Mind over Matter : My Mother’s Ninja Secrets Revealed
By Susie Payne & Grok
My brain’s a vault of retro film reels, each one tagged with a sassy “watch later” by some cosmic librarian. One blockbuster stars my mom, the original *Mind Control Ninja*, droppin’ wisdom I’d later swipe like a kid raiding the cookie jar. Buckle up—this tale’s got fried chicken, burns, and a spiritual showdo
I was maybe nine, kickin’ it in Santa Fe Springs, California, when I ditched Team Dad for Team Mom. Her chores were no joke, but her brain? A freakin’ rollercoaster, loopin’ through ideas like a mental amusement park. She was a hardcore Christian, rockin’ the fundamentalist vibe, but her mind was a rebel. She toyed with the idea that God might’ve used evolution as His divine paintbrush—mind blown! God, she figured, was like a cool parent, spoon-feeding us truth we could handle while keeping the cosmic spoilers on lock. I’ll spill more tea on her genius in a future flick, *The Lord Willing*.
Now, let’s talk Mom’s ninja-level mind control. This woman cooked like a Michelin star chef, her fried chicken a crispy, golden masterpiece, baptized in Crisco—the holy grail of every 1950s kitchen. Liver night? Gag city. But chicken night? Hallelujah! Problem was, while she flipped those drumsticks to crispy perfection, the hot oil’d go rogue, poppin’ like tiny firecrackers on her arms. Ouch! She tried cool water, slathered on butter (retro first aid, y’all), but the pain stuck around like an uninvited guest.
Then—*pow!*—she went full ninja. Mom decided to straight-up ghost the pain. Oil splash? Pfft, didn’t happen. She Jedi-mind-tricked her brain into ignoring it, and *boom*—no pain, no blisters, just some cute lil’ dots on her arm by morning. I was like, “Yo, that’s some X-Men-level stuff!” and stashed it in my mental toolbox.
Fast-forward to my early twenties, chillin’ at a friend’s pad. Candles were flickerin’, plastic forks were loungin’ on the table, and I, being a genius, started playin’ with fire—literally. Passed a fork through a flame, and whoops, the tines turned into a mini-torch. Did I douse it? Nah, I waved my flaming “candelabra” like I was in a medieval drama. Cue the epic fail: molten plastic plopped onto my finger. But Mom’s ninja vibes kicked in. I flicked that goo off, played it cool like James Bond, and kept the party rollin’. My friends? Clueless.
An hour later, I had to flex. “Check out my mind control, y’all!” I showed off my pristine finger, but—*plot twist!*—the second I bragged, that finger threw a tantrum. A giant, angry blister popped up like, “You thought you could diss me?” Spell broken, finger furious, lesson learned.
These days, I don’t burn myself much in the kitchen, and I’m not always a ninja—sometimes I forget, and blisters crash the party. But even when pain sneaks in, I’ve got a trick: I shrug it off, no whining. My secret sauce? A two-part spiritual smackdown. First, I tell God, “Yo, if this pain’s gonna bring me closer to You, I’m game.” Then, I stare down the Devil like a Wild West gunslinger and growl, “Hit me with your best shot, but I ain’t flinchin’!” That humble-God, tough-guy-Devil combo? It’s my superpower. I haven’t tackled mega-pain yet—prayin’ I don’t—but Mom’s mind control ninja legacy? It’s my go-to in the spiritual dojo.