I'm turning into my mother.

I'm turning into my parents. I'm doing all the things they did when I was growing up that bothered me, that embarrassed me, that annoyed me, that made me roll my eyes and think "Oh My God, my parents are such dorks."

When I was growing up, I was always perplexed and dismayed by my mother's, shall we say, unwillingness to acknowledge acquaintances in public. It's not that she's unfriendly or anything. She's like a cat. She loves to socialize, but only when she feels like it. When she's prepared for it. Whenever my mom is out in public and she happens to see someone she knows, if she thinks they haven't seen her, she hides. She buries her face in a magazine, or hides behind a wall or ducks into a store. It could be a triple-X video store, but she wouldn't even notice because she's in such a hurry to hide. Oh man, I hated that when I was a kid. I could not understand what she was so embarrassed about. As a naturally sociable and friendly child, it tortured me to have to hide whenever we bumped into a friend while out somewhere. If ever I had time before she jerked me into the prophylactic aisle at Rite-Aid, I'd smile and yell out the person's name, "Hi Jenny! Hi Mrs. Robertson! OMG, Jenny, did you hear about…." And my mom would stand, rigid, a tight smile squeezed onto her usually relaxed face, "Hello Janice. Hi Jenny. Well, listen, we're in a huge hurry, but take care and tell Larry we said Hello!" and then she'd drag me off to hide amongst the condoms and lubes.

Then I'd hear it. She doesn't have any make-up on. Her hair is a mess. She wasn't dressed to see people. What was I thinking?? And I'd wonder, why doesn't she just make sure to wear makeup and fix her hair, or whatever, before she runs her errands?

I can't answer that question. Because I'm worse than my mother.

At least, if my mother knows her acquaintance has noticed her, she'll say a stiff hello before running off to hide. I can't even manage that. Oh no. No, no.

It's a Tuesday. In January. A gorgeous Southern California winter day. I decide to run some errands. No matter that I'm sweaty and disheveled from yoga class. No matter that it's 12 p.m. and I haven't showered yet today. No matter that I'm not wearing make-up and I probably smell like a monkey's ass. It's too much trouble to go home and shower up and then get back in the car to run errands. It's not like I'll bump into anyone I know anyway.

I make a stop at my bank to deposit a pay check and pull out some cash. And lo and behold, standing in line when I get to the bank is Jason Goldman, the step-brother of my on-again-off-again-for-six-years high school flame. I haven't seen Jason or his brother in years and I'll be damned if Jason sees me now, looking like sweaty, grease-ball, nasty-stink crap. If I'd bumped into him after getting my hair done, make-up perfect, all fabulous from the salon, I'd be happy to say hello and have a chat. But since that is not the case, I want to get out of there immediately. And then our eyes meet. Shit. Immediately, impulsively, my hand flies up to my ear and I become engrossed in a fictional conversation on my fictional Bluetooth hands-free ear thing. I stare at the ground, hand to my ear, talking up a storm, and in this way, I'm actually able to ignore Jason, who by now is calling out, "Hey! Frosty! OH MY GOD! Frosty!" because I believe that I look like I'm engrossed in conversation. Now it's easy for me to make it to the safety of my car where I can lock the door and drive away and avoid having to acknowledge that I've been seen in the disheveled, sweaty state that I allowed myself to go out in public in. I tell myself that he will think it wasn't really me. He'll think he mistook a stranger for someone he hasn't seen in a while. I think I'm pretty clever. I'm actually quite proud of myself. A few days later I hear from a friend that there is a rumor going around about me. That someone from high school has seen me wandering around Hollywood talking to myself. I hear that there is speculation that I've gone crazy and am homeless in Hollywood. And this I can thank my mother for.