Waking Up Is Hard To Do.

I thought of my godmother just a moment ago. I am often reminded of her when I pour a liquid of one viscosity into a liquid with another viscosity- for the somewhat roundabout reason that she once said doing this reminded her of my mother.

There's an odd contrast in my conception of her. My parents remember her best from her vivid youth- her wild parties, brilliant cooking, and terrible taste in significant others. They tell story after story about her tremendous sense of fun, of a sideways approach to life that left everyone else blinking. I rarely met this side of her- I do recall that she let me play with her hands after she'd had three gangrenous fingers amputated- she kept the stumps warm with finger puppets.

But by the time I have solid memories, she was already very sick. I recall a woman with tremendous reserve- unsure of whether she liked you, and unwilling to expend the energy to find out. I spent hours trying to convince her that I was worthy- I don't know that I succeeded.

You know how sometimes you open your mouth and your mother's (or your father's, or your sister's) voice comes out? Every time I talk to one of my uncles my grandmother possesses me, and I start haranguing them; they are just as good as anyone else, women should appreciate them, they should be more self-confident and have better haircuts. It's uncanny how she lives on in my voice.

Sometimes, people have a ridiculously inaccurate conception of who I am. They don't see how nervous and tired I am, how anxious and out of place and uncomfortable. They say I play things close to the vest, and treat me with respect I know I don't deserve. Patently absurd, right? I like to think these gross misconceptions of my character are the result of my godmother's memes hitching a ride on my psyche.

...

Also I would like her ability to convert vegetarians with the smell of my roasts.