Like Mother, Like Daughter.

I’ve never been one to fuss much about mess and general disorder, as long as I knew that what was underneath was reasonably clean. Granted, I’ve been living alone for the last few years and, like a pig, became comfortable in my own filth. I could tell you how long ago the deserted tea cup by the couch actually contained tea, the number of hours the dress draped artfully over the kitchen chair has left before it’s necessary to wash it, even where the very important piece of paper resides amongst the disorder. Despite all this slovenly behaviour, it was my mess, and my mess and I coexisted quite happily together; most importantly my toilet was always clean. Alas, that was then, and this is now.

Of late, I find myself in the somewhat awkward situation of co-habitation. Apart from the obvious readjustments one must undertake so as to make living with others bearable, I’ve found that I have started to slowly morph into my mother. Perhaps being alone meant that I was able to quash any domestic abilities that threatened to come to fore as there was no need to please or appease anyone but myself. It could be location, it could be situation, it could be some warped version of maturity. None of which, however, comes close to explaining why I’ve started turning into my mother.

Apparently eating egg sandwiches for breakfast and vodka for dinner was just a phase. Now it’s muesli with natural yoghurt and the diehard vodka girl presently imbibes the amber liquid instead. Other odd quirks include folding knickers into little parcels, sorting and soaking laundry, and realising the difference between any old vacuum and the ones that actually suck shit up. All of this is reasonable; a coming of age, I suppose. And it is nice to live in clean and neat environs; there’s a certain satisfaction about sleeping in crisp, white, ironed sheets. So far, not particularly disturbing, either individually or combined. The worrisome part is this: I’ve started acquiring some of the less sane parts of my mother’s personality.

Rest assured, my mother is not certifiable, yet. She’s just a little mentally off-kilter in an endearing way. Same as any mother might be, perhaps, I haven’t had the blessing of more than one to make a comparative study. I’m just going to assume that all mothers are slightly unstable, as directed by pop culture and television. The difference, though, is that while mothers are excused odd behaviour by virtue of simply being mothers, when it comes to me, such behaviour is without recourse. Most recently, I somehow misheard a football commentator referring to a player’s performance as that of a “poor garden vegetable” (real translation: a point guard in basketball – still, a stupid reference if I say so myself). Tonight, I mistakenly mentioned “Men with Pants” without even realising that the actual title of the show is “Two and a Half Men” and then wondered why no one understood what the fuck I was talking about. You see, within my mind, I was perfectly correct, even if the plebs surrounding me didn’t agree. Remind you of your mother, much? Other emerging idiosyncrasies relate to sensible footwear, tearing recipes from doctors’ waiting room magazines, hoarding used – but sitll serviceable – zip-lock bags and spending far too much time worrying about lost socks.

Still, concerning as this all is, I take solace in the fact that until I have a tolerance and general ambivilance to my own child’s effluvia, I’m safe from a full metamorphosis. That, and the fact that I don’t have a child.