what sandra thinks

This week in perky thoughts [perky thoughts? I think I just threw up a little]: Mom.

Mom doesn’t read my blog. [Good thing because I would have given her a heart attack by now.] No one I knew before I started blogging reads my blog. It’s my anonymous place of complete freedom to say whatever the hell I want.

I suppose the possibility exists that someone could find me here. Even without my last name or the real names of anyone in my family other than myself. It would only take the reading of a few posts for them to figure it out. But I choose to ignore this possibility.

And if someone finds me, it will never be Mom. She fears technology. She’s afraid to watch a DVD because she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get her television back into watch tv mode.

But I have totally strayed from my mission…

Back to the perky thing… [When I named this feature, I didn’t consider the way my brain always follows the word ‘perky’ with the word ‘boobs’. Is that weird? Why am I asking? Of course it’s weird!]

Mom doesn’t always understand me. I’ve given up trying to explain myself to her many times… only to try again later. Sometimes someone gets you, sometimes they don’t. And that seems more related to ‘sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t’ than I ever realized.

Over the past few months, Mom has been treated for depression for the first time. I think it started when Dad passed away four years ago, but she’s only now being treated and experiencing how depression really feels — what I’ve felt since high school. I don’t wish it on anyone, but she finally gets that part of me.

Before this, she was among those who would say just cheer up… stop being so negative… or other assorted things that made me want to scream. But now she finally understands how it feels, to some extent, and knows it’s not as simple as flipping a switch.

And it is amazing being even a little understood by Mom.

But the real smile-inducer arrived in my mailbox a couple of days ago. Yes, Mom sends things through the mail. Paper mail. Often including notes she typed on a typewriter. I am totally not making this shit up.

Among the bits of junk mail and flyers, I discovered an envelope addressed to me from Mom. And I knew it was from Mom with no need of her return address label because, as always, my name and address are typed. Again, on her typewriter. See my name below.

Excuse the blurs. Must protect the innocent. And also me.

Inside the envelope? Oh, Mom. You still read paper magazines… and you’re hilarious…

[Jesus, every time I look at that picture, I feel like my heart is failing… and other intense stirrings elsewhere.]

And I musn’t forget Mom’s [typed] note…

This gorgeous hunk of a man is looking for you.
Have a great day.
Love, Mom

And finally, a $20 bill, because I’m unemployed and she’s generous and nice like that.

How great is my mom? She may not get me sometimes, but she gets that Chris Hemsworth is fucking hot.

Thanks, Mom.

☼

[Please note lovely coffee logo #2. I like this one… it speaks to my inner Starbucks. Though it still doesn’t make me perky, you know, because impossible. Again, graphic subject to change since I have many.]
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