Why send a wreath when you can bring chalk?
Someone recently suggested writers complete the statement: When I grow up I wanna be...
I was thrilled! Finally I have the chance to come out of the closet and tell the world about my dream career.
I've always wanted to be the person that draws chalk outlines around the dead people. It seems like a pretty exciting career and if I get a job in a small town, I won't have to actually work that often. Maybe once every ten or twelve years tops.
Ever a professional, I keep sharp as a tack by making turkeys out of my hand print every year at Thanksgiving and tracing around the letters on my newspaper each week: "E-n-q-u-i-r-e-r". My family is pretty supportive of my pursuit toward this goal, although they are growing somewhat tired of waking up every morning and finding chalk all over their sheets.
I also keep chalk in my purse just in case somebody should fall out right in front of me in the regularity aisle at Wal-Mart. I figure that would give me the chance to show off my outlining ability to the local law enforcement and thus get a jump on what I'm sure is stiff competition. (That's a little outliner's pun.)
Sadly while training for my dream career, I once inadvertently caused a little trouble. I went to visit my aunt at what we like to call the "rest home" and upset a couple of her persnickety friends. In my defense, they were about a hundred and they were being oddly still.
This job requires a lot of thinking outside the box to be sure. When my son's fish went to be with Jesus, it presented a problem. When one passes away while in a fish bowl, one makes it difficult to draw any sort of line around one. Not to be outwitted by some two-dollar dead fish, I whipped out my chalk and drew a line around his bowl.
I'm not sure when the desire to be a chalk outline professional was born in my heart. Maybe it was in the pages of Harold and His Purple Crayon. Or maybe it was when Miss Luckadoo brought her brand new silver chalk holder to school and beautifully printed her name on the third grade blackboard. I'm guessing it was a combination of both those things plus all the times my Maw-Maw used to force me to kiss my dead relatives good-bye so I wouldn't have nightmares.
Thank God she did, too. Nightmares are the worst.
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Saturday, August 07, 2004
How many witty sheep can a witty sheep shaver shave?
I love writing. Personally I don't understand why everyone doesn't write. It's truly the best therapy on the planet and the cheapest, too. If I couldn't write, I don't know what I'd do. Probably become a serial arsonist or a mountain sheep shaver. I'm really not qualified for anything else.
Now that I think about it, I'm not qualified to write either. And I've heard the mountain sheep shaving market is a tough nut to crack.
This morning, I did a stupid, stupid thing. I sat down at my computer at 5:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and my Coke bottle glasses and started to visit various other assorted writer's websites. I felt I needed a boost to my perpetually deflated ego and I was sure that by reading other's work, I would somehow feel better about my own ability to write.
That so did not happen.
I soon discovered that the web is positively overflowing with talented, hysterically funny writers. I also discovered that it's hard to get coffee out of a key board.
Not only are these other writer's funny, they are smart funny and that's the best kind. They use words that cause me to tilt my head sideways like my Yorkie does when I make a fake doggie crying sound and they find the hilarity in things that I had no clue were even supposed to be funny. Although most aren't as vain as I am and prefer not to plaster their picture all over their websites, I'm certain they must be gorgeous and rich and often described by their adoring fans as witty and clever.
They make me want to be a better writer. Failing that, they also make me want to eat my weight in pork rinds and chocolate chips.
I want to have adoring fans and be described by those that know me as witty and clever! Is that too much to ask? I'm thinking I should make some changes that will hopefully bring out the more professional writer that I am hoping lives somewhere inside me. (That would explain the extra couple pounds.)
I think first of all, I need to go buy one of those chains that holds my glasses around my neck. That's reeks of professional writer-ism. I'm sure that once I have that dandy little item, the beautiful words and dazzling analogies will flow from my brain like chocolate milk through my son's nose when the cat farts. (Ok. That was really bad. You can see my need for the chain.)
And if you saw my office, you'd take pity on me and immediately understand why you've never felt the need to refer to me as witty or clever. You see, technically my office is my daughter's old room. When she moved out, I moved in. Kitten is quite "girlie" and painted her room to match her personality. The walls are fire engine red with Pepto-Bismal pink stripes that run vertically from ceiling to floor around the room, with six inches between each stripe. I could not make this up people. I have to take a Dramamine just to come in here.
I definitely need to give my office an extreme makeover in order to make it more like a place where a professional writer pounds out award winning articles on a weekly basis and less like a candy striper's lounge. (I said striper... not stripper.)
I realize some of you fast on your feet thinkers are asking yourself, "Hey, why not just paint the room?".
It's not that simple. As any good reader of my writing knows, I am not allowed to touch paint. It has to do with my tendency to over do things from time to time thus triggering Mr. Man to flail his arms around wildly and threaten to duct tape my hands together if I ever touch another paint brush.
Sure, I could just ask him to paint my office. And, I would to. That is if I thought I actually had a gnat's chance of getting him to actually do it.
You see, while I may tend to get a little carried away with a bucket of paint, Mr. Man has his own set of problems. Of yes. He is not called Mr. Perfect for a reason.
Generally, he's a wonderful guy. He's great looking, smells way too good and is quite the fancy dancer. I can't help but love him. But, he can be just the tiniest bit dramatic.
What the heck. Let's call a spade a spade. He's a full fledged, tiara wearing drama queen.
Let me paint you a picture. (Surely he didn't mean I couldn't paint mental pictures either.)
Yesterday, Mr. Man and I were getting all prettied up to go to a send off party for a dear friend of ours that is leaving to serve our country in Iraq. I was busy teasing and spraying and powdering when I mentioned to him that I was not going to have time to cook supper. Trying to get all the smoke and mirrors in place to fool people into thinking I am not a troll is very time consuming and can be physically draining as well. Sure, I have trained monkeys that help with all the taping and tucking and buckling down, but it's still a chore.
I ever so gently suggested that he either fix himself a couple hot dogs or he order a pizza so that he wouldn't be without nourishment.
"I can't," he said flatly.
"Why not?" I asked three-dimensionally.
"Because it's already 4:30 and we have to be there at 7:00. There is simply no time, woman!"
The party was only a twenty minute drive away and all he had left to do to "get ready" was to change his shirt. Apparently that was going to be an undertaking of epic proportions and couldn't be rushed. In his defense, buttoning can be tricky.
He's that way about absolutely everything.
Every grocery day, I ask Mr. Man what he would like me to buy for his lunches.
"Honey, you know I will eat whatever you get. I am not picky. I will eat anything."
And when I fix roast beef sandwiches and put them in his Jethro sized lunch box, he comes home and informs me he hates sandwiches and because of his deep hatred for sandwiches and my utter disregard for his feelings about them, he had to work all day on an empty stomach.
"Why do you suddenly hate sandwiches?" I ask.
His bottom lip quivers and he answers "Because the bread gets all soggy."
"Fine. I'll send burritos tomorrow." I say while muttering something about Lincoln and freedom just under my breath.
"I can't eat burritos! I'll have gas and all the other security guards will make fun of me."
"What about tuna salad, then? Can you eat tuna salad or will the mean old men not let you play in their security guard games if you eat tuna?"
"Sweetheart, you know I'm not picky. I'll eat whatever you fix."
If you don't believe me, the next time you run into Mr. Man at the Crazy On Your Face monthly hoe-down, ask him how poor he was growing up. When he hikes his pants up, clears his throat and starts telling you about how he ate wild rabbits and twigs just to stay alive, you'll see what I mean. He truly has a flair for the dramatic.
So, if I were to ask Mr. Man to paint this room from Candy Land hell, he would no doubt prepare for me a list of reasons it cannot possibly be done. I imagine the likelihood of paint inhalation-itis would be one reason and his not wanting to support the Iraqi owned paint industry would be another. A simple, "I don't wanna" will never fall from his lips.
I guess I am doomed to continue my efforts to write like a grown-up, honest to goodness writer in this room that would make Hooker Barbie dizzy. Maybe I should try to step it up a little and use some of those big, published author words in my writing. I bet that would make me seem more like a professional writer.
Hey, that's a fabulous idea!
Check in next time when you'll read words like, "menology", "pertinacious" and "pundit" expertly woven throughout my stories. Surely that will inspire someone to tell me how clever and witty I am.
(And by the way, I know you're rushing to look up those words at this very moment.)
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
I love writing. Personally I don't understand why everyone doesn't write. It's truly the best therapy on the planet and the cheapest, too. If I couldn't write, I don't know what I'd do. Probably become a serial arsonist or a mountain sheep shaver. I'm really not qualified for anything else.
Now that I think about it, I'm not qualified to write either. And I've heard the mountain sheep shaving market is a tough nut to crack.
This morning, I did a stupid, stupid thing. I sat down at my computer at 5:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and my Coke bottle glasses and started to visit various other assorted writer's websites. I felt I needed a boost to my perpetually deflated ego and I was sure that by reading other's work, I would somehow feel better about my own ability to write.
That so did not happen.
I soon discovered that the web is positively overflowing with talented, hysterically funny writers. I also discovered that it's hard to get coffee out of a key board.
Not only are these other writer's funny, they are smart funny and that's the best kind. They use words that cause me to tilt my head sideways like my Yorkie does when I make a fake doggie crying sound and they find the hilarity in things that I had no clue were even supposed to be funny. Although most aren't as vain as I am and prefer not to plaster their picture all over their websites, I'm certain they must be gorgeous and rich and often described by their adoring fans as witty and clever.
They make me want to be a better writer. Failing that, they also make me want to eat my weight in pork rinds and chocolate chips.
I want to have adoring fans and be described by those that know me as witty and clever! Is that too much to ask? I'm thinking I should make some changes that will hopefully bring out the more professional writer that I am hoping lives somewhere inside me. (That would explain the extra couple pounds.)
I think first of all, I need to go buy one of those chains that holds my glasses around my neck. That's reeks of professional writer-ism. I'm sure that once I have that dandy little item, the beautiful words and dazzling analogies will flow from my brain like chocolate milk through my son's nose when the cat farts. (Ok. That was really bad. You can see my need for the chain.)
And if you saw my office, you'd take pity on me and immediately understand why you've never felt the need to refer to me as witty or clever. You see, technically my office is my daughter's old room. When she moved out, I moved in. Kitten is quite "girlie" and painted her room to match her personality. The walls are fire engine red with Pepto-Bismal pink stripes that run vertically from ceiling to floor around the room, with six inches between each stripe. I could not make this up people. I have to take a Dramamine just to come in here.
I definitely need to give my office an extreme makeover in order to make it more like a place where a professional writer pounds out award winning articles on a weekly basis and less like a candy striper's lounge. (I said striper... not stripper.)
I realize some of you fast on your feet thinkers are asking yourself, "Hey, why not just paint the room?".
It's not that simple. As any good reader of my writing knows, I am not allowed to touch paint. It has to do with my tendency to over do things from time to time thus triggering Mr. Man to flail his arms around wildly and threaten to duct tape my hands together if I ever touch another paint brush.
Sure, I could just ask him to paint my office. And, I would to. That is if I thought I actually had a gnat's chance of getting him to actually do it.
You see, while I may tend to get a little carried away with a bucket of paint, Mr. Man has his own set of problems. Of yes. He is not called Mr. Perfect for a reason.
Generally, he's a wonderful guy. He's great looking, smells way too good and is quite the fancy dancer. I can't help but love him. But, he can be just the tiniest bit dramatic.
What the heck. Let's call a spade a spade. He's a full fledged, tiara wearing drama queen.
Let me paint you a picture. (Surely he didn't mean I couldn't paint mental pictures either.)
Yesterday, Mr. Man and I were getting all prettied up to go to a send off party for a dear friend of ours that is leaving to serve our country in Iraq. I was busy teasing and spraying and powdering when I mentioned to him that I was not going to have time to cook supper. Trying to get all the smoke and mirrors in place to fool people into thinking I am not a troll is very time consuming and can be physically draining as well. Sure, I have trained monkeys that help with all the taping and tucking and buckling down, but it's still a chore.
I ever so gently suggested that he either fix himself a couple hot dogs or he order a pizza so that he wouldn't be without nourishment.
"I can't," he said flatly.
"Why not?" I asked three-dimensionally.
"Because it's already 4:30 and we have to be there at 7:00. There is simply no time, woman!"
The party was only a twenty minute drive away and all he had left to do to "get ready" was to change his shirt. Apparently that was going to be an undertaking of epic proportions and couldn't be rushed. In his defense, buttoning can be tricky.
He's that way about absolutely everything.
Every grocery day, I ask Mr. Man what he would like me to buy for his lunches.
"Honey, you know I will eat whatever you get. I am not picky. I will eat anything."
And when I fix roast beef sandwiches and put them in his Jethro sized lunch box, he comes home and informs me he hates sandwiches and because of his deep hatred for sandwiches and my utter disregard for his feelings about them, he had to work all day on an empty stomach.
"Why do you suddenly hate sandwiches?" I ask.
His bottom lip quivers and he answers "Because the bread gets all soggy."
"Fine. I'll send burritos tomorrow." I say while muttering something about Lincoln and freedom just under my breath.
"I can't eat burritos! I'll have gas and all the other security guards will make fun of me."
"What about tuna salad, then? Can you eat tuna salad or will the mean old men not let you play in their security guard games if you eat tuna?"
"Sweetheart, you know I'm not picky. I'll eat whatever you fix."
If you don't believe me, the next time you run into Mr. Man at the Crazy On Your Face monthly hoe-down, ask him how poor he was growing up. When he hikes his pants up, clears his throat and starts telling you about how he ate wild rabbits and twigs just to stay alive, you'll see what I mean. He truly has a flair for the dramatic.
So, if I were to ask Mr. Man to paint this room from Candy Land hell, he would no doubt prepare for me a list of reasons it cannot possibly be done. I imagine the likelihood of paint inhalation-itis would be one reason and his not wanting to support the Iraqi owned paint industry would be another. A simple, "I don't wanna" will never fall from his lips.
I guess I am doomed to continue my efforts to write like a grown-up, honest to goodness writer in this room that would make Hooker Barbie dizzy. Maybe I should try to step it up a little and use some of those big, published author words in my writing. I bet that would make me seem more like a professional writer.
Hey, that's a fabulous idea!
Check in next time when you'll read words like, "menology", "pertinacious" and "pundit" expertly woven throughout my stories. Surely that will inspire someone to tell me how clever and witty I am.
(And by the way, I know you're rushing to look up those words at this very moment.)
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Friday, August 06, 2004
Cause I said so: the wisdom continues.
Very often as I am sitting around my living room eating pork and beans from a can and watching The Oprah, I am reminded that I really have a lot to offer the world. I'm wise beyond my years and I have a loving spirit that makes me the perfect candidate to tell others how to live their lives.
Lucky others.
That's why I decided to write the second installment of "Cause I said so". Obviously I have the gift of knowledge and it would just be wrong to keep it all to myself. Please feel free to take my words of wisdom to heart and use them to bring about change in your own life.
Dear Sher,
I know that you have a Yorkie. I'm thinking of getting one for my family. Can you tell me what they eat?
Dear Copy Cat,
Yorkies have very delicate palates. If my Tanner is any indication, they enjoy rotten pineapple chunks and old coffee grounds from the trash can. Occasionally he also likes a little cat poop, but only if it's fresh. Naturally, you will want to offer your Yorkie nutritious Science Diet dog food, but don't be surprised if he won't eat it unless you first soak it in dirty sock water.
Dear Sher,
My husband will not help with the housework no matter how much I plead. What in the world can I do to convince him to pitch in? I've written Dr. Phil, but so far no answer.
Dear Woman Who Has The Nerve To Imply I'm Not As Good As Dr. Phil,
It's a good thing Dr. Phil didn't hasn't written you back. He would likely give you some of that gobble-dee goop he calls advice, like "Talk to him and tell him how his not helping is making you feel". Poop, I say!
God gave women the single most powerful tool of persuasion on the planet. The ability to withhold sex! It can be used to get any married man to do whatever you want him to do, whenever you want him to do it.
Want him to take the garbage out? Cut him off. Would you like a new piece of jewelry? Just say no. Don't like the way he chews his food? Remind him that you only favor men who don't have the table manners of a billy goat.
And by the way, Dr. Phil would never tell you about this great weapon of mass control because he is a man. They stick together. When they turn thirteen, all males have to take an oath to back each other up in every situation as part of their initiation into the secret man society. They have secret man meetings, they have secret man decoder rings and they even get secret man newsletters on a quarterly basis. The next time you ask your husband where he's been and he says, "nowhere", you'll know the truth.
Dear Sher,
What's the dumbest thing you've ever done in the name of love?
Dear That's Some More Of Your Business,
It involved tequila, bowling shoes and a copy of True Story magazine. That's all I'm going to say.
Dear Sher,
My friends all make fun of me because on Publisher's Clearing House Day, I get all dressed up and wait for them to knock at my door. I say that's the power of positive thinking. What do you say?
Dear Person To Whom I Feel Superior,
Norman Vincent Peale would agree that you are indeed practicing the Power of Positive Thinking. I on the other hand, am more inclined to believe you are practicing the Power of Seriously You Need A Life.
Dear Sher,
How many children do you have?
Dear Why Do You Want To Know,
I have two. There was that one weekend I got all liquored up in Tijuana though, so there may be at least one more I don't know about.
Dear Sher,
I have a teenaged son and I seriously don't understand but about half of what he says. Can you help me decipher some of the language the kids today are using?
Dear Out of Touch Dad,
Certainly. I am very down with that. I can hook you up with the what up with the teenagers of today.
Basically, if you want to communicate effectively with your son you should say things like, "Son, if you do not keep your room clean to my standards, I will bust a cap in your...." fill in the blank. Or, when you meet your son's new girlfriend, it is considered polite by today's youth to comment on her back for some reason, such as "Son, I have noticed that your new lady friend has got plenty of back". Apparently they like that.
In a nutshell, try to be a part of his culture and he'll respect you for it. Maybe start a conversation by saying, "I was listening to the radio in the Ford the other day and I must say, that Hanson rocks". You two will be best buds in no time.
Dear Sher,
I know that you are a make-up expert and I'm hoping you can settle an argument my friend and I are having. I say it's appropriate to wear blue eye-shadow to match your shirt and my friend says it's not. Any thoughts?
Dear Tacky Person,
Step slowly away from the blue eye shadow and nobody gets hurt. It is never ok to wear blue eye shadow. Never, ever, ever. Not on Halloween. Not on national White Trash day. And certainly not because you are trying to match your eyes with that extra large t-shirt you got free when you filled your Pacer up last week at the Gas & Go. It's people like you that give self respecting trashy women like me a bad name.
Dear Sher,
I went on a date last night with a very nice guy. He has a great sense of humor, a wonderful career and he was probably the kindest man I've ever met. The only thing I didn't like was the fact that he wore white socks with black dress shoes. I shouldn't let that bother me, should I?
Dear Clueless,
You definitely should let that bother you. Men that wear white socks with black dress shoes are just a stone's throw away from becoming men that wear socks with sandals or those disgusting men you see on COPS that never have their shirts on. He is the devil. Never see him again and be thankful you didn't breed with him and produce little white sock wearing children.
That's it for today, Kids. I'm going to go read the Enquirer and plant some new flowers in the giant tractor tire in my front yard.
Visit my website!
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Very often as I am sitting around my living room eating pork and beans from a can and watching The Oprah, I am reminded that I really have a lot to offer the world. I'm wise beyond my years and I have a loving spirit that makes me the perfect candidate to tell others how to live their lives.
Lucky others.
That's why I decided to write the second installment of "Cause I said so". Obviously I have the gift of knowledge and it would just be wrong to keep it all to myself. Please feel free to take my words of wisdom to heart and use them to bring about change in your own life.
Dear Sher,
I know that you have a Yorkie. I'm thinking of getting one for my family. Can you tell me what they eat?
Dear Copy Cat,
Yorkies have very delicate palates. If my Tanner is any indication, they enjoy rotten pineapple chunks and old coffee grounds from the trash can. Occasionally he also likes a little cat poop, but only if it's fresh. Naturally, you will want to offer your Yorkie nutritious Science Diet dog food, but don't be surprised if he won't eat it unless you first soak it in dirty sock water.
Dear Sher,
My husband will not help with the housework no matter how much I plead. What in the world can I do to convince him to pitch in? I've written Dr. Phil, but so far no answer.
Dear Woman Who Has The Nerve To Imply I'm Not As Good As Dr. Phil,
It's a good thing Dr. Phil didn't hasn't written you back. He would likely give you some of that gobble-dee goop he calls advice, like "Talk to him and tell him how his not helping is making you feel". Poop, I say!
God gave women the single most powerful tool of persuasion on the planet. The ability to withhold sex! It can be used to get any married man to do whatever you want him to do, whenever you want him to do it.
Want him to take the garbage out? Cut him off. Would you like a new piece of jewelry? Just say no. Don't like the way he chews his food? Remind him that you only favor men who don't have the table manners of a billy goat.
And by the way, Dr. Phil would never tell you about this great weapon of mass control because he is a man. They stick together. When they turn thirteen, all males have to take an oath to back each other up in every situation as part of their initiation into the secret man society. They have secret man meetings, they have secret man decoder rings and they even get secret man newsletters on a quarterly basis. The next time you ask your husband where he's been and he says, "nowhere", you'll know the truth.
Dear Sher,
What's the dumbest thing you've ever done in the name of love?
Dear That's Some More Of Your Business,
It involved tequila, bowling shoes and a copy of True Story magazine. That's all I'm going to say.
Dear Sher,
My friends all make fun of me because on Publisher's Clearing House Day, I get all dressed up and wait for them to knock at my door. I say that's the power of positive thinking. What do you say?
Dear Person To Whom I Feel Superior,
Norman Vincent Peale would agree that you are indeed practicing the Power of Positive Thinking. I on the other hand, am more inclined to believe you are practicing the Power of Seriously You Need A Life.
Dear Sher,
How many children do you have?
Dear Why Do You Want To Know,
I have two. There was that one weekend I got all liquored up in Tijuana though, so there may be at least one more I don't know about.
Dear Sher,
I have a teenaged son and I seriously don't understand but about half of what he says. Can you help me decipher some of the language the kids today are using?
Dear Out of Touch Dad,
Certainly. I am very down with that. I can hook you up with the what up with the teenagers of today.
Basically, if you want to communicate effectively with your son you should say things like, "Son, if you do not keep your room clean to my standards, I will bust a cap in your...." fill in the blank. Or, when you meet your son's new girlfriend, it is considered polite by today's youth to comment on her back for some reason, such as "Son, I have noticed that your new lady friend has got plenty of back". Apparently they like that.
In a nutshell, try to be a part of his culture and he'll respect you for it. Maybe start a conversation by saying, "I was listening to the radio in the Ford the other day and I must say, that Hanson rocks". You two will be best buds in no time.
Dear Sher,
I know that you are a make-up expert and I'm hoping you can settle an argument my friend and I are having. I say it's appropriate to wear blue eye-shadow to match your shirt and my friend says it's not. Any thoughts?
Dear Tacky Person,
Step slowly away from the blue eye shadow and nobody gets hurt. It is never ok to wear blue eye shadow. Never, ever, ever. Not on Halloween. Not on national White Trash day. And certainly not because you are trying to match your eyes with that extra large t-shirt you got free when you filled your Pacer up last week at the Gas & Go. It's people like you that give self respecting trashy women like me a bad name.
Dear Sher,
I went on a date last night with a very nice guy. He has a great sense of humor, a wonderful career and he was probably the kindest man I've ever met. The only thing I didn't like was the fact that he wore white socks with black dress shoes. I shouldn't let that bother me, should I?
Dear Clueless,
You definitely should let that bother you. Men that wear white socks with black dress shoes are just a stone's throw away from becoming men that wear socks with sandals or those disgusting men you see on COPS that never have their shirts on. He is the devil. Never see him again and be thankful you didn't breed with him and produce little white sock wearing children.
That's it for today, Kids. I'm going to go read the Enquirer and plant some new flowers in the giant tractor tire in my front yard.
Visit my website!
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Sophisticated people almost never pee in mayonnaise jars.
It hit me today that in only a few days, my beautiful daughter Kitten is going to turn twenty-years-old. The idea of my baby turning twenty has sort of twisted up my insides and colored me all sentimental on my outside. A tiny tear even formed at the corner of my eye and slid slowly down my cheek, not unlike that Native American guy that used to ride his horse around trash dumps. (If you don't get that, step away from this column.)
I can't believe it's been twenty years. It seems like only yesterday. (This is where you have to picture me staring off into space and slowly disappearing into the fog. We're about to experience a dream sequence together.)
The year was 1983. Prince was singing about crying doves, Tina wanted to know what love had to do with it and I was only nineteen-years-old. It was a simpler time. My hair and my shoulder pads were equally big and I was still on my first husband.
Even though I was very young when she was born, my daughter was not the result of an 'oops'. In fact, from the moment I had uttered those two little words at the altar, I was on a mission. I was going to get pregnant, have a baby girl and play house. It was going to be loads and loads of grown up fun.
My new husband wasn't nearly as fired up about the idea as was I. You see, he was seven years older than me and already had two kids from his first marriage. (This week, on a very special episode of Springer...) He had done the whole baby thing and had no interest in doing it again. Lucky for me, his hormones were on my side. He was a young man with an even younger, big-haired bride, so as you can imagine I didn't have to work too hard to get him to do the deed that makes baby girls.
A month went by, then two months and yet I had no bun in the microwave. By the time I had been married five months and was still barren, I was going to faith healers and witch doctors to find out why my ground was not fertile. My friends advised me to just stop worrying about it because worrying would keep you from getting pregnant. I'm sure there are lots of teenage mothers in this country that wish they had known worrying is the most effective form of birth control.
My husband and I were nearing our six month wedding anniversary... and by the way kids, you only celebrate months during the first year of your first marriage. By the time you've done it as often as I have, you simply celebrate the fact that you aren't divorced yet. So anyway, it's getting close to the six month mark of childlessness and the only thing stopping me from sacrificing myself to the fertility gods by diving head first into an active volcano was the remarkable shortage of active volcanoes in Kentucky.
There I was, sitting around our tiny, roach infested, babyless apartment, dreaming of how cute I would look pregnant when it hit me. A desire so unbelievably intense, so powerful, so all consuming that I have never experienced anything like it before or sense. Two words kept pounding away at my brain, demanding to be heard. Two little words that represented everything good and pure in the world. Two words that made everything else seem unimportant.
Frosted Flakes.
I wanted Frosted Flakes more than I had ever wanted anything in my entire life. How had I managed to exist in the universe without having noticed how utterly wonderful they were? How is it I had wasted so much of my life eating foods that were not Frosted Flakes? After all, they're grrrrreat.
When the husband came home that night, I begged with my sweetest "I'm so cute and you'll totally get some if you do this" voice for him to go immediately to the nearest retail food outlet and buy a box of said sugary flakes and some milk. He reluctantly complied.
When he walked in the door with the goods, I grabbed the box from him like some rabid animal, rushed to the kitchen and poured the flakes in the biggest bowl I could find and covered them in milk. When I shoveled in the first bite, I swear I heard the angels singing on high. I could have died happy at that moment.
The next day, I went to visit my Mother across town. During the course of our mother daughter chit chat, I mentioned that if she had any Frosted Flakes just lying around the house that she didn't want, I would take them off her hands.
"Frosted Flakes?" she asked. "What's the deal with Frosted Flakes?"
I explained to her that I had discovered the meaning of life and that it had been right under my nose all these years cleverly disguised in a blue box with a grinning tiger on the front.
"You're pregnant," she said calmly.
"Pregnant???" I asked, not nearly as calmly.
She told me that when she was nineteen and pregnant with me, she too had been hooked on the frosted junk. Mother knew first hand what it was like to have a little tiger on her back. She said my Daddy would come home every day from a long day at work and ask what was for supper. She never understood why he was always less than thrilled to find out it was another big bowl of Frosted Flakes.
At my Mother's urging, I peed in a mayonnaise jar so that I could take it to the doctor's office to find out whether the rabbit had indeed passed away.
Of course, I'm obsessive compulsive, so after I went in the mayonnaise jar, I started to worry that maybe I had gone over board a little in the fluids department. Exactly how much is too much? And not only that, but how does one know what kind of container is appropriate to present urine to someone? Oddly enough, Miss Manners does not address the etiquette of urine specimens.
I didn't want to seem like I was trying too hard, so I poured a little back in the toilet. I could just imagine all the lab techs sitting around my mayonnaise jar, pointing and laughing. "Have you ever seen so much pee in your life?" they would ask each other. "What kind of hillbilly doesn't know the universal appropriate amount of pee to bring to the lab? She is too stupid to be somebody's mother. Mark her mayonnaise jar NEGATIVE."
Oh Lord. What was I going to do? Clearly I could not haul a big old jar of urine to the doctor's office. Mother and I searched through her cabinets for something more suitable. Something that conveyed how ready to be a mom I was. I decided maybe a crystal vinaigrette container would be just the thing, but Mother vetoed the idea. In fact, every pretty thing I found, my selfish Mother refused to let me pee in. Lacking anything better, I settled on a small jelly jar. It wasn't very pretty, but it did look a little more presentable when I tied a festive gingham bow around it.
"Girls, you all have to see this!" the lab tech in charge would say. "Look at how lovely this girl's pee-pee holder is! The world would truly be a better place if everyone took the time to pretty up their urine before they took it to the doctor's. She will make a wonderful mother. Mark her jelly jar POSITIVE... and be sure to dot the i's with little hearts."
So off I went with my Martha Stewart specimen collection to find out whether the Frosted Flakes had gotten me pregnant. When the lady at the desk asked me how many periods I had missed, I lied just like Mother told me to and said I had missed two, even though I hadn't yet missed any. If I was pregnant, I was probably about thirteen minutes along and apparently doctor's didn't want to be bothered with nineteen-year-old girls that had gotten knocked up by breakfast cereals and wanted to take pregnancy tests. Thus the need to lie.
I had to go to work, where I was pursuing my dream career of carrying giant trays of food to rude people for very little money and so Mother agreed to call and get my results for me.
When I showed up at her house that evening, she threw her arms around me and said, "Congratulations! You're pregnant and it's a girl." She gave me a little pink dress with tiny, pink flowers all over and little, pink socks for her new, microscopic granddaughter. It had been awhile since Mother had been pregnant or she would have remembered it was going to be nine months before the baby could wear clothing.
"How do you know it's a girl?" I asked, still in shock.
"The same way I knew you were pregnant," she answered.
The truth was out. My Mother was a witch.
I don't think my feet touched the ground for about two weeks after I found out I was going to be somebody's mother. Every dream I'd ever had was about to come true. It was going to be beautiful and wonderful and I'd be the bestest mom in the whole world. Life was going to be perfect.
Pregnancy was going to be a breeze. And it was. If you consider hurricane force winds to be a breeze.
Visit my website!
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
It hit me today that in only a few days, my beautiful daughter Kitten is going to turn twenty-years-old. The idea of my baby turning twenty has sort of twisted up my insides and colored me all sentimental on my outside. A tiny tear even formed at the corner of my eye and slid slowly down my cheek, not unlike that Native American guy that used to ride his horse around trash dumps. (If you don't get that, step away from this column.)
I can't believe it's been twenty years. It seems like only yesterday. (This is where you have to picture me staring off into space and slowly disappearing into the fog. We're about to experience a dream sequence together.)
The year was 1983. Prince was singing about crying doves, Tina wanted to know what love had to do with it and I was only nineteen-years-old. It was a simpler time. My hair and my shoulder pads were equally big and I was still on my first husband.
Even though I was very young when she was born, my daughter was not the result of an 'oops'. In fact, from the moment I had uttered those two little words at the altar, I was on a mission. I was going to get pregnant, have a baby girl and play house. It was going to be loads and loads of grown up fun.
My new husband wasn't nearly as fired up about the idea as was I. You see, he was seven years older than me and already had two kids from his first marriage. (This week, on a very special episode of Springer...) He had done the whole baby thing and had no interest in doing it again. Lucky for me, his hormones were on my side. He was a young man with an even younger, big-haired bride, so as you can imagine I didn't have to work too hard to get him to do the deed that makes baby girls.
A month went by, then two months and yet I had no bun in the microwave. By the time I had been married five months and was still barren, I was going to faith healers and witch doctors to find out why my ground was not fertile. My friends advised me to just stop worrying about it because worrying would keep you from getting pregnant. I'm sure there are lots of teenage mothers in this country that wish they had known worrying is the most effective form of birth control.
My husband and I were nearing our six month wedding anniversary... and by the way kids, you only celebrate months during the first year of your first marriage. By the time you've done it as often as I have, you simply celebrate the fact that you aren't divorced yet. So anyway, it's getting close to the six month mark of childlessness and the only thing stopping me from sacrificing myself to the fertility gods by diving head first into an active volcano was the remarkable shortage of active volcanoes in Kentucky.
There I was, sitting around our tiny, roach infested, babyless apartment, dreaming of how cute I would look pregnant when it hit me. A desire so unbelievably intense, so powerful, so all consuming that I have never experienced anything like it before or sense. Two words kept pounding away at my brain, demanding to be heard. Two little words that represented everything good and pure in the world. Two words that made everything else seem unimportant.
Frosted Flakes.
I wanted Frosted Flakes more than I had ever wanted anything in my entire life. How had I managed to exist in the universe without having noticed how utterly wonderful they were? How is it I had wasted so much of my life eating foods that were not Frosted Flakes? After all, they're grrrrreat.
When the husband came home that night, I begged with my sweetest "I'm so cute and you'll totally get some if you do this" voice for him to go immediately to the nearest retail food outlet and buy a box of said sugary flakes and some milk. He reluctantly complied.
When he walked in the door with the goods, I grabbed the box from him like some rabid animal, rushed to the kitchen and poured the flakes in the biggest bowl I could find and covered them in milk. When I shoveled in the first bite, I swear I heard the angels singing on high. I could have died happy at that moment.
The next day, I went to visit my Mother across town. During the course of our mother daughter chit chat, I mentioned that if she had any Frosted Flakes just lying around the house that she didn't want, I would take them off her hands.
"Frosted Flakes?" she asked. "What's the deal with Frosted Flakes?"
I explained to her that I had discovered the meaning of life and that it had been right under my nose all these years cleverly disguised in a blue box with a grinning tiger on the front.
"You're pregnant," she said calmly.
"Pregnant???" I asked, not nearly as calmly.
She told me that when she was nineteen and pregnant with me, she too had been hooked on the frosted junk. Mother knew first hand what it was like to have a little tiger on her back. She said my Daddy would come home every day from a long day at work and ask what was for supper. She never understood why he was always less than thrilled to find out it was another big bowl of Frosted Flakes.
At my Mother's urging, I peed in a mayonnaise jar so that I could take it to the doctor's office to find out whether the rabbit had indeed passed away.
Of course, I'm obsessive compulsive, so after I went in the mayonnaise jar, I started to worry that maybe I had gone over board a little in the fluids department. Exactly how much is too much? And not only that, but how does one know what kind of container is appropriate to present urine to someone? Oddly enough, Miss Manners does not address the etiquette of urine specimens.
I didn't want to seem like I was trying too hard, so I poured a little back in the toilet. I could just imagine all the lab techs sitting around my mayonnaise jar, pointing and laughing. "Have you ever seen so much pee in your life?" they would ask each other. "What kind of hillbilly doesn't know the universal appropriate amount of pee to bring to the lab? She is too stupid to be somebody's mother. Mark her mayonnaise jar NEGATIVE."
Oh Lord. What was I going to do? Clearly I could not haul a big old jar of urine to the doctor's office. Mother and I searched through her cabinets for something more suitable. Something that conveyed how ready to be a mom I was. I decided maybe a crystal vinaigrette container would be just the thing, but Mother vetoed the idea. In fact, every pretty thing I found, my selfish Mother refused to let me pee in. Lacking anything better, I settled on a small jelly jar. It wasn't very pretty, but it did look a little more presentable when I tied a festive gingham bow around it.
"Girls, you all have to see this!" the lab tech in charge would say. "Look at how lovely this girl's pee-pee holder is! The world would truly be a better place if everyone took the time to pretty up their urine before they took it to the doctor's. She will make a wonderful mother. Mark her jelly jar POSITIVE... and be sure to dot the i's with little hearts."
So off I went with my Martha Stewart specimen collection to find out whether the Frosted Flakes had gotten me pregnant. When the lady at the desk asked me how many periods I had missed, I lied just like Mother told me to and said I had missed two, even though I hadn't yet missed any. If I was pregnant, I was probably about thirteen minutes along and apparently doctor's didn't want to be bothered with nineteen-year-old girls that had gotten knocked up by breakfast cereals and wanted to take pregnancy tests. Thus the need to lie.
I had to go to work, where I was pursuing my dream career of carrying giant trays of food to rude people for very little money and so Mother agreed to call and get my results for me.
When I showed up at her house that evening, she threw her arms around me and said, "Congratulations! You're pregnant and it's a girl." She gave me a little pink dress with tiny, pink flowers all over and little, pink socks for her new, microscopic granddaughter. It had been awhile since Mother had been pregnant or she would have remembered it was going to be nine months before the baby could wear clothing.
"How do you know it's a girl?" I asked, still in shock.
"The same way I knew you were pregnant," she answered.
The truth was out. My Mother was a witch.
I don't think my feet touched the ground for about two weeks after I found out I was going to be somebody's mother. Every dream I'd ever had was about to come true. It was going to be beautiful and wonderful and I'd be the bestest mom in the whole world. Life was going to be perfect.
Pregnancy was going to be a breeze. And it was. If you consider hurricane force winds to be a breeze.
Visit my website!
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
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