Some of you got the call last Wednesday. Me, hunched over the phone, eyes darting furtively, whispering, "Code Red! Code Red! Sweet Jesus, Mom is here!" as I mixed myself another drink.
Yep, Special Kay is in the 757. (BTW, I just realized that 757 is an airplane. Or wait, is that 737? Anyway, I don't mean my Mom is in an airplane. I mean that she's in my area code. Just for clarification.)
Mom reads my blog, so she's probably perusing this at this very moment (Hi, Mom). Which makes it an excellent vehicle to express myself via the written word. I do not express myself well while talking to others (unless I am screaming like a banshee and throwing breakables--then I have no problem). As we have already established, I don't like hugs, snuggles, or anything remotely emotional and/or mushy. I'm like a dude with a really awesome rack (now that I have "the bra.") Feelings are not my forte'.
Some of you have met my Mom. She's a total spaz, and always has been. As soon as I'm able, I plan to stick her ass in a home and leave her there permanently (with no baby doll, Mom) so somebody else can deal with her crazy. This is if I don't kill her first. You never know. The feeling is mutual, she may try to come after me, but I'm extremely confident that I could take her down. We've discussed this before.
I know what you're thinking, Mom. You're thinking, "This is where she tells me, via her blog, to get my shit and leave." Except you would not have used the word "via," and probably would have thrown a "y'all" or a "over yonder" in there somewhere, potentially while whipping out your dental floss in public (this freaks me out, Mom). Alas, you are incorrect. I have something different to say.
I love you, Mom. For real. You make me bat shit crazy on a totally regular basis. Occasionally, I have to fight the urge to throw myself in front of a fast-moving semi when you are around, or takes swigs of vodka every time I visit the kitchen, but that's just become you're YOU. You've been this way my whole life--you're Fun Sandy. Not so much an adult, but someone who boggles my mind, thus keeping me on my toes. The inventor of sock pants, and how to turn Fritos into a dinner entree'. You are the Queen of Improvisation, and the most carefree person I know. But I still have a problem. You see, I have a lot of frustration and exasperation that comes from the fact that I can't protect you from the world, can't make everything all better, can't assure you a "happily ever after," even though you ask me for none of these things. I know you don't expect me to take care of you, but DAMNIT WOMAN, I feel like it's been kind of left to me. Much like I need to make sure my children are happy and healthy, I feel like I need to do the same for you. And I don't mind this--I really don't--but I haven't a fucking clue how to do it. I'm in over my head. Dad didn't leave me with an instruction manual, and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing, I just know that he would want me to watch out for you.
And I'm trying. But I think I suck at it. And you're uncooperative, so together we make a sad little package.
So where do we go from here? I haven't a clue. But Mom, know that I love you. Or at least as Bellamy would have said, 'most the time.