I'm feeling all tilty-whirley.

I have a confession to make, so I figured "Hey, why not confess my personal business on the internet to complete strangers?" It's cheaper than therapy plus I won't have the added stress of having to see the look of complete shock in your eyes as I have seen in the eyes of so many white coat wearing therapists.

The look is typically followed by the sound of pages flipping wildly in their therapist how-to manuals as they search for the answer to the question I've just asked them, "If a talking monkey dressed like Marilyn Monroe came to me in my dreams and sang, "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" while mixing Duncan Hines cake batter and holding a sparkler, why do I hate my Mother?"

I'll take The Rapists for $500, Alex. (If you don't get that, you are seriously deficient in your SNL watching and should stop what you're doing right now and catch up.)

OK. As promised, here's my confession...

I am a liar. That's right, I said it. A big, fat liar. If I were a little piggy, I'd lie, lie, lie all the way home. If there were a nation called Liar Land, I would be the sovereign ruler and wear both a crown and a sash.

It's true. I wouldn't lie to you.

Before you get all, "Wow! Let's condemn her and throw stones at her and make her wear a scarlet L on her shirt like Laverne!", I should clarify. I don't lie about everything. I am a selective liar. I only lie about things that pertain to me. (And yeah, everything pertains to me.)

If you ask me if the sky is blue, and it is in fact blue, I will answer yes, the sky is blue. Conversely, if you call my cell and ask me how I'm feeling and I say, "fine", it's likely I'm standing on the edge of a tall, tall cliff wondering whether or not I've got the guts to spread my imaginary wings and fly.

I used "conversely" in a sentence. I've always wanted to do that.

Anyway, my ability to smile pretty and lie through my teeth has served me well through the years. "Sher, do you take this man for better or for worse, in sickness and in health until SOMEBODY DIES?"

"Yes. Oh yes I do! You betcha. Now when you say somebody has to die, do you mean literally or does dying a little on the inside every single day for years and years count?"

It's also helpful when Mr. Man calls home. "Hello wife. How are you today?"

"Peachy. Couldn't be better. Fabulous, even." Because I am oh so skilled, he has no idea I have spent the entire day eating cookie dough and listening to the world's saddest opera loud enough to drown out low flying airplanes.

I go through life sucking in my tummy, saying I'm fine when I'm a crumbling mess of emotion and wearing a wild , plastered on smile that is faintly reminiscent of a serial killer.

I hate me and I am really getting tired of myself. I want to quit, but since the first step is admitting I have a problem and I know I'll lie to anyone that asks me if I'm lying, I'm doomed.

Fortunately, there is one person on the face of the earth that I can't lie to, so I am able to maintain some degree of sanity. For reasons I do not understand, she gets the real me, yucky tummy and all. She knows I drink milk right out of the carton, burp like a drunken wrestler at least several times a day and laugh until I snort whenever I see a sign outside a convenience store that says, "Cigarettes and Money Orders". (Seriously, who would be driving down the road and suddenly become inexplicably persuaded by that signage to smoke and send someone money? "Pull in that Stop-N-Go, Marge. That cigarette and money order combination special is simply too good to pass up.")

The one person I can trust to love me burping and all is my Berta Lou. My tilt-a-whirl loving, red-headed, sneaky, barbecue chicken chunk eating, bestest friend in the whole world. Sometimes, especially lately, I really feel sorry for the girl. While everyone else in the world gets the cleaned up, half way sane version of me, she has to deal with the blubbering, completely insane, obsessive-compulsive version that I feel safe to unleash only on her.

She's often the only thing that keeps me from putting on a pretty dress and laying down in the middle of the street. When I call her at three in the morning without so much as a hello and say, "I'm about to do something stupid" she knows me well enough to say, "step away from the scissors".

When I ask, "Can I run away?" she asks no questions but simply says I can, so long as I come get her on my way out of town. I always laugh and unpack my Wal-Mart bag luggage.

Mr. Man and I actually had an argument once because I told him I was convinced that if I killed a human being who deserved killing, chopped him up into little bite-sized pieces with a paring knife and served him for lunch Fried Green Tomatoes style, Berta Lou would lie under oath to protect me. "No way," said Mr. Law Man. "She'd have to tell the truth and you know it."

"You're right of course, Husband," I said. "Hey, I'm in the mood for barbecue. Would you sharpen my good knife?"

Berta Lou laughs at me when I need laughing at, cries with me when I need a crying buddy and is the only person that has ever noticed I make it a habit to flirt with waiters to ensure they don't spit in my food. She is my constant friend and even though I'm not Catholic, she's my priest. I love her awful and if I ever wake up rich and famous, I will take her on a world tour of the most famous tilt-a-whirls in all the land and we will eat frosting for breakfast and wear Girl Scout vests covered with the various and assorted badges we've earned living life.

Pack your bags, Berta Lou. I'm putting on my running shoes and that ain't no lie.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Dear God,

Hi there. This is Sher. You may have me in your records as Sherri Lynn, but nobody calls me that 'cause I hate it. In fact, if you're looking for something to do today, you might force my parents to call and apologize to me for sticking me with a name that has always made me feel like I'll never be successful until I am singing at the Grand Ole Opry.

Or married to someone named Buck or Conway.

The reason I'm contacting you today God is that I need a favor. I know you're busy what with world hunger and homelessness and disease, but I'm hoping you'll take a minute to consider my request.

Would you please smite Tom Cruise? Just a little smite, mind you. I'm not asking for a swarm of locusts or a generational curse or anything that'll take up a bunch of your time in planning and execution. What I'm looking for here is something my Pop used to call a "love tap" from the almighty creator of the universe so that Tommy Boy will be reminded he's not it.

Here's the thing Lord, the man is really getting on my nerves. If you want me to be honest, and I'm going to bet you do, I've never been a Tom Cruise fan. Whatever magical thing it is about him that makes women go weak in the knees and spontaneously lose brain cells, I surely am immune to it as I've never felt even the tiniest desire to touch his hair or use the phrase, "you complete me" in any situation. Maybe you installed a Tommy shield in my head or something, I don't know. I guess you'll need to check your manufacturer's records for that.

Thankfully, I have largely been able to live my life without so much as thinking about Tom Cruise. I don't watch his movies, don't day dream about him and he never calls or emails, so it's easy to forget he exists.

Until lately.

He's everywhere. If I didn't know better, I'd think you possibly made more than one of him, sort of like flies or mosquitoes. One minute he's slobbering all over himself about the new love of his life, who I am quite sure only had her first period a year or two ago. The next, he's talking to Matt Lauer like he's Carl Jung and Matt is a little dreamy dwarf...and frankly God, if Tommy reads this, he won't even understand what I just said, which proves my point. He needs smitin' like nobody's business.

If you aren't OK with smacking him around a little bit, how about you curse him with a smidge of mental illness maybe? Perhaps a couple of voices telling him to shave his head or just enough OCD to cause him to spend hours on end worrying that the stove isn't really off. And then, here's the best part, don't let him have any medication to ease the insanity. Instead, drop a Richard Simmons video and a pound of bananas on his head. According to the psychology of the Tom, eating fruit while wearing a purple headband and Sweatin to the Oldies will stop the madness in its tracks.

Listen, I know I'm a wee bit disgruntled at the moment and about one missed dose of estrogen away from flying to Washington to address Congress about the public menace that is Tom Cruise, so I'm hoping you'll cut me some slack and maybe leave this request I've made of you off my permanent record. I've done enough damage to that thing the last couple days as I'm nearly positive you were watching when I hopped in the 10 items or less line with 42 things. Oh, and when I gently and lovingly explained to Mr. Man that he could submit a formal written complaint to me regarding his upset at the lack of clean underwear in his drawer...and how many times he could fold it before I shoved it right up his....

nose.

Serenity now. Serenity now. OK. I'm all good. But, please seriously consider this smite thing. I really think it would make us both feel better.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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A day in the life of....

I have so much to do this week it ain't even funny and of course, Mr. Man is excused from helping because he's off wearing a big gun and protecting the world from people who want to take the Homer Simpson reality tour. (He works at a nuclear power plant, people. That's why that's funny.) There are words to be written, fires to be put out, things to be updated and government agencies to be dealt with. I'm not loving it. I figure I'd better get organized and make myself a list or Friday will show up and I will still be sitting here doodling Mrs. Michael Buble all over my notebook.

Confirm reservations for hotel in Branson. I'm going to spend several days next week in Branson, Missouri. My parents are coming in from North Carolina and they have a hankering to pay huge amounts of money to see has been singers who can't even get a gig at a six-year-olds birthday party in Dayton, perform such standards as "The Streak" and "Born Free". I love them and don't get to see them often enough, so I will go and pretend that I've never been completely happy since Lawrence Welk went off the air.

Fill prescription for extra strength Mexican valium. Just in case I should become overly excited when I see Buck Owens eating pie at a restaurant in Branson, I want to have the ability to calm myself with prescription medication. He's not dead is he? Oh well, I guess if he is dead, seeing him eat pie would most definitely require a need to self medicate.

Hire hypnotist. Here's the thing. Mr. Man makes fun of my choices in music and as I plan on listening to exactly what I want all the way to the Hee Haw of the Ozarks, I'll need some form of mind control so I don't have to listen to his complaints. I would also like to have the ability to cause him to spontaneously sing the theme song to the Flintstones as Ethel Merman every time I snap my fingers.

Purchase new tags for the automobiles. While I would rather stick a fork in Mr. Man's eye than stand in line at the tag getting place, do it I must. Sure, I've had a month to take care of this and sure, I've waited until the very last minute possible to take care of it, but I have a good reason: I don't want to do it. I have to drive to a tiny city several miles away called Erie to get them. Who in their right mind would ever go to a city named Erie of their own free will? I'm an obsessive-compulsive superstitious chick who won't even step on the cracks in the sidewalk. If you never hear from me again, it's because I was sucked into the black hole, parallel universe that is Erie. At least I'll have current tags.

Buy more frozen peas. While it's true I have enough frozen peas in my deep freezer to give a single pea to everyone in the state, I feel the need to own more. I don't know what you've heard, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my next husband works in the frozen pea aisle at Wal-Mart. I simply appreciate the incredible nutritional value of frozen peas.

Force my son to do stuff he doesn't want to do. As my favorite guy starts a three day football camp tomorrow, I am in a unique position to get anything I want out of him today. That's because he is absolutely terrified I will hang around at camp and do something horribly embarrassing, like dress as a cheerleader and run up and down the sidelines screaming his name, or yell at the coaches not to hurt my sweet baboo, or maybe even wash all the dirt from his sweet face with my spit and a Kleenex I whip out of my bra. I'm sure I have no idea where he got the notion his Mother would be capable of such behavior. All that matters to me is that the trash is getting taken out today and the dog is getting a bath.

It's gonna be one heck of a week, for sure. Maybe I should add, "run away to Vegas" to my list. Yeah. That sounds good.

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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What is love?

I don't know about you, but I'm simply a flutter about the new show, "Hit Me Baby One More Time". I'm all about seeing what ever happened to the people that sang the songs that have been the soundtrack of my life.

Sometimes they still look and sound great and it's like stepping back in time to the front seat of that Chevette where my boyfriend Dale taught me what love ain't on junior prom night. But unfortunately, sometimes it's nothing nice, Baby.

I don't know what happened to these people! I mean seriously. They have totally gotten old. (Unlike this author, who thanks to the magic of bad lighting and refusing to look at myself in the mirror while wearing glasses, still looks twenty-three.) They have wrinkles, pot bellies and in several instances, very little hair. I won't even talk about what has happened to their voices.

OK. I will talk about it.

I don't know whether it's the years of doing superstar drugs that we all know they do but for which they are never punished, or perhaps it's just the effect time can have on the old vocal chords. Whatever the problem, some of these people just cannot sing!

Which begs the question...could they ever sing? Were we a bunch of deaf people back in the 80's? Did we damage our eardrums listening to AC/DC way too loud and therefore couldn't distinguish between a talented singer and the sound a cat makes when you give it an enema. (Not that I've given a cat an enema lately, but I'm going to make an educated guess that the sound it would emit might be somewhat unpleasant.)

And the songs we listened to! I'm near embarrassed to tell you that one of my favorites was, "Word Up". In fact, I loved Cameo so much it's a mystery to me I didn't have my first husband wear a cod piece at our wedding. Who am I kidding? I still love the stupid song and I'll probably be listening to it when I'm 104 and shaking my jello-jiggler type behind all around the nursing home my ungrateful children will undoubtedly throw me in. (Note to self: do not get in the car with kids when you are 104.)

Another artist I was way crazy about is Vanilla Ice. He was mad gorgeous and dripping with the bad boy vibes that made good girls like me want to stop, collaborate and listen. I'll admit I was a little nervous about seeing my Vanilla boy on the show, though. I so did not want to watch him waddle out in polyester pants with a beer gut and a traveling preacher comb over.

Let's just say the man has been sleeping in a rapper sized Ziploc baggie or something 'cause he still looks exactly the way he did back in the day... and thankfully sounds the same as well. Hopefully he'll fill out the very short application that is required to get on my "Husband's of the Future" waiting list, because I would love to wake up every day and hear him whisper, "word to your mother".

Hit Me Baby One More Time is the cat's meow and I encourage you to check it out, if for no other reason than you'll feel like a kid again. It's been more than just a form of entertainment for me actually as I've learned a couple valuable lessons after watching it.

Lesson number one: God really did me a favor when he decided I couldn't be Mrs. Loverboy in 1983. Apparently LoverBoys do not keep well over time. I'm thinking they should possibly get in touch with Vanilla Ice and find out where he gets his Ziploc nocturnal sleeping chamber.

Lesson number two: I need to visit my physician immediately to find out if they offer a cure for what happens as a result of prolonged and excess use of Final Net Extra Super Dooper Hold hair spray. All I know is Flock of Seagulls had hair twenty years ago... boy did they. And now look at them. They are the Flock of Bald on Top Seagulls, which I believe were recently added to our nation's endangered species list.

I'm going right now to throw out my hair spray and stare at my scalp in the mirror.

Copyright 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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Dude, where's my cat?

It was a sad day in Whoville this past weekend. Our beloved kitty cat Luca moved out. Luca is actually my daughter's cat, but because she has been living large in the big city in a place that had no appreciation for all things feline, he has been here with us. When she recently moved into a cat friendly dwelling, she asked Mom to bring him to her.

Luca is a beautiful animal. He is all white with the exception of some flame colored markings on his face, he has beautiful crystal blue eyes and he is the single fattest cat I have ever laid eyes on. I have contacted the Guinness Book of World Records and they are sending someone with a scale, a crane and a Polaroid to have a look at him.

I have no idea why he is a cat-zilla. He is only fed Science Diet sensitive stomach kitty food, which I can't imagine is very fattening. It's not that I am one of those people that enjoys spending crazy amounts of money on specialty cat food that I can only buy from my vet. On the contrary. I hate that the cat eats more expensive food than I feed my family. But I learned rather quickly that giving Luca anything other than Science Diet meant that the entire house would have an odor not unlike a drunken raccoon wearing smelly gym shoes had died under the kitchen table... And went undiscovered for at least a week.

You can see the need for the spendy cat food.

My daughter says Luca's enormous weight is entirely my fault. She says I feed him too much. Maybe I do go a little overboard on his feedings, but I saw enough 1980's horror movies to know that if I don't feed him when he meows, he will wait until I'm asleep and eat my eyes and finger tips. It's not worth the risk as I am very fond of both these things.

Once in awhile, Luca is sneaky and manages to nab a morsel of an unauthorized food source. I don't have to see him do it to know he's guilty. He tells on himself. Every step he takes, it is like someone is slowly letting the air out of a child's birthday balloon while simultaneously boiling cabbage. It's entirely unpleasant, but at least it makes Mr. Man feel like he's not so bad in comparison.

So, what have we learned so far? This cat is enormous and has the potential to be quite smelly. Armed with that knowledge, how would you like to then stuff him into a cat carrier and ride with him in a tiny, enclosed space for two hours? Before you make your decision, you should also know that he hates the cat carrier and always gets car sick.

Yeah. That's what I thought.

I had no choice however, because my beautiful daughter missed her giant cat and because I love her terrible, I can be easily manipulated into doing things for her, like taking long trips with angry, puking animals.

I thought and I thought about what I might do to make this journey a little less traumatic for both the cat and for me. A light bulb went on over my head the day before our trip and I called my friendly, neighborhood cat dope dealer and asked if there wasn't something I could give Luca that would not harm him in anyway, but would simply cause him to sleep peacefully for the duration of the ride. To my relief, there was such a drug available.

Even though I explained that the trip would be approximately two hours, I was given a total of eight pills with the instruction to give one-half a pill every four hours as needed beginning forty-five minutes prior to our leaving. I guessed that they gave me eight pills so that if they were not effective for Luca, my son and I could take them so that we wouldn't notice what was going on in the back seat. I made sure I brought drinks for the two of us in case we needed to down our cat valium quickly if it all went to heck.

The fun began when it was time to give Luca his tiny half-pill. Even though I explained the joys of the occasional prescription drug induced high to him, he was not inspired to open up and swallow. I tried to trick him by wrapping the pill with ham so he would think he was getting a treat, but I underestimated his ability to smell a scam. He ate the ham and left the pill.

I knew I would never outsmart him, so I enlisted the help of Mr. Man. The ex-farm boy popped open Luca's mouth, pushed the pill in and rubbed his throat to make sure he swallowed. This did not make the cat especially happy. I knew if I didn't get him out the door before nightfall, Mr. Man would wake up minus finger tips.

My son and I stood around the kitchen staring at the cat, waiting for some indication the medicine was working so we could head out. We waited and we waited and we waited. When Luca staggered into the cat carrier of his own free will and fell down, I knew we had the green light.

Taking a trip with a stoned cat was a new experience for me. While typically on a car ride Luca would make horrible angry cat noises and throw up repeatedly, he spent his time staring at his paw and purring. Since Mr. Man is really getting on my nerves lately, I made a mental note to slip one of the cat 'ludes in his oatmeal so that maybe he'll sit around staring at his hand and purring rather than complaining about what's for dinner. In fact, I'm thinking a daily dose of a couple cat pills in the morning OJ could change my marriage in a most positive way.

As I drove, I was patting myself on the back for being so smart as to drug the feline. "Go, Sher!" I said. "You are brilliant!" Just when I was about to give myself permission to buy something pretty as a reward, my son asked, "Hey Mom. Do you smell something?"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than I was hit with an odor I can only describe as unholy. It seems that while cat LSD makes cats easier to get along with, it also can induce what I would say qualifies as explosive diarrhea.

Let's take a moment to do the math here in case you're behind. Giant white cat + explosive diarrhea + moving vehicle being driven by obsessive-compulsive woman = immediate freak out and a string of bad words that no mother should ever utter in front of her son. Or a sailor.

We pulled over in the nearest gas station parking lot and I instructed my child to exit the vehicle and hold the huge cat with outstretched arms until I could find something with which to clean his pet carrier. Usually my son is very good about doing exactly what I tell him to, but this simply made no sense to him. He bucked up at the very idea that I would expect him to hold a stoned cat covered in poop and in a public place, even.

"Son," I said as lovingly as I could, "If you do not help me by holding this crap soaked cat, I will beat you within an inch of your life with my purse."

You may think I was too harsh on the kid, but something about the smell of cat diarrhea fries the part of a mother's brain that ensures she behaves like June Cleaver.

So there I am in the parking lot of a busy gas station trying to clean a disgusting pet carrier with an old tissue and my tears, while my son is standing with his eyes closed tight holding his breath and a disgusting cat that is having the best trip of his life and... it happens.

I started to laugh. Not a chuckle either. A maniacal, hysterical laughter that you usually only hear in state hospitals or in old scary movies starring Jack Nicholson. The more I tried not to laugh, the worse it got. People were staring, the cat was experiencing another bout of liquid fireworks, my son was yelling at me to do something and all I could do was snort and laugh till my stomach hurt.

The moral of this story? Just say no. To cat drugs and beautiful daughters that ask you for favors. Oh yeah, and never feed your cat ham before you take him on a two hour car ride.


Copyright 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Breathe....Just Breathe.

Lately I've been pouring my heart and soul into a project that I'm 99% sure will not turn out the way I want. About this whole she-bang, my son said to me, "Be positive, Mom!"

"Ok. I'm positive it won't work out." Thank you very much. I'll be here all week.

I'm frustrated, obsessive and frazzled. If it weren't for the fact that I hate medications of all kinds, I'd probably develop a drug habit just to get me over the hump and then head off to Betty Ford when the storm has passed to kick it. As that is not an option, I have another plan to release this gigantic head of steam that has built up inside my head.

A girl's night out!

My best friend, the evil Berta Lou, called me a couple days ago. "Wanna get together with the girls and hang out Friday night?"

"Does Angelina Jolie have big lips?" I said.

Women everywhere understand that when you have a friend who has at least enough ESPN to know exactly when to call and offer you a chick night, she's a keeper.

Both because we live in Farm Country, USA and because we have legally passed the age when going to a bar is fun, our plans are to hang out at her house on the veranda. We will eat things we shouldn't, enjoy cold beverages, turn the music up too loud, make fun of people that are prettier than us and talk about super secret stuff. Some things don't change in a girl's life no matter how old you are.

"Just so you know, I don't want to be the topic of conversation Friday night," said Mr. Man. He kindly volunteered to stay home and baby sit the Big Dog for the evening. They have decided to have a boy's night out for themselves. I suspect it involves junk food, passing gas and playing PS2. By that standard, every night in this house is a boy's night out.

"Conceited much?" I asked. In the world where Mr. Man lives, and is apparently the Supreme Ruler and center of the universe, my getting together with the girls would mean an evening of discussing all things Him.

I imagine in his mind, it'll go something like this.

"Sher, thank God you're here! We've been waiting impatiently to hear all about Mr. Man. Please, tell us everything."

"You guys should have been there," I'd say as I whip out the accordion file of Mr. Man photos I'm sure he thinks I keep in my purse. "He did the cutest darn thing the other day. I spent an hour cooking supper and he said in this really cute voice, 'This is gross. I'm not eating it.' We laughed and laughed."

"You're so lucky, Sher. We all wish we were married to Mr. Man. Has he done that great thing he does with his socks lately?"

"You mean where he takes them off and rolls them up in little disgusting balls? Not lately, no. But he has been working on his snoring extra hard these past few weeks. He's almost got it loud enough now to drown out the smoke alarm should it go off in the middle of the night. It's very rhythmic. I love it." Then we'd all hold hands and sing songs about Mr. Man, like "You're Just a Love Machine", "Heartbreaker" and possibly a little something by Carly Simon circa 1973.

Of course the night wouldn't be complete unless at least one of the girls offers me an obscene amount of money to give up my rights to Mr. Man and hand him over to her. I'm sure he wouldn't be a bit surprised if I came home and told him he'd been sold. In fact, he probably has a little bag packed somewhere ready to go on a moment's notice.

If Mr. Man, or any other man alive for that matter, really knew what we girls talk about when we get together, they'd have what's known in the south as a "spell". Without breaking the sacred vow of secrecy women everywhere take on their thirteenth birthdays, I will say this...

We talk about exactly what you think we talk about.

Bow down and worship me, for I am Sher: Queen of the Vague and Ambiguous.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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May the force be with you.

Something happened to me over the weekend that I found so upsetting, so utterly disturbing, so completely horrific, that I hardly know what to do.

I became a Star Wars fan.

There are some basic truths upon which a person can build their lives, secure in the knowledge that there is an order to things in this big, crazy universe. The fact that Star Wars is less a series of movies than a big ole dork fest has long been one of my steadfast truths. Being able to point and laugh at Star Wars freaks has given me many solid years of feeling superior and in comparison, very good about me.

No matter what else I may have been, I was always better than that weird guy in a Darth Vader mask who slept in a tent for three weeks and peed in a 2 liter Mountain Dew bottle just so he'd be first in line.

Of course, I'm still better than him. But after having seen the movie, I can understand him a little better.

The last Star Wars movie I saw prior to this weekend featured Carrie Fisher with cinnamon buns on either side of her head. I was 13 or 14 years old and couldn't have cared less about it. In fact, I'm sure the only reason I went very likely had something to do with a boy. (Yet another one of my basic truths: Everything in life has something to do with a boy.) Each time a subsequent episode was released, I saw it as nothing more than another opportunity to make fun of people.

Needless to say, I had no idea prior to entering into holy matrimony with Mr. Man that he was one of the people I had made fun of all these years. He was a closet Star Wars fan, which means he kept his toy light saber in the bottom of his closet hidden under his stamp collection and his old AV equipment. Had I known he loved Star Wars movies, I would have never married him.

Ok. That's a total lie. You and I both know I would have rushed out and bought a cinnamon roll head dress myself and wore it every time he was around. Completely squashing my own likes and dislikes and transforming myself to please a man is how I get so many husbands. No man wants a woman who is her own person and can think for herself.

This weekend in an effort to vamp up the old marriage and not kill one another, we decided to go on a "date". I got all gussied up and put perfume behind my knees and he shaved and wore a clean shirt. We went out to a lovely steak dinner, where I watched him eat a prime rib that I strongly suspect hadn't even been cooked and he listened to me obsess about the fact that the salad bar was probably full of germs. It was very romantic.

Because I took a vow to love him in sickness and in health and I have always considered loving Star Wars movies a sickness, I said it would be fine to go see Episode III together, so long as he understood I planned to daydream about Gone With The Wind the entire time. For me to go to any movie in an actual movie theater is a huge undertaking anyway as my OCD sends me into red alert the minute I drive into the parking lot. A theater means people packed into a small room who bring with them a host of germs, noises and smells. I personally think they should sell disposable gas masks, gloves and seat protectors in the concession stand...which surely could not cost more than a soda does in these price gouging places.

When the movie started however, I was immediately and unwillingly sucked into the world of geekdom. It was an absolutely beautiful film to watch and before I knew it, I was praying to the all powerful George Lucas not to let Anakin cross over to the dark side. I actually left my theater seat in Small Town, Kansas and was helping Obi-Wan pilot his gunship in order to defeat those nasty monster shooter thingies that resembled flying metal spider monkeys. The only thing that I found upsetting about the whole spectacle was when Padme stood up to the newly named Darth and told him he was going down a path she could not follow.

It would have been far more in touch with reality had she turned to Obi-Wan and said through the snot bubbles she was blowing, "I know he seems like he's being mean right now, but he's not this way when it's just me and him. He's just upset because his mother died and he had too much too drink last night. I know he'll change if I just love him enough!" At this point, Darth would have said, "Come on baby, get in the truck," and they would have lived happily ever after in a trailer park. The only time we'd ever see them again would be on the occasional episode of COPS.

"You really enjoyed that movie?" asked Mr. Man on our way back home.

"Enjoy it, I did," I said. "The rest of the Star Wars movies, I must see." (Did I mention that I want a pet Yoda now instead of a pet monkey?)

"Since you're in such a good mood, you think I might get lucky tonight? I did buy you a steak and back in my dating days, steak equals nookie."

"I guess so," I said. "But I'm going to need you to drag your light saber out of the closet and make pretend sabery sounds from time to time. Oh, and I reserve the right to call you 'Obi'."

It's official, ladies and gentlemen. A geek is born. I'm off to be measured for my Queen of Naboo costume. I'll see you at the next convention.

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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A quickie.

My son is brilliant. He is. Really. I'm not just saying that. He sometimes says things that are so deep and so insightful, I can't help but want to write them down.

"Son," I said to the kid that spent two days with his Dad and never once brushed his teeth, "no one should have to tell you to do something so simple as to brush your teeth. There is no excuse."

"Mom, you have to remember I'm new at this," he said in his own defense.

"New at what? Brushing your teeth?"

"No, Mom. I'm new at being alive, so sometimes I forget stuff."

"Boy, you've been on this Earth for eleven years. How do you figure you're new at this?"

"Duh, Mom. Since I'm going to live a hundred years, eleven isn't that long. AND, there is a lot of stuff to learn! It's gon'na take some time."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom where is the silver phone? I need to call a friend."

"I left it in my purse. You have my permission to go and look for it." Even at eleven he knows that rifling around a woman's purse without prior consent will get you shot.

"MOTHER!" he yelled from the living room. "Why do you have fireworks in your purse?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked walking toward him "Show me." With that he produced my private stash of feminine products.

"That is a tampon son," I explained with a smile. "But feel free to take it out in the front yard, light it and shoot it into space."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~








Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Conversation with an 11 year old boy.

"Check out those chicks," I said to my son, pointing to a gaggle of elementary age girls on a sidewalk near our house. He's at that timeless and tender age, the gangly male fruit of my womb. Daily he walks a delicate line between loving girls terrible and shooting spit balls at them to ward off a cootie attack.

"Gross, Mom!" he protested too loudly, just in case there were any hidden spy devices in my car that might beam his response to the girl's bathroom at school. "Besides, I know those girls. They are only in the FOURTH GRADE!"

When you're eleven and going in the sixth grade, not to mention still counting the halves and three-quarters of your chronological existence, even a month's age difference can put the whammy on an otherwise promising relationship.

"Oh, poo." I said. "When I was in sixth grade, I had a boyfriend who was in the eighth grade!"

A dead silence fell over the car coupled with a disgusted look I can only compare to the time I was sixteen and my Mother wanted to talk to me about my right to have a "climax" with a future sex partner. (At sixteen, I was still guarding my boobies like the gold at Ft. Knox and thought a climax was something you reached in a good book. I have never since allowed that word to be used anywhere within my listening air space.)

"Mom!" my son yelled in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? You DID NOT have a boyfriend when you were in sixth grade!"

Sometimes I forget that I was raised a southern girl who was considered an old maid when I was still unmarried at seventeen. Could it be that normal children of a non-southern persuasion are not in committed relationships in sixth grade? I realized that perhaps I should ease off the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing and talk about something more appropriate for eleven-year-old boys, like the incredible jumping power of Nike's or how many hotdogs I can eat without throwing up.

I would have done just that, had my son not made the following statement with as much authority and certainty as he uses when telling me the product of 9 times 9.

"Besides," he said, "nobody in eighth grade would ever want a girl in sixth grade."

My boy just called me out.

"Let me tell you something right quick, Big Dog. Your Mom was H-O-T: hot, when I was a girl. Hot, hot, hot. That eighth grade boy was lucky to get me. In fact, I think I still have the romantical letters he wrote to me in my hope chest out in the garage to prove it!"

That was not a lie. I have an obsessive need to hang onto mementos, (go figure) and I have at least a little something from every boyfriend I ever had. If ever I should feel the need to perform a black magic voodoo ritual on a guy I knew when I was sixteen, I'm golden.

"Mother," which is my slave name and what my children call me when they are about to talk down to me, "nobody says hot anymore."

"Paris Hilton does."

"Who is Paris Hilton?"

"She's the devil," I answered.

"Anyway, there is no way my MOM was cute. I'm calling Paw-Paw when we get home and asking him. He would NOT have let you have a boyfriend when you were my age."

"Son, your Paw-Paw was poor and had five kids, three of whom were girls. He tried to marry me off to a neighbor boy whose family owned some good looking goats when I was in fourth grade. If I hadn't been so smart as to fake a seizure, your friends would be calling you Bobby Joe and you'd have your Daddy's lazy eye and inability to go an entire week without wetting the bed."

We argued all the way home, the blonde love of my life and I. He continued to tell me I could never have been a hot chick, which nobody says anymore, and I did my very best to convince this stubborn clone of myself that I was in fact not born a forty-one-year-old woman.

Finally, realizing that he was never going to admit defeat, I played the trump card.

"If you don't say that your Mom might possibly have been a cute girl at one time in her life, I swear on the Kansas City Chiefs that I will tell all your friends you were a breast fed baby."

As you might have guessed, in this house we value the long term mental well being of our children above all else.

"Alright, alright. I'll admit it if you answer a question for me," he said, pulling off seamlessly the classic Testosterone Subject Change used by men worldwide to avoid admitting defeat or having to say "I love you".

"Shoot, baby."

"Why do you wear shoes with high heels on them and put on make-up and fix your hair just to go to Wal-Mart?"

"So I look good, silly."

"For who?" asked the sly child as he popped and tugged on the myriad of rubber Live Strong bands adorning his wrists.

"For anyone that might see me."

"Didn't you tell me it doesn't matter what people think of you? Didn't you tell me if people make fun of you because of the way you dress or look it's only because they feel bad about themselves?"

"Well, son..." I tried to defend myself, but the Big Dog hadn't finished presenting his argument.

"PLUS," which is kid speak for 'Here comes my big finish. My indisputable evidence. The mother of all good points in the history of good points is about to be made'. "PLUS, when you get married you're only supposed to care what your husband thinks!" He was grinning like a mini Johnny Cochran after he'd come up with the whole try on the glove idea.

"Oh yeah?" I said as we pulled in the drive. "Well, I was cute then and I'm cute now and I if it hadn't been for high heels and Max Factor, you wouldn't even be here right now, Mr. Gonna Tell Me How I Can Dress.

"PLUS...." Hard as I tried to smack him down with a comeback, I went totally blank. How do you argue with someone who uses your brilliant words of wisdom against you? Especially when they have big puppy dog eyes and hold your very heart in their hands?

"Have I told you today that I adore you?" I asked as I smacked him on the back of his spiky-haired head. "You're the best kid ever."

"You're the best Mom ever." Those words from those lips will forever hold all the power of the universe for me. "Do I still have to clean my room?"



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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Ha to the third power.

This stuff makes me laugh. If you have any sense of humor at all, it will make you laugh. Well, that's not totally true. What I should really say is, if this makes you laugh, you are every bit as messed up as I am.

The Rejection Line I only wish I'd found this service several husbands ago.

Crying While Eating: Ryan is actually a dramatic reenactment of how I handle an editor's rejection.

Hire A Killer: This one would have been good to have as a back up in case the Rejection Line didn't work.

Auto Blogger: I've been using this for almost a year now. Be sure to watch the ad.

Sher
AKA Mrs. Rusty Shakleford



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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If I Wuz a Rich Girl.

When I first heard Gwen Stefani's song, "Rich Girl", I was just mad. How dare she ruin one of the best songs from "Fiddler on the Roof"! As ashamed as I am to admit it though, I can't help but like it.

It's a toe tapper like no other.

Even more than that, it really makes a girl think. What if I wuz a rich girl? What if I had all the money in the world?

Hmmm.

Well, first I think I'd buy a house. Not a regular house, either. One of those smart houses. The kind that turn up the heat when you're cold, cook a hot dog for you when you say "cook wiener" and wash Mr. Man's clothes each day so he's not periodically forced to wear his Speedo under his uniform.

Of course, I'd also have to hire someone to be on call 24 hours a day to check the wiring in the house every hour on the hour so that it didn't malfunction and accidentally cook Mr. Man's wiener and wash my hot dogs.

If I wuz a rich girl, I'd also have enough money to be entertained every moment of every day. To that end, I'd purchase a large number of human-sized designer wire cages and keep them in my basement. I'd then buy celebrities that I find entertaining and store them there. Don't worry. I'm not a psycho. I'd hire a trained celebrity feeder to care for them and I'd have only the best crack cocaine and bottled water flown in from New York.

Naturally, I'd buy Drew Carey and Jerry Seinfeld because they make me laugh and James Spader and John McGinley because a girl needs something besides a good laugh now and then. Of course I'd also have women in my celebrity basement. For instance, there would be a special cage for Paris Hilton where everyday she would be forced to actually eat everything on the menu at Carl's Jr. and wear shoes from K-Mart.

If I wuz a rich girl, in the interest of peace I'd also like to buy the world a Coke. Just one Coke. That would really promote peace and togetherness. How could you possibly blow up someone when you've been snuggled up together real close, staring in each other's eyes sipping a Coke?

I'd also have to buy a lot of straws but that's cool 'cause I'm rich. Plus I could probably get a volume discount at World of Straws.

If I wuz a rich girl, I'd be oh so generous with all the little people that weren't rich like me. I'd remain the same old Sher, completely approachable and always ready to lend a helping hand.

Like if I was walking down the street and a bum asked me for some spare change to get something to eat, I would totally have my bodyguard give it to him. In fact, I'd probably even make all my bodyguards keep at least two dollars in nickels and dimes in their pockets at all times just for occasions like these.

I wouldn't wear big diamonds around to try to impress anyone, either. Just a simple tiara with a few sapphires and rubies and that's it. Maybe a diamond studded sash once in a great while, but only if I were going somewhere fancy.

But you know the best part about being a rich girl? I could offer a reward for the capture of Elvis! I'd hire Boy Scouts all over America to make "Lost" posters with the King's picture on them promising a reward of One Go-Zillion Dollars for his safe return. He wouldn't be mad either when they brought him to me. I'm sure he's sick and tired of pumping gas in South Dakota. He and I would sing a duet and it would be the number one seller in history and we'd live happily ever after eating fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and force feeding Paris Hilton.

I gotta go. I'm off to buy a lottery ticket.

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.



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