I am becoming my mother

I knew it was inevitable. I mean, genetically, it makes sense. Half of my make up is hers. (My genetic make up. Not my mascara. I bought my own.)

In some ways, I've always been like her. My voice is like hers I am told. My answering machine message will sometimes confuse me. And then I realize, no it's not her. And then I take up smoking to lower my voice. (No, no, I don't really. That's just an old ploy that film companies used to use to make women sound sexy. Hacking cough being the height of hot.)

I also have the great ability to make every suggestion, request or comment sound like a guilt-trip waiting to happen. Much like Marge Simpson, there is no tone of my voice that doesn't sound like a nag. Ask my sisters. (Seriously. They love to complain about this one!)

Most of my phrase-ology is like Mom's too. Not cool. There will soon be a time where I look at someone and with all honesty will say "Wow, he's a hunk." At that time, I request anyone who truely loves me to beat my head in with a stick.

But now, even the things I wanted to avoid are coming true. Alas, I occaissionally find stray chin hairs and think "What the hell?? Who did I piss off to be punished with this?" But this is the final straw.

I sneezed and almost peed myself.