I had barely shut the car door when I heard the distinct snap of the locks pop shut. Sher and I got ice cream at Mr. Frosty's while Mom waited in the car. I also wait in the car a lot while K hops out and does the ice cream getting. I also lock the car as soon as K leaves so that I am not carried away and molested by brigands. Back at the car, I realize that it is annoying to wait for the doors to be unlocked while you are juggling two drippy ice cream cones. I didn't think much about the similarities.
At home, Mom scrapes the better portion of her ice cream into the sink, leveling it down to just the cone. "I only like the cone," she says. I always order my ice cream filled only to the top of the cone, and I have been known to scrape the excess into the sink if the ice cream is overly full. I feel distinctly uncomfortable.
We also share a certain savoire faire, that I like to call the, "I'm Hot Gene," which means that you are never embarrassed by a lack of personal grooming.
Working in the garden all day, dirty and sweaty? I'm hot; so I will go to the grocery store just like I am. Hair uncombed? It doesn't matter. I'm hot; so deal with me and my dubious grooming. We like to show the world who we really are.
I become even more worried about these crazy similarities as we go out on a quick Wal-Mart run- she with a large spot on her shirt and me in a pair of reindeer boxers that K got for Christmas. But it doesn't matter, cause we're hot.
There is certainly much to be jealous of when I contrast myself to my mother, her enviably skinny thighs for one thing, her ability to remember the birthday of everyone we know, and her spot-on decorating sense, but no one wants to admit they are turning into their mother. But, I think now, that the similarities are too many to deny, so I am just hoping all her good stuff rubs off on me. Laters.
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