Guest blogger Jenny Isenman talks about losing her cool. She last exposed how she lost her cool and used the "S" word: shut up.

She has a fabulously funny and relatable Suburban Jungle blog: It May Be Suburbia, But it's a Jungle Out There.

I’ve discovered the quickest way to make people both despise and hiss at you. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends, or any kind of social interaction anxiety.

Just bring a cranky, overtired 4-year-old to the grocery store and watch the magic unfold.

My daughter began our trip like a drunk: a little unstable, but mostly cheerful and giddy. I may have even gotten a "I love you man, I mean Mom," accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But like most drunks, the second you shove them into the seat of the shopping cart, they get belligerent. Cindy, our favorite check-out girl, saw this up close and personal.

"Hello, my sweet Ryan," Cindy greeted. "Sweet Ryan" responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.

I should have done a 180 then and there, but I decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food, than maintain goodwill toward our local grocery clerks.

By the meat counter, Ryan lost it when I pulled the ticket out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a hole through my forehead, I succumbed, and allowed her to yank out 10 more numbers, much to the dismay of the deli staff and waiting customers.

By the time we hit produce, she had spiraled out of control. Ryan wanted grapes, but after careful consideration, I mentioned that they looked a bit pruny. This left her no choice but to unleash a bloodcurdling scream of disapproval. Clearly, I should have kept that horrifying tidbit to myself. How dare I attempt to pick ripe fruit?

I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up, she whacked her back on the cart, which was added injury to insult. It was unforgivable and ohhh did I feel her justifiable fury.

As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was budding. I grabbed a few essentials, and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s lane was the shortest.

As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children; the last face any mother wants to see at such harried moments.

"Hello, Jenny," she said in a it's-not-your-day, kind of way. "Hello, Cindy,” I said in an Indian accent so she would be confused.

Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that there is a reason fast food is making the youth of America fat. Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.