You ever have one of those moments when you realize Holy crap! I’m my mother!? I had one just the other day. I was cleaning my room and found a box under my bed full of old blackberries – the cell phone, not the fruit, cause that’d just be weird and probably smelly. It was my intention to donate them to the Verizon Wireless Helpline program which helps battered women somehow, but I never did because I’m lazy and apparently I don’t care enough about battered women. I can change, I swear!
Anyway, before I could get rid of them I had to restore them to the original factory settings and wipe all my personal information, so I went through all my old text messages just to see if there was anything worth saving before I deleted everything. I found this little gem…
Conversation between me and mother circa September 2010:
Me: Well, it’s official. I am my mother’s daughter.
Me: There’s a fire down the street and I’m walking down the block to check it out. [My mother is the consummate rubbernecker. If there is a tragedy happening, she wants to see it.]
Mom: Good job.
Me: (Sometime later) Nothing to see here. I think it might have been a car. Fire trucks are leaving.
Me: No it isn’t, you psychopath!
Cut to a few months ago.
I’m hanging out in my apartment with one of my roommates and we hear gunfire outside my bedroom window. [I live in West Harlem or The Little Dominican Republic – it’s super swanky.]
Roomie: Holy shit, did you hear that?
Me: Yup. (As I start hastily putting on my shoes and coat)
Roomie: What the fuck are you doing?
Me: I’m going outside. (Duh)
Roomie: Are you insane?
Me: … (Cause I was already outside watching cops chase gang members and EMTs putting bleeding people in ambulances.)
And that’s when it hit me. I’m my mother.
There are worse things. 🙂