A Sign That I'm Becoming My Mother

I've seen it coming for years. It's in my words, my gestures, my tastes, my hobbies, even my face (at least, the skinnier version of my face that I had in college). I am becoming my mother.

This isn't a bad thing, or something that I fear. My mom's a great woman (and I'm not just saying that because I know she'll read this - hi Mom!). She's taught me a lot of things, including how to find my way around the kitchen (although she's quick to point out that I still don't know how to make pilaf, which is a travesty for any good Armenian girl).

My point here - and I do realize that I'm rambling - is that I've picked up some of her bad traits as well. In our family, we joke that we can't take her anywhere because she will inevitably get food on her shirt. For a while when I was younger, we were trying to invent disposable napkins with velcro attachments, to make them stick to your clothes... but that venture never panned out. More than once, we've mentioned the need to keep lobster bibs on hand, just in case.

Where am I going with this, you ask? Well, I was sitting at work the other day, enjoying some cherries for my mid-morning snack. Huge, dark, juicy cherries. I had already eaten about half the bag when I bit into a particularly plump specimen... and before I could even look down, I knew that some of the juice had landed on my shirt. On assessment, it was not just my shirt, but my jeans AND my keyboard as well. And not just a dot on my shirt. No - a huge line of juice, dead center of my chest. When I went out to get coffee later in the day, the guy behind the counter didn't even look at my face.

And today? I ended up eating a nectarine over the kitchen sink, right out in the middle of the office. I need to remember to bring in foods that are easier to eat...