with my Death Glare, and the boys, properly frightened, moved to the other end of the pool, where they could continue their fight without incurring my wrath.

I returned to my book. Two minutes later, another wave of water hit me. I looked up, ready to go medieval on their teenage asses. But this time, I’d been splashed by a small boy and his father, who were playing with a noodle. The dad gave me an apologetic wave, which I acknowledged with a nod, and went back to reading.

“Why don’t you just, like, move?”

I looked up. A woman lying a few chaises down to me was glaring at me.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“If you don’t want to get splashed, why don’t you move?” she said. Then, before I could answer, she continued. “He’s only three, you know. He doesn’t know any better.”

I surmised this was the mother of the small child who had just splashed me. I was confused by her confrontational tone, but in no mood to deal with it. That’s the thing about spending six hours at Disney theme parks — you lose all patience for everyone. Especially people who intrude on your cocktail hour.

“How old is the man with him?” I asked.

“You mean my husband?” she asked. “He’s thirty-three.”

She said this as though his being thirty-three made her point. Which it didn’t. To the contrary, it made my point.

“Is he old enough to know better?” I asked. And then, without waiting for her response, went back to my book and my wine.

A few minutes later, I heard her recounting the interaction to her husband. “She got, like, mad that Dylan splashed her, and she was all, like, ‘isn’t he old enough to know better,’ and I was, like, ‘he’s only three.’ And she was all, like, ‘whatever.’”

Which wasn’t even close to what either one of us had said.

It almost made me wish I was back at the Disney parks, being jostled by the crowds, having my ankles banged by strollers and getting cut in line by South American tourists pretending they didn’t know any better.

My best friend tells me that these sort of interactions only happen to me, but that doesn’t seem very likely. How does everyone else go through life avoiding the assholes?

If I ran for local office – which is highly unlikely – this would be my platform:

1. I would rubber stamp all bars and restaurants with a water view. Despite the fact that our town is surrounded on three sides by water, we have almost none. Which is way lame.

2. City Hall would no longer have a water view. It would be moved elsewhere, preferably next to the water treatment plant, and its current site would be used to accommodate the aforementioned waterfront bars and restaurants. And, seriously, whoever heard of a city hall with a multi-million dollar water view? Insanity.

3. Bicycling and picnicking would be allowed in the enormous and expensive new downtown memorial park. Because large, tax payer funded green spaces should be used for more than just concrete memorials.

4. Two words: Mardi freaking Gras.

If you insist on having a tacky Shamu mailbox, you’re going to have to expect that your neighbors will use it to reenact SeaWorld’s “Believe” show.

SeaWorld Barbie

In the wee small hours of the morning.

Sam: (appearing at my bedside, looking far too awake) We need to get invitations.
Me: Ergh. Huh? What time is it?
Sam: We need to get invitations for the Guilty Party.
Me: For what?
Sam: The Guilty Party.
Me: What’s that?
Sam: You know. The Guilty Party. And at the end of the party, the mystery is revealed!
Me: Oh. Wait. I think you’ve gotten something mixed up . . . Seriously, it’s only 5 am? Go back to bed!