My salute to 'The Original Interrupted Mom'

It's a little late, but the staff at Mom Interrupted salutes The Original Interrupted Mom, who spent more than 50 mom-years not being able to finish a sentence without some smart-aleck kid wising off at her.

In an era that worshipped June Cleaver and Donna Reed, my mother was no Carol Brady.

For example, my mom didn't wake me up in the morning; I woke her up every day on my way out the door to school. I would fix her coffee (two saccharines and a splash of milk) and wobble it upstairs and announce my imminent departure.

This was a great time to get her to sign failed tests and permission slips. She never asked questions or even looked once I jammed the pen into her hand. Bright child that I was, I never thought to pull a Radar O'Reilly and shove a blank check under her unseeing hand.

It completely floored me that people bought art, as my reality was rooted in a mother who painted like Van Gogh right before he FedExed his ear. I hear other kids came home to cookies and milk. I came home to find mom deep in her watercolor era.

I was at one of those hosted product parties with mom several years ago. The sales lady had just introduced the miniature rolling pin and cake set and pitched: "This would make a wonderful gift for a little girl!" Which caused my mother to mutter very distinctly to my neighbor, "I don't approve of giving this (insert word that would make your hair fall out) to little girls. Brainwashes ‘em."

The sales lady just about swallowed her tongue, but at least she had just the right-sized container for it.

Even now, mom is more Morticia Addams than Donna Reed, a fact that was brought home forcefully the other day. I was sitting at the kitchen table with mom and dad as we always do, when dad started in on mom's latest idea.

"Do you know what she wants?"

"Now, George, it's a respectable request."

"What? What does she want?"

"You won't believe it. You take her to Home Depot, and then she wanders off, and where is she?"

"George, you're being stubborn. I don't want a big one."

"WHAT? WHAT ON EARTH COULD SHE BE GAWKING AT IN HOME DEPOT THAT'S INAPPROPRIATE? Oh, no ... not the lumber guy again?"

"She's standing in front of the chainsaws. She wants a CHAINSAW."

"I just want a little one!"

Some moms want to go to a brunch for Mother's Day. Some moms want jewelry.

My mom, the one who spent 10 years of my life greeting me with "Doesn't that outfit need to be ironed?" but is going to scrapbook this column the minute she gets it, the one who taught me how to make her coffee and get myself ready for school (and for life), the one who taught me that "Pretty is as pretty does," is getting a chainsaw.

I'm not sure if she wants it for gardening or to go on a long-awaited crime spree, but I've got one with her name on it in the trunk of my car.

And mom? If pretty is, indeed, as pretty does, then you are the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen.

Ahwatukee Foothills resident Elizabeth Evans can be reached at elizabethann40@hotmail.com. Her column appears monthly.