~ My picture on this blog makes me look like I have a lazy eye. Seriously. I was telling someone yesterday that it makes me look like one of those spooky Scooby-Doo paintings that follows you wherever you go.
Go ahead. Try it.
I totally see you over there.
~ As I was watching Fox News this morning, I heard the funniest thing I've heard on the Republican news in a long time and found myself laughing so hard I nearly spilled coffee all over my boxers.
During an interview with the mother of a grade schooler who had been told he could not read his Bible during recess, her attorney (naturally there is an attorney) said, and this is what made me crack up, "These grade schoolers are free to discuss alcohol and illicit sex on the playground. Why not the Bible?"
I'm all for the Bible on the playground or wherever else it wants or needs to be and as a Republican, I do so love the Republican news channel. But, what kind of school is this anyway? I'm not even free to discuss alcohol and illicit sex in my own home and I'm forty-one! I can't see little third grade Bobby hanging upside down on the monkey bars with boogers stuck to his chin saying, "Hey there Mary Lou. Did you see that very special episode of Rug Rats last night when Chuckie drank alcohol and had illicit sex with Lil?" It made me laugh till my side hurt. Maybe I need to get out more.
~ I came home from tanning yesterday (yes, I bake myself like a turkey and will someday look like shoe leather) and on my front porch I found a beautiful rose. It was yellow with pink just around the edges and it was in a pretty vase. No note. No indication of who left it. Mr. Man was sleeping and anyway I knew it wasn't him because the last time he brought me roses was our first Valentine's Day together and I dismembered him with words for daring to offer me such a cliche gift on such a manufactured holiday.
Anyway, I went inside, closed the blinds and did a little happy dance because someone secretly loved me. We all want to be secretly loved, but not everyone is as honest about it as am I.
I found out later that indeed I am secretly loved. By the elderly lady next door. I love her, too. (But why couldn't she have been a firefighter or Elvis or Harry Connick, Jr.?)
~ I went swimsuit shopping the other day. We're taking the family to a lodge the first week in June and it has a massive indoor/outdoor waterpark. I can't be seen waterparking around in something I've worn for two summers in a row. Much to my dismay, apparently there are only two kinds of swimsuits available for women this season. Truck stop hooker/exotic dancer at Barbie's Tuck-A-Buck and Grandma the retired librarian whose boobs reach the floor.
I'm doomed. There are no swimsuits for forty-one-year-old mothers of two who don't work for tips at a hotel near the airport and don't know the first thing about Dewey Decimal or using a quiet voice.
Maybe I'll start my own clothing line and call it, "My Girls Are Still Perky, But I'm Not Eighteen Any More". Something so tastefully done that men will neither throw up nor drool and of course something that wouldn't cause Little Bobby the third grade retrograde to say illicit things about me or want to consume alcohol from his chocolate milk carton.
I'm headed for the sewing room. I'm going to need some fabric, a glue gun, some staples and as many spangles and sequins as I can get my hands on because I so do not know how to sew.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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