Monday, June 25, 2007

I am my mother. And that's just fine with me.

You know we're all turning into our mothers, right? I don't think we can fight it. Well, perhaps we can, but only to an extent.

Yesterday my mom asked me who Tony Snow was. I explained to her like 47 times that he's the White House Spokesman.  Sigh.  I think she still thinks he's the Speaker of the House.  How, exactly, I ask, did I come out of this woman?

That aside, however, I am, actually, my mother. I would say I'm a "little" Cindy, but my mom is tiny.  I think I could fit her in one of my thighs.  I'm hoping that shrinking thing will happen for me one of these days. C'mon DNA!

Really, the only differences I have left from pretty much being my mother are my fascination with current events and the fact that I can cook.

That's it.


A few months ago I pulled up to a Barnes and Noble and I saw my reflection in the front of the store. I pulled in fast to the space in my silver SUV.  Pulled down the sun visor.  Flipped up the mirror. Applied lip gloss. Blew air through the spaces in my teeth. Smiled at my reflection. Grabbed my purse. Then I called my mother to tell her - it's happened. I'm you.

Except I know who Tony is. 

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