Go tiger! or a story about a poorly-endowed suburban man on a Saturday afternoon

I am ashamed of myself. I can be such a cretin at times.

I am a mother, live in a respectable neighbourhood, and should behave. Plus, I am old enough to know better. And mostly, I do. But…a couple of weeks ago, I got in a road rage. (right in the middle of our posh commuter village)

Until then, I never got in a proper road rage before. Although, I came pretty close once, driving from work. Someone was very inpatient, and I...might have shown him a finger. However, what I did not anticipate is that the lights would change, and the car would stop. The door opened and out emerged a very tall, very dark guy with fantastic dreadlocks and in a black suit. (a pretty cool combination by the way)
He marched to my car, and I quickly pushed the safety lock button in (discreetly and elegantly leaning on it with my elbow, so that not to lose all my cool) whilst smiling my most idiotic smile.

You would have thought, that incident was enough to teach me a lesson about cars and fingers. Alas, Azeries are emotional drivers. (And I am not saying English drivers aren’t. In fact, I think these are the times Brits feel particularly brave: in their cars and on email)
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So…a couple of weeks ago, coming back from an afternoon party nearby, I was driving very slowly. OK, some might say irritatingly slowly. However, in my defence, and what this guy in a car behind did not know, is that I was left in charge of three small children and platters of left-over food, as well as a few boxes of wine- all packed in my poor little car.
So I was determined to make it home without any of the precious cargo getting damaged.

As I drove down the narrow road to my house (approximately one mile), I saw some of the party group walking down and slowed down to wave to them. At which point, a probably otherwise very respectable and decent middle-class man got too annoyed with me and beeped loudly, while dangerously taking over. Of course, I should have not reacted. I know that. But this is where my easily ignited roots take over. I articulated and mouthed everything I thought about him, making sure he could lip-read me in his rear view mirror. I can only assume he did, because he stopped the car on the hill and walked over to shout at me.

Was I afraid? Nope.Was I embarrassed? Yes, very much so- afterwards. I was embarrassed I shouted so loudly the whole village probably heard me. I am embarrassed this man might one day turn out to be a quiet husband of some new local mummy friend. I am of course, embarrassed in front of the kids who witnessed my horrific transformation.

But, most of all I am embarrassed that I forgot to tell him about the size of his penis.
That night, as I was recounting the story to our friends, a girlfriend pointed out he probably had a very small penis.

Oh, damn- I thought. The penis, of course, the penis!!! How could I forget about his penis?? That famous old insult- how could I not have used it???!! How frustrating! Don’t you just hate it, when you think- in hindsight-what you should have done or said? Next time-watch out, you impatient undersized frustrated suburban ……..But I hereby promise…I shall remain cool next time. Cool and dignified. Like a proper lady.