Permanent Record

When I was a freshman in college, I received an angry phone call from my mother.

"Vhat's da hstory vit dis letter from dah school! You’re in big-big trouble!"

“What are you talking about? What letter?”

“Are you on drugs, Stephie? I saw dis special on 20/20 dat all dah college kids are doing dah Mary Hanna in dah voods!” she screamed. “You vouldn’t go into dah voods, vould you?” (Editor’s note: Say that 10-times fast!)

“Anyu, it’s probably a mistake, Read me the letter.”

“'Dear Mrs. Yuh'-Ha, ‘Mrs’. Dey tink I’m still married to your asshole fodder.”

“Anyu, stop changing the subject.”

“Ok. ‘Ve are calling it to your attention dat your dodder is….’ I can’t belief you are doink dis to me, Stephie, vhat are the people at church gonna tink?”

“MOM. You’re overreacting. Just read it out loud to me so I can see what happened.”

“Okay. 'Dear…Dear Mrs. Ok. So. Ve are calling it to your attention dat your dodder is on dah Dean’s List.’ You see! He put you on his list! How can you DO this to me, Stephanie?”

“Wait…the Dean’s List? That’s a good thing.”

“Don’t lie to me! Dis vill go on your permanent record!”

“Hey, did...
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