Good Friday...A Year of Liberation

Good Friday
by The Black Crowes

We've been avoiding this for so long
Luxury is temporary then its gone
I thought that we would happen
I guess I'm wrong
We'll say hi on the street
Then we'll move along
I know this will be awkward
But not for long
Cuz soon you'll have a new boy
To sing you songs

I will not forgive you
Nor will I accept the blame
I will see you on Good Friday
On Good Friday

I'm sorry I couldn't do this yesterday
Tomorrow I am busy
And what it is I can't say
Saturday is no good
We've got a show
So it has to be Good Friday
That is so long

I will not forgive you
Nor will I accept the blame
I will see you on Good Friday
On Good Friday

You, you come and go as you please
I know unfulfilled heads
I know you do too
Oh, but i, you know I never see things through
I didn't pay attention to you
Oh, but honey, I tried

I will not forgive you
Nor will I accept the blame
I will see you on Good Friday
On Good Friday


This song has been my anthem for the past year. March 23rd (which last year was a Friday) was the day I had my heart ripped out, smashed and gobbled up as though it were an appetizer. It was my first (and hopefully last, if I have anything to say about it) true heartbreak...cuz I don't count high school. NO ONE...not even my worst enemy...should have to go through that kind of pain. You can't breathe. You think your chest is going to explode from the pain. It is a literal HEART BREAK.

Mine came from left field, which made it even worse. Over the phone...right after I had told him about the possibility of having surgery. A week before my birthday which we had a bunch of plans for. It was my best birthday ever! - NOT! Then two months later he was talking marriage with some psycho blonde cow. I was devastated basically until the first of the year, which now seems so ridiculous. They broke up of course.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Aaron G., emotional fuckwit that he is, for dumping me. It honestly has been the best birthday/life present he could have given me. I've learned more about myself and what I want in my relationships/life from this pain...it's true that growth comes from pain. I got the good end of the deal for sure...I only miss spooning with him sometimes at night, but really, that's it. And I've got lots of options for spooners in my world right now.

I will not forgive him (but I will thank him), nor will I accept the blame, maybe I'll see him on Good Friday....and he'll eat his heart out.

Bridget Lives On

Yesterday, I had to have a special ultrasound on my leg. Leg. Please keep this in mind.

I had to be standing during the test, and two techs worked on me at the same time. There was a woman and a man, the woman was working at the computer thing, and the man had the pleasure of running the ultrasound thing up and down my leg. I had to stand on a stool, and this guy was right in front of me. He lifts my gown up and starts to tuck it into my underwear.

Now, I'm not a modest person, per se, but I didn't get a bikini wax for this thing and he didn't buy me dinner, so I don't feel like he should get to be all up in my junk. I tenderly took the gown from him and made some jokey comment about how he hadn't even bought me a drink yet. He laughed, onward with the test.

About 10 minutes into it, my allergies kicked in. Mr. Ultrasound is checking a vein in my crotchal area, head only about 8 inches away. I have a major sneeze. My whole body scrunches together....

And then thrusts out. Thrusts out so far that I actually bang this poor guy in the head. With my cooter.

What do you say after you almost knock someone over with the force of your pubic area? Normally I'm proud of that accomplishment...tee hee.

I yelled, "Holy Shit! I'm sorry!" and proceeded to lose my beans. I couldn't stop laughing. He starts laughing. The girl starts laughing.

Seriously, that would only happen to me. The funny thing is when I left they were both laughing and the guy yelled out, "Thanks for being my most memorable patient ever!" And I said, "I owe you a drink...."

I'm always infamous vs. famous. I'm that girl that people say, "Remember when we saw that redhead that _______? Man, that was funny! What an idiot!"

You can fill in the blank.

I Know I'm a Downer But I Need to Talk About This

I'm freaking out today. I'll give you a brief re-cap for those of you who are new to the game.

October 2006

I was in the hospital for 7 days with a rare blood clot in my portal vein...it is the main provider of blood to the liver. I was on medical leave for 3 months. On Coumadin, a blood thinner for 6 months...lots of bruises and fun! :)

February 2007

In the hospital again...6 days this time. Medical leave for 2 weeks. Dr's can't figure out why I have the clot. Then it disappears, which is disturbing because, as my ex-boyfriend said, "Where did it go?".

June/July 2007

Gigantic lump develops in my leg, come to find out...you guessed it...blood clot! During surgery the Dr. finds about 10 in my left leg. Yet, and stop me if I feel like this is absolutely ridiculous, they tell me it has nothing to do with the clot in my chest. Huh?

September 2007

Admitted to the hospital because I keep passing out. They keep me overnight to observe...my pulse gets down to 17 during the night. No explanation. But yet, they released me out into the wild.


So that pretty much catches you up. I've actually been able to work for the last 3 months, but this is why I have moved back home and am living with my parents. Lots of medical bills. Never really sure when the other shoe is going to drop...

Which I think it did last night.

I have a new blood clot in my right leg. Now, I haven't been to the Dr. yet, but I know that's what it is. It's just like the other one...really sore, all the veins in my leg are bulging, there's a lump.

Can I just scream now?
AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!

They have run tests on me and I don't have any reason to be having these clots. And yet no one can explain why they keep happening. And I'm freaked out because I'm afraid that they're going to put me on Coumadin for the rest of my life, which means I can't do any of the stuff I love like softball or volleyball or basketball...can't ever go skiing. Have to go to the Dr. every week. Be bruised all the time.

I know I'm whining. I'm seriously freaking out right now, I'm at work, and this is the only way I can get it out.

I have been feeling like a normal person for the first time in a LONG time..making plans to move, but now I feel like the needle just scratched across the record.

I came close to dying a couple of times in the hospital (which I never told my family...sorry Gypsy). I know I can handle this.

But I'm going to hit something. Hopefully it won't be my boss. Maybe I'll just stay with the keys on my laptop.

It's All In The Family

My mother is 71 years old. For blog purposes, let's call her Taffy Walnut (her porn name...the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on. Mine is Bunny Roberson). So, Taffy is not your typical 71 year old mom/grandma. She's super sassy. I was so relieved when, as an adult, I realized that my mother was kinda mouthy and dirty like me. I thought maybe they had adopted me...especially since I don't really look like anyone in my family.

Anyway, Taffy has a fantastic ass. Literally, it's better than mine EVER has been...it's like a 21 year old ass. She doesn't work out...and in fact has smoked since she was 17 and has one drink every night. She also doesn't really have wrinkles. It's creepy.

Her ass has become a big subject with my friends and family. After my parents' 50th wedding anniversary this year (yes, that still actually does happen...) we couldn't stop talking about it. Every time she'd get up we'd tease her and tell her to shake it...it's funny cuz she acts embarassed, but really she likes it.

Especially now!

Last night we were talking about all the dudes floating around in my world and the whole MP thing (again why Taffy is the coolest cuz I can talk to her about this stuff), and she says to me, "Well, your sexy thing must run in the family because a bunch of Mexican guys whistled at me today at the Home Depot." I shit you not. My mother, who collects social security is getting the action! She's convinced it's because she dyes her hair dark and had it in a ponytail so they thought she was younger, but it's the power of that booty. She said she didn't turn around to see if there was a hot blonde behind her. I know there wasn't.

I wish I had gotten her ass along with her attitude. :)

And to those of you...Gypsy, Sister of Gypsy...or any other family members who are reading this, I will kill you if you say anything to your mother or MY mother...I don't want her hot ass to kick mine!

But Annie...I'll pay you $50 if sometime when you're driving by the house and she's out you'll yell out, "Nice ass Taffy!" Priceless.

Why Softball is Such a Good Workout in the Winter

This summer, in the midst of my emotional lunacy/breakup/ex-boyfriend "engaged" to short, fat cow soon after breakup/surgery....etc...

I met a guy.

Let's call him Matt. Cuz that's his name.

I had a crush on him, as much as I could at that time when I wasn't really sure of my own name. I played on a softball team with him, thought he was cute. Funny. Someone I might want to get naked with.

So, last weekend, I did. Because I can. Because I have suddenly given myself the power of the "MP" (Magic Kitty...you know what I mean...)

I saw him out at the bar Saturday night. He, after a brief "How Ya Been" period, proceeds to tell me that he liked me this summer. How cool/hot/fun (again...don't get tired of hearing it) I am. How he can see us married. Yes. He actually said that.

I take a sidenote here to explain something recently explained to me by a male friend. He told me that picking up girls is like playing poker. You only show as many cards as necessary to win the hand. He said that some girls you can get with just a 3, but some (the higher eschelon girls) you have to play all your cards. Matt, my friend informed me, played all his cards to get me in the sack.

So he's planning our lives together. Really. I swear. We'd have horses. A softball team. Two kids. Swear to God he said all this stuff....

The whole time I'm smiling, nodding, sipping my Jack and Coke seductively, thinking...
Mama's getting some sugar tonight.....

I was soooo the guy. I made him pick me up. Got down to business. Purely enjoyed myself.

He snored all night. I was mad at myself for not making him leave after I was done. He then proceeded to FREAK OUT the next morning. Couldn't look at me. Could hardly speak. I was laughing inside cuz really...I just wanted him to get the hell out so I could actually sleep. I said, "We Cool?"

He said, "Yeah, I don't think you're a slut." (again, exact verbage) I laughed and said, "I'm not really concerned with that."

He jumps up, puts on his hat, and says, "I'll call you later...what are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to sleep because you kept me up all night snoring."

"Oh, okay. I'll call you later." He's almost running at this point.

"Yeah, no worries. Have a safe drive!" And he's gone.
I didn't hear from him until Tuesday, when he sent me a text that said I guess u changed yr mind

Now. let me be clear. If I happen to slip and fall on his unit again sometime, I won't be bummed. But relationship...no way (I don't usually sleep with guys right off the bat...oh shit, who am I kidding...half of you are calling me a liar now anyway).

Matt is a nice guy. But he's 31 and by the text he sent about 24 emotionally (about par, right ladies?) But I was not happy with this text...I'm not some stupid 22 year old chippie he picked up a Chlamydia Canyon down the street (Cactus Canyon...tramp bar in my town) who wouldn't know his motives. He felt guilty for not calling me, and to feel it out he turned the guilt and responsibility on to me. IN A TEXT.

I let him have it...

Harsh? Maybe. I don't care though.

But at least the cobwebs are cleared out now. Yea! I feel my mojo running through my veins like an aphrodisiac I haven't tasted in a long time.

P.S. I Lust You

The Return of "I Am Bridget Jones"

Hello, all! I have decied that to really understand me, Anastasia, you must understand the stupidness of my brain. So, as a lesson in idiocy, I have decided to re-post a blog entry that originally aired on my Zaadz page. I really feel that this story (which took place in 2006) explains me to a tee. I don't want everyone to think I'm some she-devil who is concerned about mullets and old balls (though, yes, those are a concern...see previous post), I want to be truly understood. As a single 34 year old whose brain has been battered by Walt Disney movies and the E! Channel. So to those of you who have seen this before, please bear with me. But for the newbies...enjoy a taste of the crazy lady that I am.













Did any of you see the movie Bridget Jones's Diary? I have seen it about a gazillion times - mainly because I AM Bridget Jones. Foot in the mouth? Check. Outfit malfunctions that end in embarassment? Check. Bad boyfriends we can't seem to let go? Check. Random bouts of inappropriate behavior? Check.Here's the latest Bridget-type thing I've done...



I have a crush on a guy at church. He's in the band...lead singer, guitar player, very sexy (which, again, inappropriate! Kind of hard to concentrate on God when you're imagining what your kids would look like.....). Going to church is a relatively new thing for me...my family isn't religious, though I had spurts when I was little when I would attend with friends. But I've found a great church that is geared more toward people my age who are trying to make a difference in the world. The pastors are great about connecting your spiritual path with your day to day path.



I digress.



So, about a month ago, I decided to take communion for the first time. I felt really connected to the message, so I decided to head to the table. So, I get up, and get into line. At first I'm kind of watching everyone else to see what they're doing...saying...all of that stuff. Like, am I supposed to thank the server? Shake their hand? Do I bow? Just dumb stuff like that. I'm very focused on getting it right...and then I realize that "THE GUY"...his name is Josh....is one of the servers. I start to get nervous and sweaty. Immediately. I forget to focus on the mechanics of the communion and start thinking about things like...Do I look sweaty? How's my hair? All of the things that come with being a good Christian....

I get up to the front of the line...and realize HE'S TALLER THAN ME. This, my friends, can make any man Brad Pitt in my eyes. I'm 6' tall...so this is a special treat. I'm totally thrown by this point.

The communion itself is a big loaf of French bread (Jesus was French? Who knew?) that you are supposed to take a chunk of, then dip it in grape juice, and penitently put in your mouth.

It' s my turn. I look up and smile at him, and he says, "Well, hi there!" very surprised and smiley. What does that mean? Like they had got the memo at church that under no circumstances should I eat the Body of Christ...the church might explode or something. (okay, so maybe he was just being nice...) I say hi, and he says "How are you doing?". Now, I know from my intense observation that he has not done this with every person who has come through the line. Normally it's "The body of Christ...blah blah...." (blah blah is in the bible, did ya know?) So, I'm even more thrown than before. I say I'm fine...and kind of stand there. He realizes we're just standing there with goofy smiles on our faces so he says the Body of Christ blah blah thing.

I reach up to break off a piece of the ginormous loaf of bread...but instead of grabbing the soft, squishy, easily broken center of the bread, I, of course, grab the hard bottom crust part. So, I'm trying to be all graceful and Godly and stuff, but the damn bread won't tear. Seriously. I tried for what seemed like an eternity to rip it. Josh is laughing, and leans forward and says..."Put a little muscle into it". I laugh, PALM THE LOAF OF BREAD WITH MY OTHER HAND, and rip off a piece of bread the size of Cleveland.



And, the piece de la resistance...I look at him, my prized piece of bread in hand . And I flex my arms like Arnold at a Mr. Olympia reunion.

Let me repeat that. I put my arms up in the air a little bit, bread in hand, and FLEXED MY BICEPS as though I had just won an arm wrestling match against the crafty bread.



At church.



But wait...It's not done yet...of course the girl holding the grape juice is looking at me like I'm some lunatic sent from the ninth gate of hell. I quickly dip my bread in the juice, turn to the congregation and attempt to put the bread in my mouth.



Being the size of Cleveland as it was, it didn't go so well. I'm now facing a church full of people, and squish the juicy bread half in my mouth, and half all over my cheek. I now have juice all over my face, and can barely hold onto the bread because I thought it would go in my mouth, not all over my face. I have now pinned the bread to my cheek with my index finger and decide to leave it there, lest anything else embarassing happens. I put my head down and rush back to my seat, finger holding the "Body of Christ" to my face.



Where, as a grand finale, I get the giggles.It made me realize, with all certainty, that God does have a sense of humor. A platypus, yes, that is a sign as well (goofy looking poor thing!)...but really, all you have to do is spend more than five minutes with me and you'll be a believer.