Dear Sher,
If you were to write a "For Dummies" book, what would it be?
Dear Dummy Book reader,
Sock Folding for Dummies. Thanks for asking.
Dear Sher,
Christmas is coming. What's your stand on re-gifting?
Dear Cheapo,
I find it perfectly acceptable to give away to another person something for which you no longer have any use. I re-gift husbands all the time.
Dear Sher,
My husband tells me he'd like me to dress sexier, but I'm not comfortable doing that. How do I make him understand my feelings?
Dear Librarian in Sensible Shoes,
I'm sorry, Plain Jane. I can't help you. It is biologically impossible for him to understand your feelings because as a man, he only comes equipped with two feelings.
Fear, as in "I'm afraid I won't get any sex today". And sadness, as in "I'm sad because I didn't get any sex today". If you see them express anything else, it's like watching a chicken playing one of those tiny pianos. It's just not natural.
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Friday, October 29, 2004
Wonder what ever happened to Bubba?
Wonder what ever happened to Bubba?
My sister recently hopped a plane and visited me here in Corn Capital, USA. It was so much fun. Two sisters staying up late, eating pie and giggling. It was just like the good ole days, except now we have a few more creases on our faces and our jeans don't say Gloria Vanderbilt on the pocket.
We talked about everything. World peace, her new grandson, God and our all time favorite subject... BOYS!
I'm forty and she's thirty-nine and we still found ourselves talking about boys. Boys we used to love, boys we used to hate, boys we love now and all the boys in between. Frankly, there was a lot to talk about. But that's another story.
"Do you ever wonder," she asked grinning like a monkey, "what happened to some of the guys we used to date? What they look like? Who they married? Whether they ever think about us?"
I had to admit that indeed I sometimes do. Whether my wandering thoughts are triggered by a song, or an event or the heavy scent of Musk Oil, I don't know. But once in awhile my brain will travel backwards and I'm suddenly again in the eighties, teasing and spraying my hair and putting on so much black eye liner that I constantly had to shoo away raccoons who mistook me for their mother.
I had two sisters back home in North Carolina and we were all very close in age. Can you imagine how very much my Step-mom and my Dad loved that? We were a big-haired, hormonal trio like no other. If it was male, one or the other of us was interested.
My sister Les, the one who spent the weekend with me, was the youngest. (If you're doing the math, you've figured out that we couldn't possibly all be so close in age. Technically we are step-sisters, but growing up that phrase was never used. It still isn't.) Anyway, Les had a knack for hooking up with whatever boyfriend my other sister Connie and I decided to discard. It wasn't that Les couldn't get her own boyfriends. On the contrary. She was very beautiful and had lots of guys sniffing around her leg. I think it had more to do with getting in a little dig wherever and whenever she could to aggravate her two obnoxious older sisters.
Mission accomplished. It drove us nuts.
Just when we'd finally got rid of a boy for some very legitimate reason, like he chewed with his mouth open or he drove an ugly car, we'd come home from a date with whatever was behind door number two only to find our recently dumped suitor sitting on the couch with Les in a very friendly embrace. Not good.
You see, the thing about ex-boyfriends is this... They fall under the same category as pudding, as far as I'm concerned. I'll explain.
Maybe I've just finished supper and there is pudding for dessert. Now, I like pudding as pudding goes. But, after you've had it for three nights in a row, you get good and tired of it. You hesitate to throw it away, however because who knows what you might want late one night. So, you tuck it behind the cottage cheese and yesterday's pork chops secure in the knowledge that even though you probably will never have a hankering for it again, it'll be there waiting just in case you get a sweet tooth.
I found it highly upsetting to come home from a date and find Les on the couch eating my pudding.
She didn't get them all though. Most just drifted off to the land of Misfit Boyfriends and were never seen or heard from again. Those are the ones about whom I occasionally reminisce.
Let's see now. First and foremost was J. Alan Gettys. How funny that I still remember his first initial. I guess that comes from doodling Mrs. J. Alan Gettys all over my English notebook again and again. Alan was strange and off-beat and completely different than any boy I'd ever known. He had wild, wavy brown hair and listened obsessively to bands like Judas Priest and Motley Crue, all the while writing me long, thirty-two page letters declaring his undying love for me. I loved him awful and dreamed of having his strange, wild-haired babies someday.
But, I wasn't built for long term commitment back then so it wasn't terribly long until my teenaged eye was wandering over to the other side of the fence, where I found Kenny. Kenny Alexander. Every school girl's dream.
The thing about Kenny was that he was quite a bit older than myself. The truth of the matter is, when Kenny and I first noticed one another in a church service, I was just fifteen and he was so not. In fact, he was a grown up guy with a job, a Jeep, and a boat. Whoopee! Jackpot! Kenny was no Jerry Lee Lewis though. He waited until I was officially sixteen to ask me on a date.
He rolled up to my house in his Jeep and opened the door for me so I could hoist myself up. We had made it no more than a mile when he stopped the Jeep, leaned over and kissed me. "I figured we'd get that out of the way right off the bat so we can relax and have a good time". Oddly enough, that maneuver did not relax me as much as he had hoped. Our relationship lasted only a few months. He was looking for a future bride and I was looking for lots of other boys.
Which I soon found. Next in the testosterone conga line was Robbie Jenkins. Robbie was about the sweetest guy in the entire world. He was a farm boy, an outstanding college student and had no vices whatsoever. I swear the worst thing I ever heard him say was, 'darn it'. My Daddy said I dumped him because he was too nice. I'm pretty sure he was right.
And then there was the only boy in the history of my long-legged life that ever broke my heart and dumped me. That's right. I'm forty and have only been dumped once. You just don't forget something like that. It was the kind of devastation that sticks to your ribs.
Jason Cabaniss. The love of my young life. He was quite a bit older than I, which as you are no doubt figuring out was a pattern for me way back when. I was a sophomore in high school and if memory serves me correctly, he was a junior in college.
Jason was purty. That's the best way to sum it up. He was just plain purty. Lots of curly brown hair, a killer smile, and he was also a very talented trumpet player. What more could a teenage girl want?
I was certain that I was someday going to head down the aisle with my very own trumpet player. I have to laugh at myself now. I had no idea what his other interests in life might be. I just figured trumpet playing must pay well, and even if it didn't, we'd live on love. He'd come home every day from a hard day of trumpet blowing at the office and I'd toddle to the door to greet him in my apron carrying a pot roast and one of our 2.5 children.
But, he had other plans.
I'm not sure what happened exactly, but one day he just didn't come home from college for the weekend as planned. Actually, we never did break up officially. As far as I'm concerned, we're still going out. I'm sure Mr. Man doesn't mind.
When he stopped coming around, I flung myself into what can only be described as an epic depression. I cried, I moped and I whined. I'm sure I was the single most annoying girl in the entire state of North Carolina. But, God builds teenage girls to move on so they can date another day and it wasn't too long before I started to heal and notice other boys. And then, just as the daily weeping was beginning to subside...I suffered a horrific set back.
It was my sixteenth birthday. The day I had been waiting for since I first understood what becoming sixteen meant. Driving. Freedom. And in North Carolina, probably my first marriage. My Stepmom, wanting to mark the occasion properly, organized and threw me a surprise birthday party. She called all my friends and because we went to the same church, she called Jason's house to invite his sister. Who knew Jason was home from school that weekend?
She couldn't exclude him. It wouldn't be the Christian thing to do.
I arrived at my party, fully surprised as I was meant to be. There was a cake, tons of food, a DJ, lots of friends. It was awesome. But as I looked around the room at everyone that had come to wish me a happy birthday, there was Jason and what he was holding wasn't wrapped. It was her. The other woman! He had brought his evil college girlfriend to my sixteenth birthday party. It was entirely unpleasant and my sweet sixteen party quickly turned into a pity party. The movie Carrie suddenly made perfect sense to me.
What I should have done was taken my weekly paycheck from Shoney's and hired an old gypsy woman to put a curse on the both of them. What I actually did was smile pretty and force the DJ to keep the strobe light on them while they were dancing. I guess I was hoping she'd have a seizure or something.
I have to admit though, as I've grown older and more insightful I have come to understand why young Southern Baptist teenage girls and college boys can't date for very long. College boys are walking loads of sex hormones who can think only of boobies and paradise by the dash board lights. Conversely, fifteen-year-old Southern Baptist girls are trained to guard their boobies like the gold at Ft. Knox and paradise by the dash board lights is nothing more than a cool song you're proud you know all the words to.
It was doomed from the beginning.
So, yes Sis. I do sometimes dance with the spirits of boyfriends past. Tall ones, short ones, old ones, horn blowing ones and even the ugly one named Bubba my Daddy forced me to go to supper with one Friday night a million years ago. At forty, I'm thankful for all those sweet memories. But I guess even more than that, I'm most thankful I am not addressed in any situation as Mrs. Bubba.
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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
Wonder what ever happened to Bubba?
My sister recently hopped a plane and visited me here in Corn Capital, USA. It was so much fun. Two sisters staying up late, eating pie and giggling. It was just like the good ole days, except now we have a few more creases on our faces and our jeans don't say Gloria Vanderbilt on the pocket.
We talked about everything. World peace, her new grandson, God and our all time favorite subject... BOYS!
I'm forty and she's thirty-nine and we still found ourselves talking about boys. Boys we used to love, boys we used to hate, boys we love now and all the boys in between. Frankly, there was a lot to talk about. But that's another story.
"Do you ever wonder," she asked grinning like a monkey, "what happened to some of the guys we used to date? What they look like? Who they married? Whether they ever think about us?"
I had to admit that indeed I sometimes do. Whether my wandering thoughts are triggered by a song, or an event or the heavy scent of Musk Oil, I don't know. But once in awhile my brain will travel backwards and I'm suddenly again in the eighties, teasing and spraying my hair and putting on so much black eye liner that I constantly had to shoo away raccoons who mistook me for their mother.
I had two sisters back home in North Carolina and we were all very close in age. Can you imagine how very much my Step-mom and my Dad loved that? We were a big-haired, hormonal trio like no other. If it was male, one or the other of us was interested.
My sister Les, the one who spent the weekend with me, was the youngest. (If you're doing the math, you've figured out that we couldn't possibly all be so close in age. Technically we are step-sisters, but growing up that phrase was never used. It still isn't.) Anyway, Les had a knack for hooking up with whatever boyfriend my other sister Connie and I decided to discard. It wasn't that Les couldn't get her own boyfriends. On the contrary. She was very beautiful and had lots of guys sniffing around her leg. I think it had more to do with getting in a little dig wherever and whenever she could to aggravate her two obnoxious older sisters.
Mission accomplished. It drove us nuts.
Just when we'd finally got rid of a boy for some very legitimate reason, like he chewed with his mouth open or he drove an ugly car, we'd come home from a date with whatever was behind door number two only to find our recently dumped suitor sitting on the couch with Les in a very friendly embrace. Not good.
You see, the thing about ex-boyfriends is this... They fall under the same category as pudding, as far as I'm concerned. I'll explain.
Maybe I've just finished supper and there is pudding for dessert. Now, I like pudding as pudding goes. But, after you've had it for three nights in a row, you get good and tired of it. You hesitate to throw it away, however because who knows what you might want late one night. So, you tuck it behind the cottage cheese and yesterday's pork chops secure in the knowledge that even though you probably will never have a hankering for it again, it'll be there waiting just in case you get a sweet tooth.
I found it highly upsetting to come home from a date and find Les on the couch eating my pudding.
She didn't get them all though. Most just drifted off to the land of Misfit Boyfriends and were never seen or heard from again. Those are the ones about whom I occasionally reminisce.
Let's see now. First and foremost was J. Alan Gettys. How funny that I still remember his first initial. I guess that comes from doodling Mrs. J. Alan Gettys all over my English notebook again and again. Alan was strange and off-beat and completely different than any boy I'd ever known. He had wild, wavy brown hair and listened obsessively to bands like Judas Priest and Motley Crue, all the while writing me long, thirty-two page letters declaring his undying love for me. I loved him awful and dreamed of having his strange, wild-haired babies someday.
But, I wasn't built for long term commitment back then so it wasn't terribly long until my teenaged eye was wandering over to the other side of the fence, where I found Kenny. Kenny Alexander. Every school girl's dream.
The thing about Kenny was that he was quite a bit older than myself. The truth of the matter is, when Kenny and I first noticed one another in a church service, I was just fifteen and he was so not. In fact, he was a grown up guy with a job, a Jeep, and a boat. Whoopee! Jackpot! Kenny was no Jerry Lee Lewis though. He waited until I was officially sixteen to ask me on a date.
He rolled up to my house in his Jeep and opened the door for me so I could hoist myself up. We had made it no more than a mile when he stopped the Jeep, leaned over and kissed me. "I figured we'd get that out of the way right off the bat so we can relax and have a good time". Oddly enough, that maneuver did not relax me as much as he had hoped. Our relationship lasted only a few months. He was looking for a future bride and I was looking for lots of other boys.
Which I soon found. Next in the testosterone conga line was Robbie Jenkins. Robbie was about the sweetest guy in the entire world. He was a farm boy, an outstanding college student and had no vices whatsoever. I swear the worst thing I ever heard him say was, 'darn it'. My Daddy said I dumped him because he was too nice. I'm pretty sure he was right.
And then there was the only boy in the history of my long-legged life that ever broke my heart and dumped me. That's right. I'm forty and have only been dumped once. You just don't forget something like that. It was the kind of devastation that sticks to your ribs.
Jason Cabaniss. The love of my young life. He was quite a bit older than I, which as you are no doubt figuring out was a pattern for me way back when. I was a sophomore in high school and if memory serves me correctly, he was a junior in college.
Jason was purty. That's the best way to sum it up. He was just plain purty. Lots of curly brown hair, a killer smile, and he was also a very talented trumpet player. What more could a teenage girl want?
I was certain that I was someday going to head down the aisle with my very own trumpet player. I have to laugh at myself now. I had no idea what his other interests in life might be. I just figured trumpet playing must pay well, and even if it didn't, we'd live on love. He'd come home every day from a hard day of trumpet blowing at the office and I'd toddle to the door to greet him in my apron carrying a pot roast and one of our 2.5 children.
But, he had other plans.
I'm not sure what happened exactly, but one day he just didn't come home from college for the weekend as planned. Actually, we never did break up officially. As far as I'm concerned, we're still going out. I'm sure Mr. Man doesn't mind.
When he stopped coming around, I flung myself into what can only be described as an epic depression. I cried, I moped and I whined. I'm sure I was the single most annoying girl in the entire state of North Carolina. But, God builds teenage girls to move on so they can date another day and it wasn't too long before I started to heal and notice other boys. And then, just as the daily weeping was beginning to subside...I suffered a horrific set back.
It was my sixteenth birthday. The day I had been waiting for since I first understood what becoming sixteen meant. Driving. Freedom. And in North Carolina, probably my first marriage. My Stepmom, wanting to mark the occasion properly, organized and threw me a surprise birthday party. She called all my friends and because we went to the same church, she called Jason's house to invite his sister. Who knew Jason was home from school that weekend?
She couldn't exclude him. It wouldn't be the Christian thing to do.
I arrived at my party, fully surprised as I was meant to be. There was a cake, tons of food, a DJ, lots of friends. It was awesome. But as I looked around the room at everyone that had come to wish me a happy birthday, there was Jason and what he was holding wasn't wrapped. It was her. The other woman! He had brought his evil college girlfriend to my sixteenth birthday party. It was entirely unpleasant and my sweet sixteen party quickly turned into a pity party. The movie Carrie suddenly made perfect sense to me.
What I should have done was taken my weekly paycheck from Shoney's and hired an old gypsy woman to put a curse on the both of them. What I actually did was smile pretty and force the DJ to keep the strobe light on them while they were dancing. I guess I was hoping she'd have a seizure or something.
I have to admit though, as I've grown older and more insightful I have come to understand why young Southern Baptist teenage girls and college boys can't date for very long. College boys are walking loads of sex hormones who can think only of boobies and paradise by the dash board lights. Conversely, fifteen-year-old Southern Baptist girls are trained to guard their boobies like the gold at Ft. Knox and paradise by the dash board lights is nothing more than a cool song you're proud you know all the words to.
It was doomed from the beginning.
So, yes Sis. I do sometimes dance with the spirits of boyfriends past. Tall ones, short ones, old ones, horn blowing ones and even the ugly one named Bubba my Daddy forced me to go to supper with one Friday night a million years ago. At forty, I'm thankful for all those sweet memories. But I guess even more than that, I'm most thankful I am not addressed in any situation as Mrs. Bubba.
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Hey, I could do that.
For the past several months I have been working for the public school system. At first, I really liked my job and left each day feeling like I had made a difference. Now I leave each day feeling like I may have helped create one more serial killer. I'm not loving it.
As I have contemplated leaving my current choice of employment, it's left me to wonder exactly what kind of job I would like to do. What kind of job am I qualified for and what kind of job would make me excited about waking up and sucking air every day? They say that you should follow your heart and do what you love.
Hmmmm.
I have always had an interest in make-up and large hair, so maybe I should be a cosmetologist. The problem with that is that I would make everyone in town look just like me. Men all over the place would constantly mistake normal, everyday women for hookers. That's probably not a good idea.
I love boneless chicken. Someone, somewhere is spending all day and half the night pulling the bones out of deceased chickens just so prissy women like me don't have to do it at home. Maybe I could get a job as a chicken boner.
I'm guessing since I am sitting here laughing hysterically because I said chicken boner, I should probably keep looking. I'm sure only people name Beavis work in chicken boning facilities anyway.
I love Dove chocolate. I could pull a Lucy and work on a Dove assembly line. I think I'd like to be the person that whittles the name on the top of the chocolates. I do have nice penmanship after all. The only potential problem with that is that I have absolutely no self control when it comes to chocolate consumption. I'd likely gain enough weight to sit in a circus trailer and make money just to let people point at me.
Maybe that's not such a bad idea. I could be a circus freak. You get to see the country through a trailer window and it's all the quarters people can throw at you.
When I was in high school I used to love torturing cheerleaders. I wonder if there is any money in that? Possibly if I threatened them with some sort of ugly and frightful deed and then promised not to do it if they paid me a small fee for protection. I kind of like that idea. I'll have to check the state statutes to make sure there is no law against cruelty to cheerleaders.
I truly enjoy driving over the suggested speed on our nation's highways. Perhaps a career with Nascar is in order. I could wear a really cool fire suit and hang out with others who similarly enjoy driving fast. But, then I would have to consider the fact that I would have helmet hair in all the pictures from the winner's circle. That is simply not an option, but as soon as they stop wearing helmets, you can bet I'll give it a try.
Before I was married I used to like men. Once Mr. Man put the ring on my finger naturally any and all interest in the opposite sex ended. Although I may be mistaken here, I believe I might run into a few legal issues if I like men for money. That kind of record would likely ruin my chances at being elected the first woman President. Or at staying married.
I like helping people. Many people have said of me, "My, but you are a helpful person". What if I went back to school to become a nurse. Well... now that I think about it, that's no good either. I pass out at the sight of blood and I can't think I will ever need a job badly enough to clean up someone else's stomach contents for fun and profit. That's too bad though because I look really cute in white.
What in the world am I going to do with myself? Clearly there are no good choices for me when it comes to a job. I have no idea what to do, so my plan is to sit on the sofa and eat potted meat until an answer comes to me.
Hey! Wait a minute. How do you suppose a person breaks in the potted meat game?
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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
For the past several months I have been working for the public school system. At first, I really liked my job and left each day feeling like I had made a difference. Now I leave each day feeling like I may have helped create one more serial killer. I'm not loving it.
As I have contemplated leaving my current choice of employment, it's left me to wonder exactly what kind of job I would like to do. What kind of job am I qualified for and what kind of job would make me excited about waking up and sucking air every day? They say that you should follow your heart and do what you love.
Hmmmm.
I have always had an interest in make-up and large hair, so maybe I should be a cosmetologist. The problem with that is that I would make everyone in town look just like me. Men all over the place would constantly mistake normal, everyday women for hookers. That's probably not a good idea.
I love boneless chicken. Someone, somewhere is spending all day and half the night pulling the bones out of deceased chickens just so prissy women like me don't have to do it at home. Maybe I could get a job as a chicken boner.
I'm guessing since I am sitting here laughing hysterically because I said chicken boner, I should probably keep looking. I'm sure only people name Beavis work in chicken boning facilities anyway.
I love Dove chocolate. I could pull a Lucy and work on a Dove assembly line. I think I'd like to be the person that whittles the name on the top of the chocolates. I do have nice penmanship after all. The only potential problem with that is that I have absolutely no self control when it comes to chocolate consumption. I'd likely gain enough weight to sit in a circus trailer and make money just to let people point at me.
Maybe that's not such a bad idea. I could be a circus freak. You get to see the country through a trailer window and it's all the quarters people can throw at you.
When I was in high school I used to love torturing cheerleaders. I wonder if there is any money in that? Possibly if I threatened them with some sort of ugly and frightful deed and then promised not to do it if they paid me a small fee for protection. I kind of like that idea. I'll have to check the state statutes to make sure there is no law against cruelty to cheerleaders.
I truly enjoy driving over the suggested speed on our nation's highways. Perhaps a career with Nascar is in order. I could wear a really cool fire suit and hang out with others who similarly enjoy driving fast. But, then I would have to consider the fact that I would have helmet hair in all the pictures from the winner's circle. That is simply not an option, but as soon as they stop wearing helmets, you can bet I'll give it a try.
Before I was married I used to like men. Once Mr. Man put the ring on my finger naturally any and all interest in the opposite sex ended. Although I may be mistaken here, I believe I might run into a few legal issues if I like men for money. That kind of record would likely ruin my chances at being elected the first woman President. Or at staying married.
I like helping people. Many people have said of me, "My, but you are a helpful person". What if I went back to school to become a nurse. Well... now that I think about it, that's no good either. I pass out at the sight of blood and I can't think I will ever need a job badly enough to clean up someone else's stomach contents for fun and profit. That's too bad though because I look really cute in white.
What in the world am I going to do with myself? Clearly there are no good choices for me when it comes to a job. I have no idea what to do, so my plan is to sit on the sofa and eat potted meat until an answer comes to me.
Hey! Wait a minute. How do you suppose a person breaks in the potted meat game?
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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
Monday, October 11, 2004
How do I spell relief?
H-o-r-s-e U-r-i-n-e!
It seems that my little forty-year-old body is beginning to show signs of wear. Things are breaking and falling apart quicker than I can get into the shop to have them repaired. My thyroid has gone bonkers and is growing so fast that Hollywood is calling hoping to buy the movie rights to "The Thyroid That Ate New Jersey". My hair is falling out, my skin is drier than chalk and I've gained some weight as well.
I'm one hot mamma.
And let's not forget what's been happening to my inner beauty. I either cry all the time or I randomly threaten to chop a loved one up into tiny, bite-sized pieces. Everything tastes funny, I'm bone tired all the time and my house stays a balmy 110 degrees day in and day out, despite the fact that my family is wearing sweaters and mittens and crying about how cold it is in here.
Although they don't know it, I have overheard my family talking about me when they think I am not around. They are using words like, "exorcist" and "straight jacket" and I'm reasonably sure I heard Mr. Man wondering aloud whether or not I could find my way back if they dumped me in the woods.
Ungrateful little long-haired monkeys anyway.
And so, despite my dim view of western medicine and the whole white coat wearing lot of them, I have embarked on what is turning out to be a long, medical journey. In the words of Arthur's long-suffering man servant Hobson when told he should see a doctor, "I have seen them and they have seen me".
I have been poked, prodded, stuck, measured, radiated and x-rayed. I truly believe if they could find a way to bill Blue Cross for flying in magic Pygmy turtles from the dark Pygmy forests of Zimbabwe...or wherever one might find the magic turtle habitat, they would surely do it.
Twice.
Although we have yet to determine why my neck presently looks like I am storing up walnuts for winter, my friendly neighborhood physician has found something of interest in the meantime. Something that could explain my little mood swings and bouts of hot flashes.
It seems I am running low on estrogen. Really low. If I were a car and estrogen were gasoline, I would be coming to a screeching halt in rush hour traffic. Basically, I have so little of this important female hormone that it's nothing short of a miracle I have not yet sprouted testicles.
Who knew?
My doctor broke the news to me on my last visit. He had decided that the only thing he had failed to check before sending me on to a specialist, which is doctor code for "I have no freaking idea what's wrong with you", was what was between my legs. What a hoot. He ordered more blood work and scheduled my annual pelvic examination, which I like to have at least once every ten years whether I need it or not.
"Hmmm," said the man in the green gloves while he was about elbow deep in my china. (Let that sink a minute. I'll wait for you to catch up.) "It looks like your blood tests are right. Your estrogen is very low".
Is there some sort of estrogen dip stick I was unaware of? Some little dashboard light down there flashing, "Check Estrogen"?
"Just relax and breathe deeply and it won't be as uncomfortable", he said.
I'm reasonably sure that this phrase is on page one of the "How To Talk To Women" man handbook because they use it in every conceivable situation. My boyfriend said it when I lost my virginity. My first husband said it to me when I was giving birth to my daughter. My second husband said it when I was having our son. And my divorce lawyer says it every time I write him a check.
There I am flat on my back with my feet in shiny horse stirrups wearing nothing but a paper dress and pink socks while Captain White Coat roots around in my china like he's lost his Timex and thinks he hears a faint ticking somewhere around my left ovary. It's at moments like these that conversation is simply not necessary. Get in, do the deal and get out.
Women everywhere understand this. It's a universal truth. What in the world makes male doctors think that this is the perfect opportunity to get to know our thoughts on the weather, or the Cubbies or fishing? Yes, they will even try to talk to us about fishing rather than have the room be silent while they go spelunking in our female caverns.
Once while I was in such a position, a doctor actually asked, "So, you like to go fishing?"
I said, "Why? Did you find a lure in there? I was wondering where I left that."
Once his expedition was over, he politely handed me some tissue and left the room so that I could get dressed in my normal, non-paper clothes. As nice as the paper dresses are, one should almost never wear them on the street. They're designed strictly for exam room entertaining.
"Sher, I'm going to draw you a little picture," he said after I was again sitting upright and fully clothed.
Goodie! Cartoons!
"This is a normal woman's estrogen level here," scribble, scribble, scribble, "And this is a post menopausal woman's estrogen level here."
"So where do I fit in this picture, Doc?"
"You are the hairy stick figure over here with a beard and a penis."
Apparently the old ovaries have tired of working and have decided to close shop early. They do not care that I am only forty and they do not care that their lack of work ethic has caused me great distress. They are shriveling up like old old grapes and leaving me to become an estrogen challenged woman long before I expected to be.
My monthly visits from my bitchy old Aunt Flo are beginning to decrease and before you know it, she'll finally get the message and stop showing up at all. I'll never again know what it's like to be pregnant and I'll never, ever experience the joy of childbirth.
All I can say is....
Yee-Haw! Whoopee! Hot dang! Bring on the horse urine, Baby 'cause mamma's having hot flashes and she can't wait for the big "M" to move on through. I'm going to turn the air conditioning up, grab my estrogen in a bottle and have a menopause party. You're welcome to come. But make sure you bring your own estrogen. I'm not sharing.
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
H-o-r-s-e U-r-i-n-e!
It seems that my little forty-year-old body is beginning to show signs of wear. Things are breaking and falling apart quicker than I can get into the shop to have them repaired. My thyroid has gone bonkers and is growing so fast that Hollywood is calling hoping to buy the movie rights to "The Thyroid That Ate New Jersey". My hair is falling out, my skin is drier than chalk and I've gained some weight as well.
I'm one hot mamma.
And let's not forget what's been happening to my inner beauty. I either cry all the time or I randomly threaten to chop a loved one up into tiny, bite-sized pieces. Everything tastes funny, I'm bone tired all the time and my house stays a balmy 110 degrees day in and day out, despite the fact that my family is wearing sweaters and mittens and crying about how cold it is in here.
Although they don't know it, I have overheard my family talking about me when they think I am not around. They are using words like, "exorcist" and "straight jacket" and I'm reasonably sure I heard Mr. Man wondering aloud whether or not I could find my way back if they dumped me in the woods.
Ungrateful little long-haired monkeys anyway.
And so, despite my dim view of western medicine and the whole white coat wearing lot of them, I have embarked on what is turning out to be a long, medical journey. In the words of Arthur's long-suffering man servant Hobson when told he should see a doctor, "I have seen them and they have seen me".
I have been poked, prodded, stuck, measured, radiated and x-rayed. I truly believe if they could find a way to bill Blue Cross for flying in magic Pygmy turtles from the dark Pygmy forests of Zimbabwe...or wherever one might find the magic turtle habitat, they would surely do it.
Twice.
Although we have yet to determine why my neck presently looks like I am storing up walnuts for winter, my friendly neighborhood physician has found something of interest in the meantime. Something that could explain my little mood swings and bouts of hot flashes.
It seems I am running low on estrogen. Really low. If I were a car and estrogen were gasoline, I would be coming to a screeching halt in rush hour traffic. Basically, I have so little of this important female hormone that it's nothing short of a miracle I have not yet sprouted testicles.
Who knew?
My doctor broke the news to me on my last visit. He had decided that the only thing he had failed to check before sending me on to a specialist, which is doctor code for "I have no freaking idea what's wrong with you", was what was between my legs. What a hoot. He ordered more blood work and scheduled my annual pelvic examination, which I like to have at least once every ten years whether I need it or not.
"Hmmm," said the man in the green gloves while he was about elbow deep in my china. (Let that sink a minute. I'll wait for you to catch up.) "It looks like your blood tests are right. Your estrogen is very low".
Is there some sort of estrogen dip stick I was unaware of? Some little dashboard light down there flashing, "Check Estrogen"?
"Just relax and breathe deeply and it won't be as uncomfortable", he said.
I'm reasonably sure that this phrase is on page one of the "How To Talk To Women" man handbook because they use it in every conceivable situation. My boyfriend said it when I lost my virginity. My first husband said it to me when I was giving birth to my daughter. My second husband said it when I was having our son. And my divorce lawyer says it every time I write him a check.
There I am flat on my back with my feet in shiny horse stirrups wearing nothing but a paper dress and pink socks while Captain White Coat roots around in my china like he's lost his Timex and thinks he hears a faint ticking somewhere around my left ovary. It's at moments like these that conversation is simply not necessary. Get in, do the deal and get out.
Women everywhere understand this. It's a universal truth. What in the world makes male doctors think that this is the perfect opportunity to get to know our thoughts on the weather, or the Cubbies or fishing? Yes, they will even try to talk to us about fishing rather than have the room be silent while they go spelunking in our female caverns.
Once while I was in such a position, a doctor actually asked, "So, you like to go fishing?"
I said, "Why? Did you find a lure in there? I was wondering where I left that."
Once his expedition was over, he politely handed me some tissue and left the room so that I could get dressed in my normal, non-paper clothes. As nice as the paper dresses are, one should almost never wear them on the street. They're designed strictly for exam room entertaining.
"Sher, I'm going to draw you a little picture," he said after I was again sitting upright and fully clothed.
Goodie! Cartoons!
"This is a normal woman's estrogen level here," scribble, scribble, scribble, "And this is a post menopausal woman's estrogen level here."
"So where do I fit in this picture, Doc?"
"You are the hairy stick figure over here with a beard and a penis."
Apparently the old ovaries have tired of working and have decided to close shop early. They do not care that I am only forty and they do not care that their lack of work ethic has caused me great distress. They are shriveling up like old old grapes and leaving me to become an estrogen challenged woman long before I expected to be.
My monthly visits from my bitchy old Aunt Flo are beginning to decrease and before you know it, she'll finally get the message and stop showing up at all. I'll never again know what it's like to be pregnant and I'll never, ever experience the joy of childbirth.
All I can say is....
Yee-Haw! Whoopee! Hot dang! Bring on the horse urine, Baby 'cause mamma's having hot flashes and she can't wait for the big "M" to move on through. I'm going to turn the air conditioning up, grab my estrogen in a bottle and have a menopause party. You're welcome to come. But make sure you bring your own estrogen. I'm not sharing.
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
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Do you serve revenge in a crock pot or on ice?
My loyal readers will have noticed by now that I have not been writing on any sort of regular basis as of late. I love saying, "my loyal readers". It sounds like I have droves of them when in reality it's just my Mom, my husband and some weird guy from Montana that lives with a goat named Sheila and thinks I have a purty mouth.
I have been absolutely incapable of writing for a few months now. Well, that's not entirely true. I have written my obituary again and again. I keep hoping it'll turn out differently, but in the end I'm always dead.
Frankly, I've just been too depressed to write. I've spent hours on end wearing my fat pants and hiding under my desk with a can of chocolate frosting and a spoon. I haven't chased the dog around the house, I haven't river danced and the fire batons haven't once been fired up.
It's been a pitiful time here in Whoville.
What has caused this severe lack of happiness and lack of writing motivation, you ask? Well, grab yourself a hanky and beverage to cry into and I'll tell you.
An editor. Plain and simple, short and sweet. An editor. I can't be certain, but I think his middle name was Beelzebub and I observed that his email address did have an unusually large recurrence of the number six in it.
I'm a writer of the kinds of things many people will just never get, therefore I am plenty accustomed to rejection when I finally do get the nerve to submit my work to a publication. But this rejection was different. This was a vampire editor. He is able to maintain his pathetic life only through luring innocent writers into his lair and then digging his teeth deep into our literary jugulars until every last drop of our creativity has been sucked dry.
Thankfully, I'm not bitter.
But, while I was wallering around the house knee deep in self pity and Betty Crocker, I started to wonder about revenge. Have I ever really "gotten back" at someone when I've had my feelings hurt and more importantly, how could I get back at this mean old so and so?
I'm told revenge is a dish best served cold, but I'm not nearly clever enough to know what that means. Sort of makes revenge sound like green onion dip.
The truth is I get my feelings hurt all the time and admittedly way too easily. In fact, if I have been in the same room with you for more than two minutes, chances are you've hurt my feelings. Frankly, if I were to seek revenge on every person that has made me cry, I'd spend six days a week doing nothing but putting sugar in gas tanks.
I do have to admit that I have a slightly evil side that periodically dreams up ways to exact my revenge on those who have wronged me. Much like that little cartoon devil that sits on the shoulder of Fred Flinstone when he's faced with the choice between right and wrong, she encourages me to do evil things when my feelings are hurt. And although I usually manage to shut her up, once in awhile I'd really like to do something entirely nasty.
Which brings me back to the editor that I have decided would make an excellent prison cellmate for any toothless guy named Bubba currently residing in our country's penal system. I've decided to get him back. To do that, I will simply write the world's greatest novel titled, "The Meanest Man That Ever Lived" for which I will undoubtedly win the Pulitzer and will be paid the tidy sum of one go-zillion dollars.
And when I am interviewed by Oprah, I will tell her my sad story of woe and how this editorial troll nearly squashed my inner spirit (she loves that inner spirit stuff) and how I somehow overcame his mental cruelty one painful day at a time. He will be ostrasized by the entire nation and some parts of Ireland and will be forced to live alone on an island inhabited only by those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz where he will die old and alone.
OK. Maybe I'm just a smidge bitter.
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
My loyal readers will have noticed by now that I have not been writing on any sort of regular basis as of late. I love saying, "my loyal readers". It sounds like I have droves of them when in reality it's just my Mom, my husband and some weird guy from Montana that lives with a goat named Sheila and thinks I have a purty mouth.
I have been absolutely incapable of writing for a few months now. Well, that's not entirely true. I have written my obituary again and again. I keep hoping it'll turn out differently, but in the end I'm always dead.
Frankly, I've just been too depressed to write. I've spent hours on end wearing my fat pants and hiding under my desk with a can of chocolate frosting and a spoon. I haven't chased the dog around the house, I haven't river danced and the fire batons haven't once been fired up.
It's been a pitiful time here in Whoville.
What has caused this severe lack of happiness and lack of writing motivation, you ask? Well, grab yourself a hanky and beverage to cry into and I'll tell you.
An editor. Plain and simple, short and sweet. An editor. I can't be certain, but I think his middle name was Beelzebub and I observed that his email address did have an unusually large recurrence of the number six in it.
I'm a writer of the kinds of things many people will just never get, therefore I am plenty accustomed to rejection when I finally do get the nerve to submit my work to a publication. But this rejection was different. This was a vampire editor. He is able to maintain his pathetic life only through luring innocent writers into his lair and then digging his teeth deep into our literary jugulars until every last drop of our creativity has been sucked dry.
Thankfully, I'm not bitter.
But, while I was wallering around the house knee deep in self pity and Betty Crocker, I started to wonder about revenge. Have I ever really "gotten back" at someone when I've had my feelings hurt and more importantly, how could I get back at this mean old so and so?
I'm told revenge is a dish best served cold, but I'm not nearly clever enough to know what that means. Sort of makes revenge sound like green onion dip.
The truth is I get my feelings hurt all the time and admittedly way too easily. In fact, if I have been in the same room with you for more than two minutes, chances are you've hurt my feelings. Frankly, if I were to seek revenge on every person that has made me cry, I'd spend six days a week doing nothing but putting sugar in gas tanks.
I do have to admit that I have a slightly evil side that periodically dreams up ways to exact my revenge on those who have wronged me. Much like that little cartoon devil that sits on the shoulder of Fred Flinstone when he's faced with the choice between right and wrong, she encourages me to do evil things when my feelings are hurt. And although I usually manage to shut her up, once in awhile I'd really like to do something entirely nasty.
Which brings me back to the editor that I have decided would make an excellent prison cellmate for any toothless guy named Bubba currently residing in our country's penal system. I've decided to get him back. To do that, I will simply write the world's greatest novel titled, "The Meanest Man That Ever Lived" for which I will undoubtedly win the Pulitzer and will be paid the tidy sum of one go-zillion dollars.
And when I am interviewed by Oprah, I will tell her my sad story of woe and how this editorial troll nearly squashed my inner spirit (she loves that inner spirit stuff) and how I somehow overcame his mental cruelty one painful day at a time. He will be ostrasized by the entire nation and some parts of Ireland and will be forced to live alone on an island inhabited only by those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz where he will die old and alone.
OK. Maybe I'm just a smidge bitter.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)