The Editor's Note #6

Bah, bah, bah, BAH, baaaah! I’m lovin’…
         THE COLUMN!

      Insert your own witty greeting here, readers. As a junior, I had to go through the indignities of the PSAE and ACT standardized tests this year, which are so closely linked to Satanism that the answer sheet spat venom in my eyes somewhere around Question 27.
      As I awaited the return of my sight, I thought about the amount of stress that the common high-schooler has to go through around this time of year, what with finals. I am totally convinced that final exams have absolutely nothing to do with our grades; they are simply the only revenge weapon teachers have at their disposal. We should be grateful that teachers are no longer allowed to carry spiked clubs.
      Whatever exams are for, one thing will never change: I will never get a girlfriend.
      But that’s a story for another column. For this topic, I have another humorous anecdote featuring (at her request) that zany lady that makes Roseanne look like The Brady Bunch, let’s give a big round of applause for…

      MY MOTHER!

      My tale begins back in the sunny state of Colorado. Back in said state, my mother thought it a good idea to open up her own catering business. This was all well and good – she’s an excellent cook – but she is missing what I like to call, in blunt terms, “The Ability to Survive in the Real World”.
      Please, let me explain. My mother has a mental illness known as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I love her just the same and she acts just like any normal woman, excepting of course her morbid fear of mice, bugs, orange, yellow, radioactivity, thermometers, carpet, rugs, biohazard signs (just the sign), anything glow-in-the-dark, mild cleansing agents, brightly colored paints, moderately colored paints, brake fluid, dust, and cell phones. She’s really quite nice to live with, provided you ignore the stuttering, twitching, paranoia, and random bouts of hysterical screaming.
      Where was I? Oh yes, the catering business. My mother could cook the meals, provided she could stop crying for long enough, and usually managed to deliver them. When she got there, she put on her “Happy” mode. This angers me because, at home, she can be throwing a furious tantrum and the phone may ring. Not even bothering to put down the sledgehammer, she answers the phone and says in a tone that says that her entire life is perfect, “Hello! How are you?!” She speaks to whoever it was in this mood until she hangs up, after which she continues to beat down the walls.
      The “Happy” mode cannot last forever because, underneath all that obscene jolliness, the real mood bides its time until something bad happens.
      In this case, it was waiting for a cell phone call. My mother’s cell phone vibrates for a split second before ringing; a feature which I believe should be made standard on all cell phones, provided how funny it is. She must think that there is a mouse in her pants pocket or something because, without fail, she screams and scrabbles around in her pocket. The phone comes flying out at supersonic speed and sometimes injures innocent bystanders. Luckily, no bystanders were hurt in this case but, unluckily, the phone was fielded by a five-gallon bucket of ice water.
      With great professionalism, my mother screamed, apologized to the puzzled woman covered in hot wing shrapnel and professionally plunged her hot sauce encrusted glove into the water that was everyone else was professionally drinking. After a professional rooting around and professional soaking of her professional outfit, my mother remained professionally silent for the rest of job and, with a level of professionalism that amazes me to this day, ran off to bed and professionally curled into the fetal position.
      The moral of the story? There isn’t one, really. Just know that when you are studying and fretting about the final exams, you can always take comfort in the fact that, at the very least, you are not in bed in the fetal position.
      Until next time,
            Mitchell W.