Episode II: Tiger Mom strikes back!

So you may remember my mother—Mama Rosh as she’s called by her intimate circles—as the star of my previous article.

Soap opera star, but one nonetheless. Many of you asked, “How did she react?” Well, my friends, I was disowned, acclaimed as a genius, and kicked out of my own dorm room all in the matter of 35 seconds.

Now, every time we get into a fight, my mother asks: “What? Are you going to write about this in The Tab?” Yes, in fact I am.

So mom… if you’re reading this, it’s too late.

It’s 12.30 pm on a Sunday morning (fine fine, “afternoon”), and I am awoken by three siren-pitched phone calls. “No mas,” I scream after the fourth ring with my broad Spanish vocabulary of 10 words—others include taco, quesadilla, ole, guacom-ole, sombrero, and jajaja.

I finally get up with my comforter acting as make-shift pajamas and roll on the floor towards my phone, like a “burrito.” In efforts to appear more couth, I put on the first clothes I see on the floor and quickly walk downstairs to her typing furiously on her Blackberry—which is now considered “vintage.”

She averts her judgemental gaze from my unkempt hair to my oversized winter coat. Then she asks, “Why don’t you leave that with the concierge?” The “concierge,” of course, being the security guards.

I silently pull away my mother from the death stares and take her inside. “Sarvenaz, you need a hat” as she gracefully slams a fedora on my head. “How do you expect to find a boyfriend if you don’t even have the decency to brush your hair?”

My love life is evidently a large concern for my mother: the day before at the ever-classy President’s Brunch, she went up to Amy Gutmann herself and asked her if there were any cute and eligible bachelors—preferably in Wharton—that I could be acquainted with.

At this point I contemplated whether it would be feasible to physically drown myself in the chocolate fountain. “Sarvenaz, have you been staying in shape?” Why yes, a circle is, in fact, a shape.

As I direct her upstairs towards my room, she lists twenty of her grievances regarding my general life choices—”You do realize morning recitations are not ‘suggestions.’”

She flings open my door, looks to the ground and seems not only shocked, but offended. “Sarvenaz, the floor is not a drawer,” she says as she steps over my discarded outfit options for Saturday night. If I hide them under my desk, they won’t exist right?

Hey, I didn’t develop object permanence until rather late. When I was younger, I thought if I put my arms through my sleeves, they would disappear, so naturally I wore ponchos for seven months. I also, naturally, had many friend(s) at this time.

On her manhunt for my retainer, she comes across some polaroids, one with my friend with a bright red condom on his head. I explained to her how we did a “social experiment”—if you will—as we were trying to find which brand could be used as a hat.

Listen, it was raining, I lost my umbrella, not a good look. “Mom, I swear. Quran”—our version of the Kardashian catchphrase, “Bible.”

My mom has taught me many “life lessons”—namely how bras aren’t meant for sleeping and that if you eat fast, the body doesn’t know.

That’s why when I pretend I’m going to Sweetgreen and secretly go to Capogiro, I don’t feel bad when I eat that third cup of gelato because, deep down inside, I know it doesn’t really count. Science.