She-She Hottie Pink Coat Black Boots

Today, a maniac in a black Escalade tried to run me off the road, all the way alternately flicking me off and then pretending to shoot me with a fake gun made out of his thumb and forefinger. At first I was scared, but then I just got really pissed. I wisely decided to channel this anger by screaming at him after he had driven past, as he was throughly terrifying.

As he drove off, I made a few "SERIOUSLY?!" hand gestures and then yelled (windows fully rolled up) "I hope you get there 30 seconds faster, dickhead!"

Which is when I really almost drove off the road because that is verbatim what my mother says every time someone cuts her off. I. Am. My. Mother.

It's not like this was a new realization.

When I was in kindergarten, I told my teacher that my best friend Sara's new nickname was Tri-SARA-tops. She tried to explain to me that a nickname has to be shorter than the original name. Otherwise, she said patiently, it doesn't even save you any time!

"Not in my house they don't. My nickname is Gina Bo Bina Lo Lina Fo Fina."

My mother also calls socks Sacajawea, in case you are wondering. She is the reason that my cell phone is filled with contacts like Jantastic and Tristonia Telephonia. I can't turn off her weird verbosity even when I'm addressing my closest friends.

I realized I was like her when I had to hold back tears as I listened to James Taylor sing "Something in the Way She Moves" at a concert a few years ago. And when I started to cry at silly Hallmark commercials, or while watching episodes of Friday Night Lights. Or two minute movie trailers at the theater. Or when I hear a particularly sad story on the radio. I don't know when I became a one-woman sobfest (perhaps this has just been a rough year?) but it appears that my her sensitivity was not lost on me after all.

When we are greeted at Caribou, we say "Good, thanks, how are you?" in the exact same intonation and with the same pauses. Then we scoff and look at each other with the same expression of embarrassment to acknowledge our freakish similarities. The barista usually looks like she died a little inside by the time we're done ordering.

She often says, "does that remind you of-" as I'm thinking the exact same thing.

My ex told me that I made more sense to him after meeting her.

I really can't think of anyone I'd rather be like. Which is good, because it's all over for me anyway.

Happy Mother's Day, Sheila Mo Patty Del Thel. And yes, I gave her that nickname.