Ask Your Mother

There we were, happily cruising along in joyful silence listening to the radio when our celebration of all things Huey Lewis was interrupted by a commercial for Liposol, or Lipitor, or God knows what drug that popular medicine is trying to push off on all the halfwit hypochondriacs these days.  At this point, I usually tune out in favor of the passing landscape and the open road.

But not HRH…no, sir!

She takes it all in.

Every.  Last.  Word.

Suddenly, from the backseat a question is hurled at me like a Greek discus:

 “Terry, what’s ‘erectile’ mean?”

I almost choked, lost control of the car and catapulted us into the adjacent roadside ditch.


Thank you, FM radio.

You see, what had happened was that as part of the commercial at the tail end, the commentator signed off by rapid firing all the possible side effects of which, I had completely zoned out for.  And, of course, “erectile difficulties”  was among them; prompting HRH’s question.

How in the sweet Sam hell do I answer that?

Now I am prepared for most questions but this one, well, not so much.  I quickly reflected on my options but somehow “it’s a type lizard” seemed deceitful and, potentially, could just lead to more follow-up questions which would just enviably end up with me being 100% tangled up in a complex veil of lies of which I wouldn’t be able to easily recover.

I started to panic.

I started to hyperventilate.

Please, Lord.  Make it stop.

In the end, I reverted to the tried-and-true response that I have used in the past with other such awkward questions.  An answer that subtly implies that this is not the type of question that you would necessarily want your step-dad to answer for you; my last resort if you will:

“Ask you mother”.

God help me.

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