Zelda's got no business trying to do magic, fat as she is.

Although I joke about the misery that is marriage, the truth is I wouldn't leave my marriage to Mr. Man for love or money. For James Spader, possibly. But not for love or money.

I've never been very good at the marriage thing, kids. That is a given. I think it has to do with the scientific fact that my womb is actually an internal GPS system that zeroes in on the wrong men. Put me in a room packed wall to wall with one thousand men and I will immediately choose the most low-down, conniving, loser in the bunch, rush over to him, fling myself at his feet and beg him to marry me.

That is precisely why I have stopped entering rooms that have one thousand men in them.

Don't get me wrong. Mr. Man is not exactly the epitome of perfection. Believe me. He can be the most grumpy individual in the universe...next to me that is. He drives too fast, he takes me for granted on occasion and he snores like a drunken wildebeest. Makes me crazy. Or crazier, as the case may be.

But Mr. Man has something none of the rest of the men in my past have ever had and so I think I'll keep him.

He has Wessonality. No, wait a minute. That's Florence Henderson.

What Mr. Man has is the unfailing and unexplainable desire along with the remarkable ability to put up with me. How cool is that? He understands me in a way no other human being on the face of the earth ever has and that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Or maybe it's the tequila I put in my Grape Nuts. Either way, I'm totally warm and fuzzy right now.

This giant 6'2" man with beautiful blue eyes that he swears are green, is the true love of my life and the biggest, prickliest thorn in my side, all rolled up in one. He makes me laugh, makes me cry and sometimes when he hasn't had enough sleep and is doing his Saddam Hussein impression, he makes me want to gently place a pillow over his face until he gets very, very still.

I remember an episode of All in the Family years ago where Gloria told Edith that she had simply fallen out of love with Michael. (How is it possible I remember that when I can't remember my own wedding anniversary?) Edith in her wisdom told Gloria that all wives fall out of love with their husbands from time to time, but not to worry because eventually Michael would unknowingly do something simple that would remind her why she loved him in the first place. And of course he did and Gloria loved him terrible again.

For the past six months or so, I've thought of that very special episode of All in the Family and waited, not so patiently I might add, for Mr. Man to turn back on the switches his grumpiness had turned off.

Just like the Meathead, he did. There was nothing earth shattering, or mountain moving, but rather quiet little "I love you" things that helped me to remember who he was and who he is and who we are.

Like the fact that he tells me I'm beautiful when I don't have on any make-up and my hair is a mess.

Or that he has always been understanding that most of my friends are men and he trusts me completely to hang out with them, talk to them on the phone and hug them inappropriately.

Or that he couldn't care less if I have spent ten solid hours working on the computer and haven't cleaned or cooked or pretty much anything else.

He is the only human being that would think it's cute when he gets two voice mails in a row from me and the only thing he can hear is my hysterical laughter because I heard something on Saturday night TV that nearly made me pee my pants. ("Zelda's got no business trying to do magic, fat as she is." For some reason, I have decided that is without question the funniest line I've ever heard in my whole long-legged life and I plan on saying it often. Thus the title of this post.)

The best thing about Mr. Man though is that he thinks I look good naked, thank you God. I can eat Moon Pies from now till the cows come home and he still acts like a teenager when he gets a glimpse of me unclothed. As far as I'm concerned, that's the single best reason to love him and live with him forever and the very best reason to marry someone.

Some men might think you look good with your clothes on, your teeth brushed and your legs shaved...but only a husband who loves you will do the do with you when you're disgusting.

That should be on a greeting card.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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People, people, people.

Are you guys kidding me? Do you really think I know stuff you don't know and therefore you must email me and ask me to tell it to you?

Cause you're totally right. I really do know some stuff you don't and I'm only too happy to throw some at you. I'm an absolute humanitarian is what I am. They should name a wing somewhere after me.

Dear Sher,
What would you say is the most important thing a woman can do when she's trying to get her boyfriend of five years to pop the question?

Dear Poor, poor, pitiful you,
I almost hate to answer this question because in doing so, I am helping you gain entry into the institution of marriage. I guess as institutions go it's ok, but personally the quiet sobs I hear every night in the hallways and the barbed wire around my yard make it feel stark and cold. But that's just me.

Getting him to ask you to marry him is a simple,three-step plan, Sweetie.
Step one: Cut
Step two: him
Step three: off
End of plan.

Dear Sher,
I sent you an email a couple weeks ago and said some pretty nice stuff to you about your writing. I've not heard from you and I know you're busy, but I thought I'd hear from you. That's ok if you're busy though, but I wanted you to know I think you're funny.

Dear You're not pathetic at all so don't even think that,
I did get your email and I so appreciate your taking the time to write me, but until this moment, I've been unable to send you an email. Here's what happened...as I remember it.

I was strolling along last week, (I often stroll and on rare occasions, I saunter) minding my own business, when out of nowhere a strong wind came up and nearly knocked me to the ground. It was crazy! My skin started to feel inexplicably hot and although I don't know what happened next, when I came to I was in a Mexican hospital completely paralyzed from the elbows down wearing ear muffs made out of aluminum foil.

Although I repeatedly cried and begged for a computer so that I could email you, the nurses didn't speak a word of English and thought my gestures meant I wanted tacos. (which coincidentally, I totally did.) Thankfully my family had put up wanted posters with my picture all over the country, (maybe you saw my husband on Greta begging for my safe return and offering a reward of $247.34?) They finally located me after a Spanish speaking nun called John Walsh and said she thought she had seen me crying and eating tacos in a tiny hospital in Tijuana...although I don't know how she knew it was me because Mr. Man used my driver's license photo which I so do not look like now. I only just walked in the door mere moments ago and before even hugging my son, I sat down to email you.

That's what happened. Honest. By the way, do you have $247.34 you could loan me? You'd be surprised how relentless a nun can be when you owe her money.

Dear Sher,
I love you.

Dear Sher Lover,
Awww. You read my love you story. You know I love you, too.

Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Sher, I am your luvuh!

I love dreams. Totally love them. They are like taking a little unconscious vacation. Some people don't remember a lot of what they dream, but I like to think I really do remember much of what I dream. Problem is, my dreams never make any freakin sense.

Do yours?

I am one of those annoying people that believes everything that happens is for a reason and that there are no accidents. That means that every day when I wake up, I typically have a dream to try and figure out so that I don't miss a lesson God and the universe is trying to teach me.

I'm deep like that.

Last night I had a great dream, but it's driving me nuts. So much so in fact that tonight I can't fall asleep for trying to figure it out. It's very possible that is not normal, but I don't know because I've never been normal. Tell you what, I'll tell you my dream and you email me if you know what lesson I am to learn from it.

I'll really appreciate it.

Ok. This is where you insert Wayne and Garth waving their hands around and saying, "diddle, deedle, diddle deedle".

Picture it. I'm chilling in a barn with a bunch of females who are much younger than I am and dressed in ugly, plain dresses that look like gray sacks. They all look alike...faces, hair, everything. No clue what I'm doing there, but I do know that just prior to being in the barn with them, I had been at the vet's office because I had pulled one of my Yorkie's ears off and the vet was sewing it back on.

Not to worry. The vet said Yorkie's are notorious for having their ears fall off.

Suddenly all the sack dress girls perk up the way deer do when they hear a predator in the distance. "Hide in the hay!" they yell at me. "He's coming!"

I totally hid in the hay.

I heard loud,heavy breathing and when I peeked out through the hay, there he was. Darth Vader! His mask was so shiny. I was completely impressed. He began looking through the hay, roughly pushing the ugly dress wearing girls out of the way, when he uncovered me.

He pulled me up while the girls cried for me and in a flash, we were back at his castle, which looked amazingly like a hotel lobby...complete with conference rooms. He raised his arms up over his head and I knew for sure he was going to kill me in some evil Darth Vader way. Instead, he took off his shiny helmet and rather than being a disfigured, all burned up guy, he was way handsome.

"Where have you been?" he asked. "I've been looking everywhere for you!" Although I couldn't recall having met Darth before he dug me out of the hay, I decided I loved him and would live with him forever. Before I could say anything about my deep and abiding feelings for him, he started to cry. Darth Vader was crying! How sweet is that? He said he was sorry for kidnapping me and everything, but he knew I wouldn't live happily ever after with him in his castle which looked like a hotel lobby of my own free will.

What's a girl gonna say? He said he was sorry and he was really cute and HE WAS Darth Vader and everything. "That's ok," I said.

He told me he loved me awful and wanted us to live together forever. He said I would be his dark queen and that even though he liked for people to think he was mean, he was actually a nice guy...but he would kill someone if he absolutely had to.

I could respect that.

Anyway, we walked around the castle that looked like a hotel lobby and met the gang. "Ooooh. Darth Vader has been so sad without you," everyone said. It was very sweet until someone spoke to me without bowing and then Darth shot them in the head. I could tell he felt bad about it though.

Before the dream ended when Mr. Man walked through the front door this morning and woke me up, Darth threw me a welcome home party in one of the hotel conference rooms. There were more donuts than I have ever seen and he said he knew I loved donuts and I could eat them every day if I wanted and he didn't care how fat I got because he loved me.

I don't know what your analysis will reveal, but I'm thinking maybe it means that I should bet on a horse named Darth. Or Vader. Or Donut.

HELP!



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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I love you. (Warning: This is so not funny.)

For BD, Eric & Trav: Soldiers.

I love a lot. I really do. Now before you get all weird on me and think that statement means something that requires cheesy porn music playing in the background, just ratchet it back a little. That's not what I mean.

What I mean is that I love a lot of people and I really don't mind telling them I love them. I believe one of the worst things a human being can do is intentionally withhold love. I don't understand the thought process whereby you love someone, you know you love them, and yet you never tell them. What sense does that make? It seems to me our society makes it more acceptable to hear the words, "I hate you" than "I love you".

People want to make love something strange and mysterious and hard to define, when in all reality, it's the simplest thing in the universe. It's my belief that love is at the very core of everything we are...the bottom most building block upon which humanity rests. We were designed to love, to need to be loved and with an overwhelming and innate desire to find people with whom we can accomplish both those things.

I find it ridiculous that as much as we all want to experience love and all that it can be, we do our darnedest to avoid saying it because we have the misguided idea that love is a limited commodity, and therefore we have to be very careful about giving it away too freely.

I am someone that is fond of having what I consider to be deep and philosophical discussions on a variety of subjects ranging from the creation of the universe to the undeniable evil genius that is Karl Rove. When I find someone that enjoys those same kinds of conversations, I am overjoyed. In that spirit, some years ago I had a friend with whom I spent many late nights on the phone debating the meaning of love.

We argued the semantics of love, the history of love and in effect, tore the word and the emotional acts that go along with it, completely apart. Is there a difference in "I love you" and "I'm in love with you"? When you tell someone you love them, does that mean you want to spend the rest of your life with them? When you say "I love you" are you are no longer capable of loving anyone else? We were sure love was something that needed to be figured out.

I have to admit, for much of my life, I didn't like to say, "I love you" to anyone. Oh I said it when a moment required it, but in most cases I felt like it was being pulled from me against my will. My feeling was there was so much baggage attached to those three words that I couldn't handle the totality of it all. It was too big a thing for me. Add to that the fact that I had been taught to associate love with hurtful things, and you can see how the word became something I worked hard to avoid.

It's only been in the last five years or so that I've come to understand what a blessing it is to feel love and when you do feel it, to share it. My father tells me that for his entire life, childhood included, his parents never told him they loved him. Now they are gone, and the opportunity for them to say it and for him to hear it, is lost forever. To my mind, the worst thing I could do to myself and to anyone I care about, would be to leave this world for the next without having said I love you. I want the people in my life to know that I love them...and because I am firmly convinced that love doesn't die, that I will always love them.

There is no limit, no end and there are no conditions placed upon the love I feel. I may like you some days more than others, I may get angry with you from time to time, but once you've heard me say I love you, you can rest assured it is forever, no matter where you go or what you do, or how you try to convince yourself I don't. More than anything else as a parent, I want my children to understand that.

The entire reason I felt compelled to write this piece today, rather than the kinds of things I typically write here, was because of an email I received when I woke up. It wasn't anything mushy or especially out of the ordinary, but it was from a friend who is currently serving in Iraq. As I sat here enjoying the unseasonably cool July morning, I thought of him and the rest of my friends sitting in up to 130 degree heat today, and I started to cry. I wondered if they know that I love them and that I value the gift they are giving more than I can say.

Thankfully, I did have the opportunity a week or so ago to tell one of them face to face that I loved him as he was home on leave for a few days. I got to whisper it in his ear while I hugged him tight and fought tears. This morning, in his honor and in honor of all the service men and women that are there because they love us and what we have here and are showing their love with their consummate and innumerable sacrifices, it is my hope if their is someone you want or need to say "I love you" to, you'll seize the moment and tell them without another thought.

Forget all the garbage that our society has misled you into believing goes along with saying or hearing those words. Take a leap and say them. Life is a breath and none of us can know whether there will be another opportunity.

Brian, Eric and Travis, I love you. You are my heroes and if I live to be an old, old woman, I could never express to you how much your sacrifice means to me. Your sacrifice with your families, your sacrifice of comfort, of even something so basic as cold milk and decent food. I can't repay you. None of us can. At best, I can only promise that I won't waste or ever take for granted the gift you're giving us and that each day I open my eyes to freedom and safety, I'll think of you and I won't miss any opportunity to say, "I love you".

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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Katie Couric ruined my day.

What a day, what a day. It's only about 9 am and yet again I say, what a day.

It was grocery buying day today, which in my opinion is the most evil of all the days. I hate it terrible, but I do it because my family insists that on occasion I feed them something other than peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches.

They are so selfish.

Let me back up here. You should know that I live in a tiny Midwestern town (for the last eleven years) with a population of roughly 9000 human beings. We have a Wal-Mart, a couple grocery stores and two bowling alleys. That pretty much sums it up. It's not that I don't like living in a small town. I really do. It's relatively safe and most of the people I meet on a day to day basis I can greet by name and are quite nice. That's a good thing.

However, at the moment of my birth, I was screaming for someone to cut the umbilical cord so that I could be on my merry way. I was ready to roam. I like going places and seeing things. I like to wander. To set out on adventures. To go places I've got no business going. It's my wanderlust that causes me sometimes to experience an overwhelming need to leave my small town so fast I leave skid marks on Main Street.

Today is such a day.

I blame the Today Show. It's that damn Katie Couric and her fabulous New York shoes that have me feeling a little too Midwesterney. Seriously. As I sat watching her perky self deliver the news, I thought I might like to strike her with an open hand.

It's possible that's because I was sitting in my recliner wearing Mr. Man's Nike tube socks and the fuzzy black slippers my son bought me for Christmas in size extra-friggin' large. I don't know. I just know that she's all cutesy-pie, classy, cupcake in pumps and I'm all frumpy, dumpy, didn't shave my legs white trash in men's socks.

The comparison cast me in an unflattering light.

As I drug myself out to Food Hell, I felt like this small town was about to swallow me like the whale swallowed Jonah, minus the lingering aftertaste of whale bile. My "whoa as me" downward spiral was in full swing and I was headed straight for, "Why, oh why, sweet Jesus am I stuck in this place where nothing exciting ever happens and I never get to use the words "latte" and "fabulous" in any conversation?"

Sex and the City this ain't.

Pushing my wobbly-wheeled, mind of it's own cart through the aisles, I narrowly missed running square into what I can only assume was the world's oldest man. In my defense, time had shrunk him to about 4 feet tall and he was wearing a shirt that very closely resembled the Quaker Oatmeal label.

It was grocery store camo.

"I'm sorry," I said in my sweetest, it always gets me out of trouble, Southern drawl. "I didn't see you."

"That's alright there, young lady," he said. "Say, you wouldn't want to help an old man out would you?"

Should have toned down the accent a little. Now I'm going to have to marry a one-hundred-year-old man. Crap.

Thankfully what he needed help with didn't involve my dragging the worn out white dress from what used to be my hope chest, but is now my "why can't I learn to say no" chest.

"Can you tell me how to make a Jello mold?" he asked.

In the history of the world, has this question ever been asked by the world's oldest man to the world's most frequently married woman in a grocery store before 10 am? Only in Corn Capital, USA, kids.

"You want me to explain to you how to make a Jello mold?" I asked. "Is there a special reason you need to have your Jello assume a particular shape today?" Trying to get out of this conversation, I leaned in close and whispered, "Between you and me, I've heard that when Jello molecules are forced to assume an unnatural form, they become quite toxic. Studies have shown it was in fact a Jello mold, and not a second shooter on the grassy knoll, that killed JFK."

Note to self: Purchase one-way ticket to the Big Apple using the stash of cash Mr. Man doesn't think anyone knows about, under the alias "Sadie McDoogles".

"Well, it's just that my late wife Enid, God rest her soul, used to fix a Jello mold whenever somebody died and our good friend Buford passed away yesterday and I wanted to see if I couldn't make one myself. I thought maybe it would make Enid happy. Sort of be like she wasn't really gone." He stared down at his thin and time worn wedding ring, "Yep. She's been gone twelve years this August and I think about her every day. Miss her so bad sometimes I can't hardly stand it."

"Your Enid is gone?" I whimpered, bottom lip quivering. "And you miss her terrible?"

"Oh lord, yes," he said sweetly. "She was the best wife in the whole world. She was beautiful, too. Had big eyes and a sweet face and she could always make me laugh...no matter how bad things got. Fifty-one years we was together and I loved her as much the day she went home to be with Jesus as I did the first time I saw her."

If you assume his story caused me to tear up, you would be only partially right. It would be more accurate to describe me as weeping uncontrollably. I was blowing so many snot bubbles, I looked like the battery-operated bubble-blowing fish the evil Berta Lou keeps on her veranda. Little unattended grocery store children were gathering around me in record numbers, laughing and dancing while trying to see who could catch the most before they hit the ground and popped.

"I'd be happy to tell you how to make a Jello mold, Mister," I said through the sobbing. "It's really not hard. You make the Jello according to the directions on the package, lightly spray your mold with Pam and then put it in the refrigerator until you can sort of peel it away from the edges with your finger. Run the mold under some warm water and plop it on a plate. Nothing to it."

I am totally getting into Heaven for this one, I thought. Enid will make sure of it.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it!" I said.

"Well hell," said the man, "I could have figured that out my damn self. I wanted to know how you float carrots and pineapple in the damn thing. I'm not stupid."

"WWKD?" I asked myself. What would Katie do,indeed?



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Cry you a river? You don't have to ask me twice.

Today I have been what is known in pre-schools nationwide as a "cry baby".

I have cried and cried and cried and just when I was pretty sure I was completely dehydrated and should be hospitalized in order to receive fluids intravenously, I cried some more. If I wasn't so sad, I'd be impressed by my own fortitude.

"Say something nice to me," I said to Mr. Man as I blew my nose into his shirt sleeve.

"What do you want me to say?" my snot covered husband asked. Even though we have played this game for nearly six years, he's still amazingly fuzzy about the rules.

"Tell me why you love me," I whimpered. "Say something that will make me all ooey-gooey inside. Make me feel better."

"Hmmm," said the man. And then he whipped out the cure-all generic phrase that he thinks is the single nicest thing a man can say to a woman in any and all situations where tears are involved. "I love you."

It was at this point my crying officially turned into shoulder-shaking, scaring-the-dog sobbing and Mr. Man glazed over much the way I do when someone uses the word "eschew".

"You're pretty!" he said as fast as he could. "You're hot! You're gorgeous! I would never leave you no matter what you did or how often you did it!" My weeping had brought on a serious case of Tourette's, except instead of shouting obscenities, he was blurting out compliments.

Of course, every woman knows that once you have to ask a man to say something nice to you, anything he says is immediately disqualified. "You're only saying that because I made you!" I sobbed. "You don't really mean it. I'm fat and old and disgusting and no one in their right mind would ever want me. I want to go to bed and eat sugary foods until I am approximately the size of a baby elephant."

Poor Mr. Man. Tears, tears everywhere and not a drop of formaldehyde to sprinkle on a handkerchief and hold over my mouth and nose to shut me up.

Eventually I did finally stop crying, but in all honesty, cookie dough was involved. So much cookie dough in fact that as I write, I'm thinking I'd probably better get to the kitchen and whip up a Rolaids smoothie. Cookie dough is pretty much a first time around pleasure.

Don't worry about me, kids. I'm feeling much better now and the good news is the swelling in my eyes is on it's way down. By tomorrow, I should begin to resemble a human being again. As for tonight, Mr. Man is not taking any chances. He's never been more happy to have to work in his entire life.

Little does he know I've already sent him an email with only one sentence.

"Say something nice to me."


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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Wadestock? What's a Wadestock?

Sometimes I forget I am forty-one and that at some point in my life, I am supposed to start acting like it. I can't help it, really. On many levels, my brain functions as if I'm seventeen.

I blame gum.

Most of the time my unnatural need to act anything other than my age is pretty ok with everyone that matters in my life. Well, either it's ok or they smile pretty and pretend it's ok for fear I will forego taking my hormones and eat their livers with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Really, the only person I am hurting is myself. And of course all the bleach blonde lab rats that make their living by testing my hair color. God bless 'em every one.

There is an awesome song out now, an anthem really, for Peter Pannish women like me all over the country. It's called, "1985" and it's sung by a group of baby-doll cute boys that are young enough to be my younger brothers called Bowling for Soup. When my evil red-headed and equally childish friend Berta Lou and I heard they were coming to our little part of the country here in Corn Capital, USA, she quickly purchased tickets for us and we made plans to attend.

Let me say this about that. When I say they were coming here, I'm sure you are picturing a big ole honking auditorium with numbered seats and indoor plumbing. You're pretty close.

Bowling for Soup was the headline act for an annual event here in CC, USA known as Wadestock. In a nutshell, Wadestock is an event that some local guys created seven years ago which seeks to bring bands who apparently have agents with severe drinking and drug problems to a giant field in Kansas in the hottest part of the summer. You buy your ticket, load up your cooler, grab your lawn chair and you get to sit in the country and hear some really great music. The stage is basically a wooden platform with a tin roof and a back wall on which someone has spray painted "Wadestock".

It's way cool.

I have to admit I was sort of nervous before I went. This was my first year at Wadestock and as I tend to have tiny freak out seizures when I am in a crowd, I felt there was a pretty good chance I'd wind up rolling on the ground with my tongue hanging out. To tell you the honest truth, I also had some concern that the place would be packed with Gen X'ers that had only recently fully completed puberty.

A good rule of thumb is this: It's ok to be forty-one and act like a twenty-something, but only when you are not standing in close proximity to an honest to God twenty-something. Otherwise you stop looking like a cute older lady and just start to look like an old lady. That's never a good thing.

Once Berta and I were all settled in our lawn chairs at Wadestock and listening to Monkey Bullet, 10 Sugar Charlie and Agathy, I was positioned in such a way that allowed me to check out everyone walking through the gate. Sure, there were a ton of really cute girls with really perky boobies that made me want to eat glass. Tiny shirts, short skirts and waists about the size of my wrist were as far as the eye could see. But just as I was about to call the local nursing home and ask about their walk-in rates, I got a good look at some of the other concert goers.

For example, there was a woman wearing a tube top upon which was scrawled a word or phrase of some sort, but given the lack of elasticity in her mammary area, I would have had to lie down beneath her to read it. I opted not to do that.

Behind her and to my left was a chick who had on a halter top and shorts. Sounds cute, but in fact, I cannot in good conscience use that adjective here. From the waist up, she might have been ok to roam the public in her short shirt. But when the eyes traveled below the waist line, terrible things happened. Her shorts were roughly a size three while her actual behind was at least a size fourteen. If you are a math genius, you know that the difference between the two numbers had to go somewhere. Every time I looked at her, I had an inexplicable desire to deep fry some meat and/or have my car checked for hail damage.

That's not right.

Also present were an inordinate number of blubbery-bellied men wearing t-shirts that proclaimed their love of cold beer and fishing naked. I always love to see that. It's especially sexy when they complete the ensemble with brown socks and sandals. I'm not at all sure what kept me in my chair and prevented me from forcibly flinging every last one of them to the ground and having sexual relations with them. Had Berta Lou not been there, I'm quite sure I would have.

And speaking of the evil Berta Lou, I don't think I would be lying if I said that she had a snoot full. In fact, she may have had two snoots full. I first became aware she was sobriety-challenged when she said to me most sincerely, "We need to go in the mosh pit", and then told me I should definitely take my shirt off and dance. These are things that one does not typically hear from Berta Lou. Truthfully I can't remember that last time she and I went out to dinner during which she suggested the night would be oh so much more fun if I would strip to the waist and dance.

"You are liquored," I said to her as we waited for our ride.

"I am not!" she proclaimed with the authority only a completely drunk person has. "If I were drunk, could I do this?" at which point she balanced her glass on top of her head and attempted to walk across the busy road while she touched her fingers to her nose and yelled, "Look at me! I'm touching my toes with my nose!" As the designated responsible friend, naturally I looked out for her safety and lovingly instructed her to get her drunk behind out of the road before she became Wadestock road kill.

You'll be happy to know I had a great time and didn't have a single total freak out moment, despite the fact that I had to use a porta-potty and once walked in on a friendly drunk guy peeing who waved at me like he was a homecoming queen in a parade. The bands were great, there were very few alcohol induced brawls and I got to see some friends I don't get to see often enough.

So the next time you're sitting around thinking, "Gee, I'd love to sit in a field in Kansas with about 900 of my closest, drunken friends and listen to live music", I highly recommend Wadestock. Maybe I'll see you there next year. I'll be the topless old lady in the mini-skirt sitting on the shoulders of a fat guy with no teeth and a t-shirt that says, "Master Bait & Liquor".

Yuck, I say.


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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I Just Don't Understand.

I often ponder. I'm a ponderer from way back. I ponder lots of things and then I ponder whether anyone else ponders them or if I am the lone ponderer. Because OCD is my constant and faithful companion, I never know if what I am thinking about is normal or if other, so called "normal" people have the same thoughts.

It ain't easy being me. (Or being green, so I'm told.)

I think about things past, things present and things future. If I were a statue, I'd be "The Thinker"...with boobs and bronze-from-a-bottle hair, of course.

What follows is a tiny sampling of thoughts I've had just today. This will give you a glimpse into the mind of madness. Or is it brilliance? And maybe if you're a nice person, you'll email me and tell me whether you have similar thoughts.

~ Why did God make flies? I have a full blown fly phobia. If a fly so much as touches anything on my plate or lands briefly on my glass, I throw it away. In fact, no matter where I am, I always cover my glass with a napkin or whatever is available so I can keep those disgusting winged things away. If I were God, I'd make them look like pretty, little fairies so that people would be happy when they lit upon and subsequently threw up all over their food. Nobody really minds a little fairy vomit. It's filled with sequins and fairy dust and is probably a lot like a four leaf clover...lucky.

~ Why does the man I married want to be naked on my couch? I should tell you that I don't allow nakedness on my couch. In fact, that sentiment is cross-stitched in a frame which hangs over the sofa. "Please, no nakedness on the furniture." As our house is typically little boy central, he doesn't really have the opportunity to sit there without clothes on, which is good. But, leave him here for more than five minutes alone and he swears he's going to drop his pants and sit down on the sofa for no good reason. This concerns me, because love him hard as I do, I would still have to drag the thing out in the front yard and torch it if his naked behind touched it...or even hovered near it.

~ What in the world does this mean, "women are the fairer sex"? I've never understood that. Is that a comment about the lack of pigment in our skin? What kind of word is "fairer" anyway? If someone could please stop your otherwise productive life and send me an email that explains that, I would be eternally grateful. Ok. Maybe not eternally, but I'd be grateful for at least thirty-two seconds.

~ Why is it my job to buy the food for this house? I hate grocery shopping. I mean I truly have strong unpleasant feelings about buying food in large quantities. When I walk through the doors with that cart in front of me, anyone around me can easily see that I am an angry woman. I throw stuff in there at lightening speed, huffing and puffing the entire time and making loud comments to no one in particular that I'd rather have my teeth drilled than have to walk down the jelly and salmon aisle. The one saving grace is my beloved Frozen Pea Guy. He's gorgeous and I anxiously await the day Wal-Mart comes out with a "Hot Guys of the Grocery Store" calendar.

~ Where did Molly Ringwald go? This really bothers me. She was the stuff, wasn't she? I never really got what made her so appealing to boys, but clearly she had a testosterone magnet in her boobs cause in every movie, the cute boy wound up loving her awful. Did she grow up to be ugly or fat or something equally embarrassing? Did she marry Duckie and have little ducklings? Am I remembering that correctly? Was the guy's name really Duckie? I'm worried about her people. If you know where Molly Ringwald is, let the rest of us know.

I gotta stop pondering for today because I have to go throw my hair in a pony tail, put on dark glasses and hunt for food at Wal-Mart. It sucks to be me. Keep your fingers crossed that Frozen Pea Guy says hello to me.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Branson is the portal to hell.

Today is one of those days when I really want to stick my head in the oven. I have so much work to do that I am feeling overwhelmed, under appreciated and estrogen deficient. Periodically I scream just a little and have said a truly bad word at least four times. Thankfully, my son is out of the house at the moment and so enjoys his day completely shielded from the fact that his mother is a lunatic.

Because I took last week off to visit with my parents, I am behind. Way, way behind. That's all good though because I really was happy to see them, even if they did make me go to Branson as a belated punishment for getting drunk at school on moonshine when I was in the tenth grade.

How sad is it that I can actually say I got drunk on moonshine, people? That's not something you want on your resume.

Branson. What can I say about Branson that hasn't already been said? Here's something...

It sucks. I hate it. It's torture. If you ever see me in Branson again, it will be because the shifty-eyed man behind me has a gun in his pocket secretly pointed at my kidneys. I went to bad shows, ate loads of fried foods that will eventually kill me and spent obscene amounts of money at Starbucks in an attempt to stay awake so that I could attend more bad shows.

Just in case you happen to think I am exaggerating about the misery of the Ozarks, I am going to tell you a secret so shameful and so humiliating that you have to promise never to tell another living soul so long as you shall live or your spine will turn to jelly and your teeth will yellow.

Ready?

I went to a bull frog rodeo.

I have never been more simultaneously freaked out and yet at the same time, completely unable to control my laughter since the time I over-plucked Mr. Man's eyebrows so much so that he looked surprised about everything for weeks after. There they were, small vacationing children whose parents had tricked them into thinking Branson is fun, running around wildly in the dirt chasing bull frogs, whooping and hollering and occasionally, accidentally stomping a tired frog's guts out.

It's a helluva way for a frog to make a living.

I survived the Branson torture, and that is exactly what it was, because I love my parents terrible and truth be told, I'd do it all over again if they asked me. (And I was under the influence of mind altering drugs.) I figure I owe them. After all, being the proud parents of a teenaged daughter who is seen by any number of people in your tiny town throwing up shine on the side of the road near your church while your other equally drunk daughter holds her hair, deserves something.

And they don't make a HallMark for that.





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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The fine art of the hissy.

I'm getting dangerously close to throwing a little fit. I feel as if any minute now I may just fall to the floor and flail about wildly. Thank goodness I have on my boxer shorts. They make the falling and flailing so much easier. They also reduce the inevitable chaffing from such an activity.

I'm trying to calm myself through deep breathing and slamming shots of Nyquil. Truly I am. But for an obsessive-compulsive female prone to having epic tizzies over minor issues, like whether or not I really did touch the light switch seven times, the fact that my father will soon be knocking on my door makes calm a place I will likely not see any time soon.

Yep. Pop is coming to Kansas to see his little girl. Along with my step-mom Martha, he will arrive this Sunday evening. That leaves me only about 42 hours to completely change my entire life. I figure if I work constantly, consume only saltine crackers and diet Dr. Pepper over the kitchen sink and sleep no more than 1.7 minutes every ninth hour, I still have absolutely no chance in hell of creating for him the illusion that I am successful, mentally stable and a super fabulous wife and mother.

But, I'm still gonna give it my best shot. It's what I do.

If you knew Mr. Bailey like I know Mr. Bailey, you would be on the verge of having a crazy spell, too. He ran a tight ship in our little North Carolina home. Clean was never clean enough, we five children were to be seen and not heard and chaos was simply not an option. Our house was so clean you could have eaten off the bathroom counter, if you are the kind of person that likes a light snack while taking care of toilet issues....and I'll bet you are.

The man that makes Mr. Clean look like a gay cabaret act is going to spend time in my house. My so not perfect house, where he will look at and examine under a microscope my not so perfect life. And you know what? Mr. Clean really does look like a gay cabaret act, doesn't he? I'll bet if we could see more than his head, he'd be wearing leather chaps and chains.

Ok. Getting back to my hissy fit. For an entire week, I've been trying to change everything that I might even possibly be able to change before he arrives. Sadly I've discovered it's rather difficult to reinvent yourself in seven days. Who knew?

Pop doesn't care for bleach-blonde hair. He isn't fond of short skirts or shoes with heels on them. He doesn't understand the need for more than one earring in each ear, rings anywhere on your body other than your wedding finger or purple eye-shadow. In his eyes, I'm pretty sure I am the anti-daughter.

Maybe I should just give up and open the front door in Mr. Man's sweats and no make-up. Maybe I should stop trying to teach the dog German. Maybe I should quit alphabetizing the magnets on my refrigerator and stop sanitizing the trash cans. Ah, who am I kidding? I do so love alphabetizing and sanitizing.

"Now don't go doing anything special just because we're coming," said the man that once actually put on an honest to goodness white glove to verify I had indeed cleaned the tops of the doors. If cleanliness is next to godliness, my father and God are Siamese twins.

"Oh, I won't Pop," I lied. "I learned a lot from you growing up and as a result, my house is perpetually ready for out of town, white glove wearing guests."

Mr. Man is doing a little dance of glee because as luck would have it, he is not around much while I get ready for the big visit. "Gee, I sure hate I have to work while you're preparing for your Dad to arrive," he said. "I do so love getting yelled at for moving a pillow on the sofa or peeing in the house." (Before you think Mr. Man is a pig who pees in random areas of the house, I should clarify. He is trained to pee only in designated pee areas.)

I have baked, I have cleaned and I have exercised. I have shopped, I have planned and I have pulled from the back of my closet extremely unattractive and loose fitting clothing. I am as ready as I am ever going to be. I yam what I yam and it's high time I started feeling as if I'm good enough to be loved for just being me.

Completely unrelated question...Would anyone happen to know where I can get some last minute plastic surgery here in the Midwest? I'm not at all opposed to doctors who work out of the trunks of their station wagons.

PS: Wanna see some pics of my family?
Click here to see myself and my prettier sister, Connie.

Aunt Sherri and her two cute nephews.

My Pop, Step-Mom Martha, the Big Dog and Me several years ago.

My Kitten and I the night of her Senior Prom.



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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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