Worry wart

It's too bad wart removers aren't effective on the worrying kind. It would have been nice to rub out Mom's worries and give her some peace of mind when I was growing up.

Mom's excessive worrying usually kicked into high gear when plans were made to leave the house. Even for a short trip away to go out to dinner, Mom paced around the house checking everything. She canvassed the house from top to bottom as if she was an OSHA inspector looking for a safety violation.

About 60 minutes later, we'd get the all clear and would be finally free to flee the premises. But we wouldn't get far in the car before the worry wart in Mom flared up again.

"Did we remember to shut the garage door?" she would announce about a block away from the house. "I don't remember seeing the door go all the way back down. It didn't go back up, did it? Sometimes it does that, you know."
Someone in the car should have convinced Mom they watched the garage door touch down on the edge of the driveway and stay shut. But that would have been too easy. Instead, Dad would fuel the fire with his big mouth.

"I didn't shut it this time," he'd say. "I thought I'd leave it open for some spring cleaning. Hopefully the thieves take all the shit I don't want anymore."

This would trigger a new wave of new worries.

"I think I screwed a 75-watt bulb into a lamp that only required a 60-watter," Mom would say. "We better turn around so I can swap them out. We don't need a fire starting."

Dad would shoot that down, too, saying he'd rather take the chance that the house might go up in flames rather than turn around in rush-hour traffic to check on something that was fine to begin with. The really funny thing about this was the "rush hour" he was talking about was in Bismarck, North Dakota, where traffic was seldom more than six cars (or tractors) on the road at the same time.

"I hope I didn't leave any windows open - what if it rains?" Mom would reply. "Did I close and lock the door?"

"No, you left the door propped open with a chair and hung a huge banner above it announcing 'We're out for a few hours. Feel free to loot or just make yourself at home,'" Dad replied.

We all shared a laugh about this because we would all watch Mom make her rounds around the house, checking every door - even the ones to the closets - to make sure they were locked and secure. She also checked all 22 windows. Before she left, she pulled on the front door three or four times to make sure it was locked, then unlocked it, opened it and shut it again, then repeated the re-check process. That house was more secure than Fort Knox.

The only good thing about finally arriving at the restaurant was it would get her mind off of the house. But as we walked into the restaurant, suddenly her worries were focused on something in the parking lot.

"Did we turn off the car's headlights?" she'd ask. "What about the dome light? That could drain the battery. Has the oil been changed recently? Have the tires been rotated?"

Instead of taking 20 minutes to review recent service records he has stuffed in the glove box, Dad would get sarcastic about the car's security.

"I think I might have left the car running with the doors open and a big sign under the windshield wiper that says 'Free car.' We might have to take a cab or a bus home," he said.

Just as I start digging into my burger and french fries, Mom pointed in horror toward my plate. Among my pile of fries, she spotted one that was darker in color than the others.

"Don't eat that!" she'd freak. "It's all brown. Something must be wrong with it. If you eat that, you might die. Or at least be very ill, more than likely winding up in the hospital."

At this point, Dad would snatch the oddball fry off of my plate, inspect it for a few seconds, and then pop it into his mouth. This action would cause Mom to buckle in the booth, nearly fainting from the thought of the consumption of such a skanky potato.

"Oh, Ma, it's nothing," he'd chuckle. "Just a little overcooked. The worst it could do is give me the runs."

As we walked back to the car, Mom would remove her leftovers from the doggie bag to use the paper pouch to hyperventilate into. The car was fine, but what about the house?

When we arrived back at home, Mom would see her house unscathed, so now her only worry was Dad's health. She'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if her husband would make it through the night with that brown french fry slowly being digested, poisoning his body.

When a day or two passed, along with the brown french fry, Mom would finally let out a big sigh of relief. It was as if she had just been brainwashed by Bobby McFerrin. And without a worry in the world, what better way to celebrate than to go out for dinner?

Uh-oh... here we go again!