autopilot

So this happened.  My mom had a little get together for the ladies at the PTA, aka an excuse to get blotto with other moms, who want to bitch about how difficult it is to be a mom these days while their nannies watch their children.  Let me just preface this comment by saying my mom is a tall, thin, blonde, blue-eyed, modelesque milf.  And I’m about half her size in stature and imported from Korea.  The lady friend in question was one of those functionally alcoholic women, who had a repository of nice-isms perfect for occasions such as this. 
 
So it goes something like this.
 
Mom goes, “Libby, this is my daughter Asia.”
 
Libby on autopilot goes, “She looks just like you.”
 
Libby, realizing she’s had too much of the happy sauce, simply laughs at herself, as do the both of us, before I say I have to go to the ladies room and bolt.
 
Got me thinking though.  Granted I don’t look like my mom.  But on a deeper level, am I my mother’s daughter?  I mean, I do have the fine palate for vino and day-drink a bit more than I should, just like her, but then again, my cheeks go red the minute I have a drink, unlike her.  Makes me wonder.  Does my birthmom’s cheeks go red too?