The Winds of Change

When exactly do the Winds of Change blow? (God SCORPIONS rock!) Cause I am pretty sure that they were hurricane strength during the month of January. Somewhere in the chaos, I lost my blog. Sorry about that...and thanks to those of you who did a little checking up on me.

Returning to my job after a 2+ months family medical leave of absence has been a bit of a challenge. Trying to figure out where to pick-up and definitely feeling the learning curve blues. In short, it's like I have shown up 45 minutes late for a marathon that I not only have to run and finish, but win. The people ahead of me are on 'roids, and I unfortunately still have a Twinkie in one hand....and are those weights around my waist? Oh...no...just my muffin-top. See what I'm sayin'?

So there has been that. In addition, I have been in search of some balance in my life. I'm seeing a dietitian, going to the gym, still adjusting my meds, attending couples therapy, individual therapy, getting financial guidance, trying a new church, starting a book club, running a social meetup site, trying to get ahead of the wedding planning, and last but not least still working on that mother-fucking detachment thing! As you can see, my search for balance during the month of January has turned into me digging a giant hole for myself. Now how am I supposed to run, finish, and win that damn marathon when I am in a GD hole?

I will figure this out. As a good friend pointed out, I need to PUT THE SHOVEL DOWN and stop digging my own grave. The shovel is down, but I may still be holding a spoon. The Winds of Change are still blowing, but the hurricane is over. I think I will step outside and enjoy the light breeze on my face.

Love & Sparkles-
The Sparkly Queen

When Awake True Life Hurts

Two hours, one sleeping pill and an anti-anxiety pill later and I am still AWAKE! I'm a hot mess and too numb to write. Thank God for the MTV True Life marathon!

Oh...wait...can I just tell you what Emily's father-in-law did today? (That's what I am calling my dad these days. It helps with the detachment.) As many of you know, I now handle my mother's finances...and since my dad remains unemployed, the government requires that I send him money every month. Gross right? Anyways, long story short, last month he needed his money sooner than my online bill pay could get it there...so I being the nice daughter that I am...purchased a cashiers check over the phone and authorized him to pick it up at the local branch. I of course, put an immediate stop payment on the other check which he promised to destroy once it arrived.


Well guess who called me today friends? Ummm...the bank. My dad deposited the check with the stop payment and has been spending it. Good lord! I mean #1. What kind of dumbass accepts a check w/ a stop payment on it? This was a check written off of their own bank. #2. What in the hell did he think he was doing? Did he think he was going to scam $800 off of me (actually my mother?) People, this makes me pissed everytime I think about it. I need to woosah that shit in a serious way.


Ok...for real yo...back to True Life...somehow it makes me seem a little less cray-cray. But just a little.

Granny Panties and Google

I am in a post-holiday funk. One that has me sprawled out on the sofa in my granny-panties and ankle socks in an endless web-surfing coma that I can't seem to pull myself out of. I cancelled my therapy appointment with Robert and ate a brownie. Fun times.

A Prescription for Detachment

"Detach with love." Al-Anon constantly reminds me to do this, but I am always left with the question of HOW? During my recent stay in Indiana I repeated this over and over again to myself...along with "The Three Gets":

1. Get off their backs.
2. Get out of their way.
3. Get on with your life.

My dad invited me to an NA meeting which gave me a new perspective, humbled me, and made me feel a sense of pride for my father that I am not sure I have ever felt. After the meeting, we talked openly about how our recent arguments had made us fee,...hurt, confused, and longing for a better relationship. We each apologized and walked away with a better understanding of the other.

When I told him goodbye, I knew I was ready to detach with love. I love my father and my family. I hope nothing but the best for them. It is their responsibility to make those hopes a reality.

So...on to the third "Get"...getting on with my life. I have been living their lives for almost thirty years; therefore, living my own feels a little-bit uncomfortable and a lot-bit scary. Where will I begin? Tea on the patio...I think that sounds good for now.

Blessings & Baby Jeeze

Sitting on the landing of our stairs tonight, I took a moment to let in the silence. Above me Emily was sleeping and below me was our lovely home. I smiled...actually, I smiled so big I became a little self-conscious. Realizing that it was just me and Otho (the cat) I allowed myself to take in the peaceful joy that surrounded me. Even now as I type this, I am overwhelmed by this feeling...a realization actually...the realization of the many blessings that are in my life.

• The consuming love that I am able to feel for and show Emily.
  
• Emily's love, commitment, smile, humor, kindness...the list goes on.


• Everyday I am told and shown that I am loved.


• Laughter. Each and everyday we laugh.


• My family: Emily, Karon, Toni, Steve, Ferryn, Amanda, Mindy, Aunt Carolyn, Pappaw, Karter, Bella, Otho, Monster, and even Gertie.


• The warmth that fills our home.


• Emily likes to snuggle when she sleeps.


• Enduring friendships.


• Bella smiles every time she sees me.


• The kindness, prayers, love, emails, letters, and support (emotional and financial) that so many people have shared.


• My Therapists: Robert, Richard, and Ikea. (A girls got needs ya know.)


• The best pizza in the world is only a mile from my house and costs $1.5o per slice.


• Framboise.


• The support of my team, who have made it possible for me to take a leave of absence to focus on the care of my mother.


• Al-Anon (Never thought I'd say that.)


• Our new bedding. Love it.


• Excellent health insurance. If you've got it be thankful. If it's good...get on your knees and thank The Sweet Baby Jeeze or at least your CEO cause man it's a hard-knock life for those who ain't got it.

The list goes on. The point is I am happy. Despite all that may be difficult right now, I am truly happy. This is my life...here with Em in Houston. Thank you Sweet Baby Jeeze, for everything.

Love & Sparkles-
The Sparkly Queen

Pancakes and Oxycontin

This morning I woke up feeling unmotivated and simply put...sad. So I crawled out of bed to make breakfast for the hot red-head lying next to me. Chocolate-chip pancakes. For me there is something therapeutic about cooking for other people and seeing them enjoy my food. I think this may be a common trait of fat-girls everywhere. Take Paula Deen for example. We are like crack pushers.

So, here she comes (the hot red-head...not Paula Deen) down the stairs into the kitchen. She tells me I look cute...and OH...DID I LOOK CUTE! She kisses my cheek and proceeds to make a peanut-butter and honey sandwich that she wraps in foil. Why foil? I am not sure, we have baggies. Then we proceed with our morning conversation...

Me: You want some
breakfast?

Hot RH: No thanks.

Hot RH: Are you sure you don't want to take
it
with you?

Hot RH: No thanks. Are you O.K.? You look
really
tired.

Me: Do I?

Pause for reflection on my tiredness. I think I look refreshed...don't you?

Hot RH: What are you going to do today?

Me: I haven't decided yet. I have no
idea.

Hot RH: Ok, well I'll see you at 11:30.

Me: Ok. Have a good morning.

The hot red-head leaves, I eat a pancake, and I get angry. Now I have this entire stack of fucking pancakes, and I am fuming. Whatever. We have our first couples therapy appointment today at noon. Maybe that can be our first topic of conversation..."Em doesn't appreciate me when I make her foods that she doesn't like/want." How fucking lame is that? Let's get real. This is not about Em, nor is about pancakes.

I think I really need to go back to what I have learned in my own therapy sessions and ask myself, "So what is this REALLY about?" Because Lord knows, it is not about chocolate-chip fucking pancakes. It's about me needing to feel appreciated. Like what I do matters to someone...anyone. I have never been enough for my family. They always want more. I was just in Indiana for 3 weeks to begin cleaning up the huge mess my family has created. When I would go to the nursing home, I would always be armed with clean clothes, meals, snacks, flowers, pictures...you name it...and the response would always be, "Why didn't you bring ____!" Fill in the blank. I spent hours cleaning their apartment, hired a crew to haul out the piles and piles of shit that covered the floors. Wiped down tables covered with white powder residue, remnants of crushed Oxycontin, Hydrocodone, and Xanax. Boxed up empty bottle after empty bottle because I couldn't drop them into the dumpster due to the large number of bottles, the illegality of the doctor shopping that my family has done, and for fear of raising anymore suspicion about the "business" they were running.I bought groceries, did laundry, took them to numerous doctor's appointments, fought w/ the directors to keep my mother in her nursing home, went on an endless scavenger hunt to collect all of the paperwork and evidence needed to just to begin the Medicaid application process. If the words "thank you" dared to leave their lips, it was only if their right hand was simultaneously extended in need. I have left my job, my home, my life and for what? Does what I have done even matter? Has it made a difference? Or, at the end of the day, will my family go back to living in filth, snorting pills, guzzling methadone, and will I just continue to make pancakes in hopes of getting the validation I so desperately and pathetically seem to need?

Code Pink in the Meat Department

So today I may not commit to exercise, but I will commit to blogging. As usual, I am on total overload and keep talking about being on some "edge"...the edge of what exactly? The brimstone and fire preaching of my youth keeps me from being suicidal. I already suffer from some form of pre-thirties menopause that gives me hot-flashes that make me want to run naked into the meat-freezer of the local H.E.B. No way could I handle Hell!

So back to the "edge." If not suicide then what?! Binge eating...not anymore. Those days of hiding in the parking garage with a sack of cheeseburgers and fries from good old McDonald's are over. I took care of that at a drive-thru in Mexico. Running away...too poor. Giving up...to guilt ridden. So what?!

Nothing. Truth is there is no edge. As we learned in first grade the Earth is round. Until God strikes me dead for my "life-style choice" or for failure to Go Green, I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. I know some days will be harder than others, but would it be too much to ask for a Mart-Cart every once in awhile?

Miami VISE

My head is so cluttered...so loud. There is a vise around my brain...squeezing harder and harder with each turn of the lever. People are taking turns turning this lever...my mom, dad, brother, aunts, co-workers, Air-Tran employees...the list goes on. With each turn the pressure increases, my head aches, my eyes throb, my jaw clenches, and I grind my teeth a little more. What brought this on you ask? I don't think I could pin-point the moment that this vise was put in my head, but what I do know is that it started this summer at work and my recent trip to Indiana has pushed me to the limit. I have to release this pressure before it kills me. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't know how to comfort myself or to accept the comfort of others.

Inadvertently

I have an interview today. I hope I don't inadvertently say "Fuck". Actually, know what would be even worse...if I said "Fuck" on purpose...cause that would make me REAL CRAZY.

Confessions of a Sparkly Queen

As we learned last week, I am a "love addict". In addition to this so called love addition, I am also addicted to GUILT. I feel guilty about everything! Didn't let someone cut in front of me in heavy traffic...GUILT. Forgot to say "I love you" before hanging up the phone with Papaw...GUILT. Don't have any chedda' to tip the valet guy, but valet is the only parking option...GUILT. Listen to one CD more than another...GUILT. You see the pattern. So, this morning as I used my blow-dryer I was inspired by this guilt. Why not just put everything (OK...not everything) I have done out there and be done with it. So these are my confessions . Feel free to click the link if you want to rock out to Usher while you read. This will have a much more dramatic effect. Somewhat like a montage.

CONFESSIONS of a GUILT ADDICT

1. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette when I am stressed.
   
   



2. Sometimes I smoke a clove when I feel the need to smoke something else.





3. Sometimes I smoke something else.





4. Every morning when I get out of the shower I blow dry my hoo-hoo. This is something that I suggest everyone try.





5. When I was 8, I accidentally cut my brother's lip (he was 2) when I jerked a toy saxophone away from him. I hid with him in the basement, until he stopped crying so I wouldn't wake up my mom.





6. I don't always brush my teeth, and I never wash my face before bed.





7. In 9th grade I cheated on Dave DeBoard with Jerry Faber. Yes...we kissed, but it was way sloppy and gross.





8. Speaking of 9th grade, Justin "Somebody" felt me up in the hallway before school.





9. I cuss like an ex- sailor who was just made someones prison-bitch.





10. Occasionally I watch straight porn.





11. Occasionally I watch girl on girl porn. It is still straight porn. I don't know a single lesbian who eats pussy like that or fucks while wearing 3 inch fire-engine-red Lee Press On nails.





12. I snuck a McDonald's cheeseburger everyday during the last 6 months that I was a vegetarian. Except for that week when Wendy's had the Carolina Classic ( I couldn't resist the chilli and cole-slaw that was slathered on top).





13. I identify as a Christian, but I don't know what I believe anymore. I am too afraid of burning in hell to not believe in anything.





14. I cheated on a math test my senior year of High School.





15. Once, when my mother wouldn't get out of bed, I threw a lamp at her. Well actually at the wall over her head. She didn't move.





16. In middle school I found weed in my dad's pocket. I hid it in the house and watched him frantically search for it the next morning.





17. I used to go through my dad's pockets.





18. and my mom's purse.





19. I blog when I should be working.





20. Twice I snuck my high-school boyfriend in my room while my parents were downstairs.





21. I will use anything as a toothpick. The corner of a TV Guide works best.





22. In college, I once ate 2 McDonalds value meals then went home and had dinner so no one would know.





23. I only wear 3 pairs of jeans because I refuse to buy another pair in my current size. I wash them once a week.





24. I worry that bad things will happen when an odd number is involved; thus, this is number twenty-four. Just to be safe.

Back to the Practice of Self-Love...or Something Like That

Today has been quite a learning experience. So here are my big take-aways:

1. When you write hate-blogs about yourself, people who care about you ARE GOING TO RESPOND.

2. When they do respond, it is because they care. You need to accept their love and support instead of being a total fuck-head about it. (Sorry to those of you to whom I was a total fuck-head.)

3. Sometimes people surprise you. Even the seemingly emotionally unavailable ones have feelings too. You should always be aware of that before telling them to , "Fuck off, ass!"

4. I am scared shitless that I will turn out just like my mother. I project this fear onto others and assume they have this same worry. Many of them do not.

5. Finally, and probably my most important take-away for the day, you CAN get a spicy chicken fillet on the Chicken Club at Wendy's. Delicious!

DEPRESSION'S OVER PEOPLE. LET'S MOVE ON.

The First Rule of Fight Club is You Don't Talk About How Fucking Depressed You Are

I am so depressed. So depressed in fact that I am pretty sure that I have lost my funny somewhere between the feelings of overwhelming hopelessness and the numbness that has taken over my body. I'm sorry to whomever is reading this hoping for a good laugh today, which actually makes the assumption that
1. anyone actually reads this and
2. should someone read this they actually find it funny.
So, it's been coming on for a while now. I've been fighting it like a scene from Fight Club where Ed Norton kicks his own ass, but here it is. I wake up this morning, and its fucking ugly face is staring right at me. What in the hell is wrong with me? I mean, MA likes to point out on a pretty consistent basis that it is a beautiful day, I have a good job, friends who care about me, a fantastic girlfriend, etc... so what in the hell do I have to be depressed about. I ask myself this now. Honestly there are times when I don't have an answer, and even now I don't fully understand it but I do know that something was triggered the day I heard about my mom. I can't seem to get myself to deal w/ whatever emotion that has set off inside of me. Even now as I am typing this I am getting tight in my chest, fighting the tears, telling myself to suck it up and get over it. It is what it is. I hate that I say that now..."It is what it is." What in the fuck does that even mean? It's a little phrase I picked up from my time w/ Brooke. In some ways, it makes sense to me...you know, stop trying to change the unchangeable. Focus on what you can control. I seem to use it as a way of avoiding. Whatever, I am not making any sense today. I feel so totally outside of myself right now. My whole body feels tight and numb at the same time. I am on the edge of tears, yet they refuse to fall. There is a weight on my chest like a stack of bricks that is getting heavier by the second. I am anxious. I am tired. I am lonely, but I want no one around me. I hate myself for this. Hate myself. How am I supposed to be a good girlfriend, a good friend, a good person, a good employee, good to anyone when the thought of moving from this bed seems like too much for today. Just totally too much. Maybe if I sleep a little longer I will wake up feeling refreshed...or...maybe I won't wake up at all. I refuse to be like my mother and sleep to avoid it. She has been sleeping for 20 years and clearly that is not working for her. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the person I see. It is hard to even look at this person. It's not me. I hate the girl in the mirror. She is pathetic and fat and miserable and ugly and undeserving of anything good in the world. Normally this is a secret I keep. I hold it..hide it. The thought of posting this is terrifying to me. What will people think? I'm sure that many of you see this as a cry for attention. I assure you that it is not. I actually feel nothing but shame for the way I am in this moment. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you to ask me about it. Somehow I am hoping that by putting this shit out there, that I will release myself from it. Relieve myself of some of the pain and shame. My fear is that certain people will read this and realize how pathetic and fucked up I truly am, and they will disappear. I am too much to handle. I can't even handle me right now. My Effexor has been doubled and a lovely side of Xanax has been added. This is not working. I am still FUCKING SAD and STRESSED...and maybe a little sleepier. Awesome. Just T-Totally fucking awesome. Finally, let me end by saying that if you read this and it causes you to worry about me, please don't. Please don't worry, the thought of causing someone else stress, sadness, anxiety, any negative feeling at all is almost too much for me to take. This too will pass. I promise.

Here Comes the Bride

So around 4:30 this morning, my eyes pop wide open. I look around the room and wonder silently, "What in the hell woke me up...I was sleeping soooooo goooood! Oh, lord, did my neighbor come home drunk again, which means she is screaming like she has a bad case of Tourettes?" I listen. Nope. Silence. Then out of nowhere I scream, "Good Lord...for the love of God make it stop!!!" So, two things are happening here:
1. The worst menstrual cramps I believe I have ever had in my entire life. Fuckin' Eve.
2. LACTOSE INTOLERANCE. Somehow, I thought that drinking a very small glass of 2% milk before bed would be a fantastic follow-up to the glass of wine and chocolate cake I had just before.

Time-out...what is it with me and drinking alongside a delicious baked good? I think this is something for Robert in Friday's therapy session.

So point being, I am pretty sure that I am dying or there is getting ready to be a recreation of that scene in Space Balls when that disgusting thing bursts out of that guys stomach, and someone screams, "Water my ass. Get this guy some pepto-bismol!" Ohhh...wonder if I can find that on YouTube.

So needless to say, I end up in the bathroom, pants around my ankles, in the dark, drinking Alka Seltzer, wild hair, mostly out of it from the Ambien I took, and praying that God will just kill me now. So then my mind starts turning, I find that I do some of my best thinking on the toilet...OK, maybe not best, but definitely interesting. The random chain of thoughts went something like this:

1. If giving birth is anything like what I am feeling in this moment, I will definitely not be having children.

2. Fuck it. I'll get an epidural. Maybe I will have kids.

3. God, I'm getting too old to have kids. Hmmm...if Emily and I could reproduce those would be some damn cute kids.

4. Nah...no kids. Can't have tons of sex when you have kids.

5. Maybe we should get married first.

6. Wonder what the wedding will be like. Totally on the beach. Wonder if lots of people will come. Probably.

7. Hmmm...where will they sit? Ohhh... I know. We could give them white beach chairs as their gifts w/ Emily and Amanda written on them, kind of like Brit-Brit and K-Fed's "Pimps and Hos" track suits. Then they could just keep them and enjoy the beach.

8. Nah...that would be expensive. Plus I don't even want a chair w/ our names on it. Too lezy.

9. What kind of ring would she want (Pause while I stare at the ring finger on my left hand for an un-godly amount of time.)

10. Maybe I should get a bridal magazine. Oh...that would be pointless, all those frilly hetero girls posing w/ those gay models in Armani suits.

11. There really needs to be a wedding magazine for the gay world. You know, what folks are wearing, doing, etc.. OMG....it could be a special edition mag from Curve that comes out like 4 times a year. Like one for each season or some shit.

12. I should totally email Curve about this. Totes.

13. No. That's fucking lame.

14. OH GOD I have cramps. Wonder if I can reach the Alieve in the cabinet. (I get the Alieve). Shit, I don't have any water (I take the Alieve using what is left of my Alka Seltzer.)

15. OH NO! Is that going to kill me? Is that dangerous? (I read the back of the Alieve bottle). Shit...something about bleeding stomach.

16. Whatever.

17. Hmmm, I wonder how many National decisions George Bush has made from his toilet in the White House? A lot I bet.

So...yep. At this point it is 6:00. I wrap things up, wash my hands, grab the heating pad, get back in bed, pass out, and oversleep for work. My first day back in a week. AWESOME!

I'm just happy that I managed to begin planning my wedding (and future children) to a girl I have been dating for two weeks as of today from the seat of a toilet. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY BABY! XOXOXO

A "Dic - Dic to Love"

Great. I've officially been labeled a "Love Addict" (Enter Robert Palmer, "You might as well face it your addicted to love...") When I was younger, I totally thought he was saying, "A dic-dic to love." I have no fucking clue what a "dic-dic" is, but man I thought that was a jam. Also, I loved those sexy women who pretended to play those guitars and swayed seductively in the background of the videos. Can I tell you how mother-fucking disappointed I was when I showed up at his concert at the age of 10 and it was just good ol' Bob (that's what I like to call Robert Palmer) and NO GIRLS! I WAS PISSED! This should have been the first clue that one day I would grow up to be a big old lezzy...well that, and the fact that I had been making out with my red-headed neighbor Courtney in her closet since the summer after second grade.

OK, so back to my so called, "love addiction." According to Robert (Snellgrove...my therapist, not Robert Palmer the singer) this is a problem. I have this desire, a longing if you will, to be loved and validated by people who are not "emotionally available" to me. This of course stems from my childhood...wanting the love and approval of my parents...blah blah blah. Therefore, I continue to repeat this cycle in relationships and friendships. I work my ass off to please them, in hopes that they will validate me as a person. How f-ing pathetic does that sound. So, needless to say, I walked out of his office feeling not so great about myself today. Isn't the point of therapy to make you not want to kill yourself?

Put down the phone people, I am not about to kill myself. If you knew me at all, you would know that I am way too lazy for that. I would have to actually put down my laptop, which might mean a missed MySpace message or email, and actually move from the couch. I don't know...I could be like that woman who sat on her toilet for two years. Actually it was her boyfriend's toilet, and he claims they had a "normal" relationship. Hmmmm...all, I'm sayin' is, I hope there were two toilets in that house.

My Mother

I wish I was sitting down to tell you about my amazing weekend...the conference, my hilarious new team of ODs, the comforter I stole from room 1629, the exploration of the bed in room 1501 w/ my partner-in-crime Emily, what happened when the lights went out, MIXED TAPES, the room-service lady who went through my suitcase, my amazingly-sassy-ass shoes that rocked the worlds of many, and the meeting of Karon, Tony, & Friends which involved some skeleton pan-Ts, an infomercial, cheerleading uniforms, blowing wads, thick-ish crusted pizzas, 2 doodle dogs, garlic-coated avocodo, revolutionary muskets, the down-low, mini-interrogations, and so much LAUGHTER!!!! Unfortunately, that does not seem to be what I need to write about right now and since this blog is about making me happy, I need to talk about something that is making me overwhelmingly sad and anxious and by the end maybe, just maybe, the medicine ball on my chest will become a much more manageable nerf-ball, ideally a pink one cuz those are cute.

So I woke up this morning feeling so amazing after a long night of sleep thanks to my dear friend, and a friend of many insomniacs everywhere, Ambien. Hell to the ya...I took a whole one somewhere around 9, and I slept until 9. NICE. I rolled over to give Emily a gentle kiss on her sweet-little head and remembered that she was not there. No...I haven't driven her away yet, she just slept at her house last night. I think I must have been dreaming about her. Anyway, this leaves me w/ a small feeling of sadness, but then I hear that the phone is vibrating and I cheer up because I know my lovely girl has left me a message this morning.

I pick it up and my phone informs me that I have one missed call, one voicemail, and one text. The text is Emily, so I decide I will look at that last because I knew it would leave me feeling happy and girly. The missed call was from Aunt Trish. My stomach dropped so hard I cannot even explain the feeling. Why you ask, well because she never calls me unless it is to give me bad news of illness or death. My head is spinning, who is sick, who is hurt...who died?! I summarize this into the following potential outcomes: 1. My papaw has died. 2. My mother has died. or 3. Something is really wrong w/ my brother.

Have I mentioned I am still sitting in my bed? So I braced myself, I decided that I wouldn't cry (oh god...what if it is my mother and she's dead and I can't cry). I listened to the voicemail, her voice is serious, but gives no indication as to who or what it is concerning. I call her back. Aunt Trish says, "Amanda...it's your mom (I knew it)...she's in the hospital (here it comes)...but she's OK (wow...she has survived yet another breakdown, overdose, fall, car accident...you fill in the blank.) So I say, "OK, so what's going on." In short she proceeds to tell me that on Thursday...

OK...TIME OUT

THURSDAY!!!!!!!!!!!! Whatever she is about to tell me beyond this, can we just talk about the fact that this is MONDAY! Why has no one called me to tell me that my mom was in the hospital.

OK, so on Thursday my dad finds my mom sitting up in the bed, her head flopped over to the side, gurgling, stuffing socks into her purse, hallucinating, and non-responsive. I recognize how this imagery may seem humorous, and for that fact is why I am hesitant to type it. But this is my life...has been my life since the age of 11 and I am so tired of being embarrassed...so tired of carrying shame that should be her own.

(Oh..look at that...there are the tears. How totally inconvenient, don't they know I am trying to type.)

So my dad calls 911, she goes to the hospital and is admitted. All Aunt Trish seems to know is that she has pneumonia (again), a severe kidney infection, and is on oxygen. She also tells me that she thinks my "dad is nervous, he has an assortment (of pills) in his pocket and your mother keeps asking him for them." My brother of course is no where to be found. Social services is involved, no one knows who called, and they (my mom's sisters) are meeting at 11 when the social-worker comes to see my mother. My father does not know this. This will be DRAMA.

So now I wait...I wait to find out what my mother is going to do. History tells us that she'll say that she doesn't need help, my father will agree, she'll go home...pop a pill or 20...and I go back to waiting for another phone call from my Aunt Trish. The one where she tells me that my mother has died. I think about this often actually, who will call me. I have decided that it will be Aunt Trish or my cousin Abbey. Time will tell.

So my typing is slowing, and the medicine ball has lifted, so I'm thinking that this particular blog is long enough. As for me, I'm going to take Robert's advice and find an Al Anon meeting and go this week, and I'm going to go eat a FAT BREAKFAST at The Breakfast Klub w/ my best-friend 'Fonda.

Oh, and as far as the Lovely Emily's text...it read, "Hey beautiful girl. How'd you sleep?" I'm totally falling in love with this girl.

Until Next Time-

The Sparkly Queen

The Jones Family

A Note to Myself

To the workaholic and slacker who reside in me - It's time we start working together ladies, so GET ON BOARD BITCHES!

Love-
The Sparkly Queen

My First Time...

Ok, so maybe not the "first time" you were hoping for...fucking perverts. Anyway, this is my first blog, so what in the hell am I supposed to be talking about?! I am sitting on my brown couch watching old DVRd Oprahs, Mediums, and Bad Girl's Clubs, "enjoying" a sick day. I can't decide if I am sick or if I am depressed...again. Time will tell I suppose. Maybe if I eat another chocolate birthday cupcake (nope, not my birthday...the frosting just looked delicious) I will be able to see more clearly. This whole blogging thing is actually pretty fascinating to me. Do I write my most intimate thoughts (i.e. I have a lame-ass girly-crush for a new but incredibly dear friend) or should I try to be cool and discuss all that is new in the pop-culture world (did you hear that Heath may have a love child...why can't folks just leave him alone?) Maybe for once in my life I will just be me. This is my new hope you know...to be me...to actually find out who "me" is. I am so tired of trying to make everyone happy, trying to fit some mold that's too tight, too big, the wrong color, the wrong texture, too itchy, too soft, too...just too!!!! Let's pause for a moment as I recollect myself. If you haven't noticed I can flip crazy in a hot second, but not crazy like boil your bunny, smother you w/ a pillow...more like loud, wild, and strongly opinionated. Can we go back to those fucking delicious cupcakes for a second. They are chocolate, with a fudgy frosting that gives a new name to orgasmic, and a few pastel sprinkles to add to the festivity of it all. When I purchased them, it was close to 10 pm on a Sunday night, I was exhaustedly (not a real word I'm sure, but totally describes how I was feeling) pushing the buggy (a word I picked up from my time in NC) around the store. I took those little chocolate treats for a cruise around the store along w/a case of Shiner, 3 packs of single-serve frozen veggies, bread, and black-bean burgers. Of course, the bread, veggies, and burgers will continue to sit around never to be enjoyed; however, do you know how good Shiner is w/ Birthday Cupcakes?! Back to the point, as I carried my bags of goodies and that big yellow case of cold beer to my car I was so incredibly happy to be an adult...for the first time in my life I was like, "Adulthood totally RULES! I just bought cupcakes and beer, and didn't have to beg my mama for them yo'!"