Performance Anxiety

We were driving to my mother’s house for dinner last night when the driver’s side windshield wiper broke. Snow was pouring from the sky in diagonal sheets, so we pulled off the freeway to see if we could fix it. After several minutes of being pelted by snow, Jon gave up and we turned back around and headed home.

I called my mother to apologize, and I said, “Mom, I am so sorry. It just broke right there in the middle of the freeway.” And then, in a moment of sheer insanity, I said to the Avon World Sales Leader, “It just lay there on the windshield like a limp dick.”

After I hung up the phone Jon sat there, mouth agape, and he scolded, “You just used the words ‘limp dick’ in a conversation with your mother. What is wrong with you? Limp dick? Why didn’t you just say ‘broken limb’ or something?”

So I called her back immediately and apologized again, “Mom, Jon wanted me to call you back and say that it was less like a limp dick and more like a broken limb. I’m sorry I said limp dick.”

I love my mother, the Avon World Sales Leader, because she assured me, “That’s okay. I told Rob (my step-father) that you described it as a limp dick and he said he wanted to know who has a limp dick the size of a windshield wiper.”