Saturday, August 20, 2011

Anna Gray is not dead. But sometimes wishes she was.

Hola Blogger Nation,

I've probably lost my entire reading audience which I was proud to say was a not-to-shabby 36 people willing to read this here blog and here I am neglecting it.

My sincerest apologies but my sense of humor got up and left. And it hasn't really returned.

It has been nothing but a rollercoaster ride of visits to doctors and dealing with my momma for the last few weeks and I don't think that I have to you, blog reader, that I'm about 3 ticks shy of a full blown apoplectic fit.

Daily I talk myself out of maiming a relative. Sometimes multiple times in a day. Tuesday of this past week we, my mother and I, were asked to leave the physician's office and take our 'conversation' into the parking lot as we were screaming at each other at the top of our lungs in the middle of the waiting room. That was a little embarrassing but we bounced right back to re-have the same fight, the very same fight that we've been having for weeks now, again 30 minutes later. That ladies and gentleman requires talent.

What fight is this you ask? The fight in which my mother declares that she's going to die reasonably 'soon' and that, drum roll please, she's ready to 'GO'. The problem with this being mostly that SHE ISN'T DYING; she's not even reasonably close. Sure her wound won't close and her kidney function isn't great but not one doctor, and we've seen at least 5 different ones, has looked at her and said 'You know, this isn't looking good.' Mostly they roll their eyes, look at me with empathy and give me the name of yet another specialist I need to drag her to. Because they're trained to do that. And they're glad they don't see her everyday to put up with this melodramatic bullshit. So I do the normal thing and threaten to haul her punk ass to the ER because if she really feels THAT BAD then she shouldn't be at home. Of course that provokes an entirely different fight about how she's not doing anything she doesn't want to do. (Boy I'm gonna feel like a jackass if she kicks the bucket soon; I still maintain she'll outlive us all just for spite. She'd seriously do that. If only to piss me off.) Then I play the guilt card and she finally shuts up and we move on to the next topic.

There are bugs in her bed. Sometimes they even crawl in her ears.

Now, this is a genuine fear of mine (Especially when my bff's husband told m a story of his crazy friend Bob White who actually had a cockroach eat his ear drum. I went into convulsions in the middle of her floor and scared her dogs into peeing themselves.) so when that started I raced her to the doctor to have her ears examined for the presence of bugs, and maybe a brain. I then drug her memory foam mattress (Which is heavy as a mother-fucker.) into the yard and beat it with a stick. I then sanitized her sheets and bedding and still there are bugs in her bed.

There are no bugs in her bed. I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb. I've called the exterminator and personally directed him to spray every nook and cranny in and around that house. The dog hasn't been quite right since.

But that may be the steroids.

Yes, not only am I arguing with my mother to take her pills, I am now responsible for coaxing the dog to take HER pills. Hot dogs, I tell you. Dogs love raw hot dogs.

Do you know why I'll be forever single? Because my fingers smell like raw hot dogs.

And I have to talk to myself, out loud mind you, to not dis-member people in public. I saw this crazy woman in the CVS the other day and I asked the clerk if he'd like me to remove her from the premises and he looked at me like I was the one playing house with the gummy bears in the middle of the incontinence aisle. Whatever dude.

Anyways the point of all this being I'm not dead and I'm sorry for not posting and reading your blogs. I'm lame. I know. But if you'd like to arrange for me to be put in a vegetative-like coma for a few weeks I could totally get down with that. Or you could just come kill me and put me out of my misery.

But totally freeze me so I can come back once the woman has calmed down. What? I'm not suicidal. That's just plain morbid.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

*<i>This is like the 9th re-try of this post. I kept screwing up the formatting. Sorry bout that.</i>

Because I cannot fetch a proper relationship I've been attending this weight lifting class. Actually I've been attending this weight-lifting class to tone and firm my body but I'm doing that for the aforementioned reason so there you go.

Please see my last post on whether or not I need/want a relationship. It's not that I really want one, I just feel that I need one. Mostly because I wake up in the mornings and find my uterus doing a jig at the end of my bed sticking its tongue out at me with its thumbs in its ears and proving yet again that I still suck at life. SCORE! Before you ask, yes I do find it odd that my uterus has ears. I don't know either.

And I feel that if I am indeed going to be reproductively successful I'd like to have a partner to do that with because we, as humans, have the reproductive strategy that benefits from the pairing of two individuals in order to raise a tiny human. And someone else is going to have to change the tiny human when it poops because I am not doing that. I am currently accepting applications for 'Tiny Human Collector of Poo.'

So I've decided once again that I'm single because I'm fat and not because I'm fucked up as a football bat. I do so enjoy making these decisions.

Except damn ya'll, I'm getting kind of HAWT. I hate to brag but damn. The waist keeps getting smaller and while as yet the bust is shrinking it looks bigger because my waist is smaller and my ass is just getting higher and tighter. God I look like Gena Lollobrigida (I have no clue how to spell this). Doesn't that suck? MWA HA HAA, Right, yes it does actually because I look like that in this, the 21st century. You menfolk think I'm fat.

Frack the lot of you.

Anyways. SO I'm doing this weight lifting class. And for our chest we do these flys with free weights and then about 9 million push-ups. And in the midst of doing these 9-million push-ups I glance into to the mirror and guess who I see in said mirror on the stair master staring into said room?

Oh that would be Sex-on-Skates.

Maybe you do not have awesome breasts. I do. Maybe you can do multiple push-ups. I cannot. I can do a bajillion flys and and a bajillion bench presses but apparently if I was dying and had to support my upper body weight with my T-Rex arms I'd die in about a minute and a half. Mebbe just a minute. They're awesome, my breasts, but it sucks trying to move them. I mean I can do it. I amm hardcore. I just cannot do it often right now. Because I'm a girl. And I have T-Rex arms. And breasts.

So anyways that is my opinion on why breasts are not conducive to push-ups and I don't think that I should have to do them. Not that I do a lot of them to begin with but still.

I'll leave you with this lasting thought: You know those uber-hard-core muscle bound women on those fitness shows that can do one-handed push-ups and all the other assorted sundry push-up type things? Do they have attractive breasts? Do they even have breasts at all?

Ooh! I just thought of something else! Chickens! Chickens have significant breasts, because they're genetically modified but still, and they cannot do push-ups either!

There you go. Conclusive proof that if you have breasts, you cannot do push-ups.