Nom de Plume

And thus continues the slow, downward spiral into becoming my mother.

As if it’s not enough to wander around, asking, “Where are my keys? What did you do with my coffee?” Or to find myself using the same mannerisms. Or, oh horrors, bossing people around with an identical highhandedness. No, this morning found me running around the house in feverish anticipation of our new cleaning lady just like my mother used to do. “Why?” I used to ask. “She’s here to clean.” My mother would just shrug and tell me to pick up my room.

Now, of course, I know the answer: It’s too embarrassing to admit the squalor one normally lives in.

To make matters worse, Mirabella (sp?) never showed. Her husband assured us they would call around noon. No call. I was at our come-to-Jesus Mount Holyoke board meeting when Steve finally left to buy hostas (don’t ask, new obsession). And now I’m sitting on the couch, breathing in the scent of my potted hyacinths, but sorely disappointed. I was so looking forward to a professionally-scrubbed house.

Oh, well. At least it’s neat. Compliments of my mitochondrial DNA.