So, I was at the petrol station this morning. When I'd hurried into the car earlier to take the Tsunamis to the dentist before school, the car beeped at me continuously and flashed that the range was '0 km'. Man, I hate that. I
hate all the stupid beeping, but I especially hate the fact that once again I'd let the car's fuel tank get critical. Why do I do that?
Is there anything more stressful than running late to the dentist who is about 5 kms drive away and being continuously
told by your car that your range is 0 km? The petrol station was also about 5km away, slightly off the course of the dentist which is about 2kms from the petrol station. I pfaffed about a bit, determining with calculations that went absolutely nowhere that because I had parked the car on a hill, there was probably still at least 7 km left in the tank. At least.
I drove all three Tsunamis to the dentist, I drove from the dentist to the petrol station, I ran out of fuel about two metres from the petrol bowser. I made that hose stretch, baby. I filled up the car, I went into shop and paid.
Then Maxi needed to go to the toilet. Of course he did. I got him out of the car, locked the girls in, went and got the key that was attached to an actual wheel hub which was so 'country' it was hilarious until I realised it was really, really heavy and you couldn't open the toilet door and just leave the key in it, you had to take it out and park the wheel hub by the sink while you used the toilet. Ridiculous.
So we did the business, hauled the wheel hub back to the front counter and came out of the shop. A guy in a ute (they are often Ute Guys) screamed, literally screamed, at me for taking so long. He was so furious he was spitting and his ute was rocking like it was 1976. Now, I'm about as patient as a guy in a ute when it comes to having to wait, but this guy wasn't there when I went into the shop to take the wheel hub back, so he hadn't been there as long as you might think. I ignored him and continued on towards the car. He yelled something really derogatory about housewives who've got all day and what he'd happily do to them with all their extra time (what a wanker), so I told him to go 'f' himself. I actually said 'eff' because I was with the kids. I really, really wanted to say go fuck yourself, but I didn't. Because I was with the kids.
So, into the car we get and I asked Maxi if he had his seat belt on and he did. I asked the girls if they still had their seatbelts on which, of course, they didn't, so I got back out of the car to help The Badoo into hers.
Ute Guy lost it completely. He got out of his ute and staggered menacingly across the tarmac, purple with rage and screeching something that seemed to be about housewives and where he wanted to stick them. Fellow bystanders languidly kept filling their tanks as he lurched towards said housewife. Thanks for nothing, Languid Bystanders.
I stood my ground. "I'm putting my children's seat belts on," I said calmly. "It's for their safety and it's the law. Do you have a problem with that?"
"F you, lady. Some of us have got f-ing jobs, lady. We've got f-ing stuff to fill our f-ing days with rather than sitting on our fat f'ing arses doing f-all all day." You will kindly note that he was not as restrained as I and indeed used the actual f-word around my children, whose ears were flapping wildly in the back seat of the car.
"He said
fuck," I heard Cappers shout with glee. "I knoooow," said The Badoo. "Fuck! Fuck! Fucking Fuck!" they chanted joyfully.
I looked at the kids, I looked over at that Ute Guy. I was ready to pounce on him with everything my vocabulary had and pulverise him into an incomprehensive blob with my words. But I didn't. Because I was with the kids. The gutter-mouth kids.
Instead I looked over at that Ute Guy like one might glare at the losing politician after a caucus ballot. I stared him down through half-slit eyes, my mouth like a constipated cat. He growled (also like a constipated cat, one could assume) but unexpectedly backed away and raced back to his car. Yeah, I thought, you'd better run.
But he wasn't running. He revved his engine and made it lurch forward, as if to accelerate into the back of my car (seriously, what a wanker) but ha!
HA! He stalled it. One of the Languid Bystanders snorted in derision. Ute Guy slammed his hand on the steering wheel in unparalleled frustration. I got in my car, very slowly, and drove, very, very, very slowly - very slowly - out of that petrol station. I said nothing as a crawled away, I didn't even look back. Because I am a housewife and I am dignified and proud. And because I was with the kids.
Do you ever get the 'housewife' tag?
Is it ever actually attached to something nice they want to say?
[Image from Nero Magazine Italia via Piccsy] 
