Tuesday, August 30, 2005

I don't know.

My Daddy now.

A large mass. Pain. Specialist. I can't think straight. I feel like the nuts and bolts of me are shaking and threatening to fall away.

I don't even know what to do.



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Monday, August 29, 2005

And on it goes.

I can't stop thinking of him. When I try to do something to occupy my time... work, clean, exercise... he's always right there. Part of me wants to think of him, maybe hoping the power of my thoughts can save him.

Every time the phone rings, my heart leaps. Is it him? Is he calling to say he got my letter and I shouldn't worry because he's getting better every day and he is so happy I found him and please let's promise to stay close this time?

"Have you heard anything today," the voices that aren't his on the other end of the phone ask. "Do you know anything new?"

I don't.

"Why can't I stop crying?" I ask my husband. "Why does this hurt so much?" He's been so good to me, the man I married. It occurs to me that not everyone would be as understanding as they watched their partner fall apart over someone else.

I put his picture back in the old chest today. I couldn't look at it any more. It is so painful to see him frozen in time that way. I wonder how he looks now. I can't help it. It's been years since I've seen his face and I can't stop wishing I could see him now. I sent him pictures in my letter so that he could see my kids, my husband and me. I want him to know them.

Knowing there is no good to be found in wishing things had been different, I do it anyway. I wish...

I wish the last time I saw him that I had told him he was too important a person in my life to just disappear.

I wish I had never allowed more than a week or two to pass without talking to him.

I wish I had possessed the strength of character to have stood up to anyone that might have objected to my having him as a constant and dear friend.

I just wish.

Last night as I fell asleep, I wondered if there were any truth to the notion that you can send good feelings to someone. I tried to anyway... on the off chance it might be true. I concentrated hard to settle his stomach, as I was told he can't keep anything down. I feel so inadequate, so helpless and so, so sorry that I didn't try harder.

So now I wait and I hope and I keep the phones close to me wherever I am.

Pray for him.




Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Sunday, August 28, 2005

LRB'n

"He's not well, Sherri. He is dying."

Those words are the only ones I can hear now. Dying. He's dying. I hate to even type that horrible, horrible word. Even as I do, I pray to God it isn't true... that it's a mistake.

I haven't seen him in years, but I can close my eyes and he is standing in front of me. His curly, wild, brown hair. His piercing eyes and Kirk Douglas chin. The reddish birthmark on his hand that he delighted in saying was his devil bite. Handsome. Incredibly handsome.

I don't think he knew.

I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him and daily I thought of him. The instant my eyes flew open in the morning until I slept at night, he was with me... and even in sleep, my dreams were filled with him. Every song was about him and every smell was his cologne. I was quietly consumed.

He had no idea.

"I love you," he said. "I'll always love you." I believed him. When I couldn't believe anyone could love me, I knew he meant it. It felt like truth to me. He loved who I was in a way that only a very few people we meet in life will love us.

I loved him too but the person I was couldn't say those words. For me they meant weakness and loss of control and powerlessness and so I held onto them, never even writing them down. He never once heard me say, "I love you".

I hope he knew.

At a time when my life was filled with ugliness and drama and I lived day to day in constant and absolute fear, his far away support sustained me. Letters from my beautiful boy, each one a diary of life without me came regularly… forty and fifty and one-hundred pages long, each page filled with, "I miss you," and always signed with love and "wishing you were here."

I read each one again and again and again through the years and kept them hidden away in the bottom of an old chest until they were found out and I was forced to destroy them. I cried that day because I knew no more letters would come. I cried because I knew no one would ever again fill pages with words of love just for me.

He didn't know.

Somehow I managed to save a few cards, a lock of his hair, a poem he wrote, a guitar pick. Last night I found the dust covered chest and dug through years and years of memories until at last I found them. "Whatever becomes of us," he wrote, "I hope that you will be happy. I will always, always be here for you. I promise."

I believed him. He promised always, but life refuses to give us an always. We should never use that word because it's a lie. There is no always.

How could he know?

I've cried and I've cried and I've cried for my friend. My husband, reminding me again that he truly does understand the woman he married, told me to write him a letter. "Say what you need to say," he told me. "Write as many letters as you need to." He understands that for me love is not something that ends with the mere passage of time. Love endures. Anything that doesn't was never love to begin with.

And so I did compose a letter. "If I were to tell you how many times I've thought of you over the years, I'm sure you wouldn't believe me," I wrote. It's true. I think of him so, so many times and always have. Time hasn't changed that. I remember his laugh, the music he loved… most of which I hated, the secret things we'd say to each other that no one else could know. Purple haze, LRB and chalk dust are words whose double meaning only he would understand.

He'd know.

I try to live my life without indulging in the "what if's" because I know how utterly painful those can be. The news of his illness though has left me riddled with what if's.

When last I saw him so many years ago now, I was hurting horribly because I was suffering a marriage I knew was destined to end. "You shouldn't let anyone treat you that way," he told me. He handed me an old notebook and said I could read it if I wanted. It was another of his diaries, this one filled with his pain in losing me: page after page of his hurting, his love and his hope that someday it would be different for us.

He had no idea how close I was during our last visit to begging him to take me with him wherever he went. He had no idea how much I loved him and how often I had allowed myself to wonder what my life would have been like had I possessed any courage at all.

The last time I hugged him, I wanted to hang on for dear life, but at the time I thought I couldn't. There were too many things in the way and I couldn't handle the mess I knew I'd have to walk through to stay with him. Somehow I always believed there would be another time for us. Deep in my heart I believed that I'd see him again… that he'd always be out there somewhere.

I didn't know.

I have begged God not to allow this thing to be true. Even the possibility that there will never again be the chance for me to run into him, for me to have the opportunity to hug him,for me to say all the things I should have said years ago, I can't bear that. I simply cannot stomach it. He can't go. I don't want him to go.

I'm fond of telling people that things are always as they should be. That to everything there is a purpose and that everyone who crosses our path has a lesson to teach us. But, I can find no purpose in losing someone as precious as him. This can't be as it should be. Even with years and miles between us now, I don't want to let him go. I don't want him to leave.

Why didn't I work to keep him in my life? Why in God's name didn't I do whatever I had to do to see that we remained friends? Why did I close that door with such force that neither of us thought we had the power to open it again? I should have called him, written him...anything to let him know that his friendship was valuable to me. I should know him now. I should know his life. I should know who he loves, what his day to day world is like and what makes him laugh.

But, I don't know.

As his friend, I should have been there during his hard times and I should have sent a card for every birthday, every Christmas and for all those "just because" times. Among the list of things I regret in this life, I find at this moment, I most regret that I couldn't see past the black and white of our relationship to appreciate the importance of simply being his friend. Not because he missed something by not having me as a friend, but because I missed something by not having him.

I wish I had known.

What lesson then am I to learn from him? I don’t know. I don't want to learn a lesson. I just want him to be okay. I want him to call me when he gets my letter and tell me that he's not sick and that it was all a crazy mistake and that he is happy that now after all these years we can finally be friends again. I want him to call me when he's happy, when he is angry, when he's had a bad day or a bad date. I want the chance to be what I should have been all these years. His friend.

Please, please let that be the way this story ends.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Wednesday, August 17, 2005

He's on his way.

Today my handsome son stepped out of my car and walked for the first time through the big double doors of middle school. "Momma," he said last night as his anxiety kept sleep at bay, "I don't want to go in the morning. Don't make me go".

"Ok Sweetheart," I said. "You don't have to go. You can stay home with me." As I whispered the words to him in the dark, I wanted them to be true. I think even more than he did. "I won't make you go if you don't want."

"You know I have to go, Mom. If I don't go, I'll be sorry," said the boy who has the power to see right through me. "I like school, so I'll be ok. Don't worry."

What a contradiction he is, my growing boy. He wants to stay home with me and away from whatever it is middle school might bring, and at the same time something inside him he doesn't even realize is at work tells him he has to go. The very same thing that has been at work in growing boys on the road to manhood since the beginning of time. The unexplainable and driving force to go... to push away... to leave their mothers.

"But Momma," he said softly as I ran my fingers through his hair, "I have bumps on my face now and I'm gonna be embarrassed."

For the first time, the combination of testosterone and his father's genes is beginning to show on his beautiful face. Little specks of red along his hair line and around his nose have him feeling self conscious and different. No amount of explaining by his Mother about the commonality that is puberty has worked. He's convinced he is the only boy that will arrive in the morning with a bump on his face.
I search for words that are wise and calming and that will completely obliterate his adolescent fear, but I hear myself say, "You'll see. You won't be the only one". I'm sure Donna Reed would have handled it better.

I stayed curled up in bed with him, rubbing his head and listening to his breathing steady and slow until I knew he would sleep. How much longer will I have moments like these? How much longer until he thinks he's too big to tell his Momma what he's afraid of?

I hate time.

Only yesterday I was looking down at the top of his head as I spiked his hair with sticky hair glue and this morning, I had to remind him to bend down so I could actually see the top of his head. "How do I look, Mom?" he asked.

"You are the most handsome eleven-year-old boy I've ever seen," I said, turning my head so he couldn't see the puddles forming in my eyes. I want him to see what I see when I look at him, a work of art.... a gift I never deserved... a treasure I am sure the world does not deserve.

My daughter, so strong and self determined, will turn twenty-one in a few short days. Not because of me, but in spite of me, she is a spectacular beauty and as brave a woman as I have ever known. There is still room in her life for me. Every day, at least once and more often than not several times, she calls from her home three hours away. She wants my opinions, my help, my advice, my ear. She's not in this house, but she hasn't left me. Somehow I know that even when she has her own children, she'll never really leave me. My Kitten will always be my little girl and she'll always need her Mother.

Not so with my boy. He is on his way now and every step he takes toward becoming the man he is destined to be is one step further away from me he goes. "I'm not raising a boy," I say to him any time he gets in trouble, "I'm raising a man, a loving husband and a good father". Today the reality that I am working myself right out of a job has never been more clear.

I watched him walk toward the building as long as I could until someone pulled in behind me and I begrudgingly drove away. It's probably best though, as I think I might still be sitting there in my car, waiting for my boy. He'll be home in a few hours now and I'll hear all about his big day. He'll tell me what's new with old friends, he'll describe the new ones and he'll talk so loud and so fast, I'll barely be able to keep up. Then, he'll grab a plate full of food and head off to his room to watch TV and wind down and while I fight the urge to try and convince him how much happier he'd be if we home-schooled.

Life's funny. And then sometimes, it's not.


Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Monday, August 15, 2005

It's all about you, isn't it?

I'm busy. Busy, busy, busy. So busy in fact that I don't have time to sit down and write something funny and clever and completely narcissistic just to please you.... and we both know it would please you.

No matter how much you want me to write something that is mildly amusing so that you can escape from your mundane life for a few minutes, I'm telling you I absolutely do not have the time. No time do I have. None.

Why, you ask? That's so like you. Has anyone ever told you that curiosity killed the cat? Well, if it's any of your business, I have no time because I am spending every spare minute I have writing copy for a company who wants people to want what they have to give. I am marginally good at spinning people, places and things so that they look irresistible. Currently my spinning wheel is in full throttle, baby. I am spinning like no other.

Which is why I have no time to write silliness for you. Business first. That's my motto. Well actually, my motto is "Marry first, ask questions later", but I think a girl can have more than one motto.

Motto. Motto. Motto. Doesn't that sound like a good nickname for a mobster? Motto would probably hang out with Fingers and Baby Face and Jimmy the Tulip.

Did you see that movie? You know, the one with Bruce Willis and that one guy from Friends? Bruce played Jimmy the Tulip and he ran away with some female mobster who was WAY too young for him and they killed happily ever after.

I don't really like tulips actually, 'cause I'm not a flowery kind of girl. I much prefer more original gifts. Gifts that require a man to think about who I am and what matters to me. Like maybe a stuffed monkey that dances when you squeeze his paw. Or an iTunes gift certificate so I can feed my habit by downloading "Sunday Kind of Love" by Renee Olstead and "Feeling Good" by Michael Buble.

Wait a minute! I see what you're doing. You are so trying to trick me into writing something frivolous and silly. Nice one, but I'm not that gullible. Speaking of gullible, remember the book Gulliver's Travels by Jonathon Swift? I remember that the little people were on Lilliput, right? What about the giant people? Where were they? I so cannot remember.

Great. Now that will drive me crazy. Thank you. Thanks for that, really. See what your selfishness has accomplished. Now I won't be able to write anything at all until I re-read Gulliver's Travels. I hope you're happy!


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Friday, August 12, 2005

All I can say is, oh crap.

I am a woman. I know that because my driver's license says so. I wear make-up, I use many products in my hair, I generally smell pretty and men who are both toothless and balding give me the "Hey Baby" eye at Wal-Mart. Yep. I'm a woman.

As a woman, I love men. Big ones, little ones and all the sizes in between. Evidence of my appreciation of the male of our species can be found in my bulging scrapbook of marriage licenses. I collect ex-husbands the way other women collect ceramic figurines of kitty cats playing with yarn.

Today I may have inadvertently added another ex-husband to my Christmas card list. It's entirely possible Mr. Man is on his way out the door. Those of you on my roster of potential husbands in waiting should officially consider yourself on standby. Please pack a bag and sit by the phone patiently in case I call.

The date is August 12, 2005. Does that mean anything to you? Well, until a few hours ago it didn't mean anything to me either. To my knowledge, nothing important had ever happened in the history of the world on August 12. If I were on Jeopardy and Alex Trabek said, "It happened on August 12", I would have said, "What is the one day in history when nothing important happened, Alex".

That answer would have gotten me voted off the island, or they would have made me eat gorilla testicles or whatever it is they do on Jeopardy when you are way wrong. Wanna know why?

Because apparently August 12 is the anniversary of the day I married Mr. Man.

Let's all emit a collective "Oooooooooohhhhhh".

I forgot. I so forgot. I mean I forgot in the way you forget something when you have been involved in a tragic head banging accident and you can't remember what vowels are. I didn't even see it coming, kids. It's not like I thought about it last month and just forgot about it today because I was busy. Nope. I smooth forgot.

Wanna know how I was reminded that today, August 12, was the day that will live in infamy? I found a card lying on the coffee table around 10 am this morning. "Hmm," I said to myself, "a card for me. How unlike Mr. Man to give me a card. I wonder what he did wrong?"

Imagine my surprise when I read the words, "Happy Anniversary" on said card. If I were not a woman, my testicles would have sucked up inside my body. I looked up from the card to see Mr. Man staring, waiting on a reaction of some kind.

"Are you sure it's today?" I asked. "Cause I think maybe it's not until next month." That's what I said out loud. On the inside I said, "Way to go, Sher. Not many people in this situation would have gone that route, but maybe you can save yourself by convincing him he is attempting to celebrate the wrong day. This is the same man after all that you convinced to let you pluck his eyebrows."

Let's just say my plan didn't work. He was quite certain about the day he married me. "I have been giving you hints," said the man. "I've even mentioned several times that it was coming."

Again, can I get an "Oooooooohhhhhhh"?

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," I said while patting his hand and trying to look cute so he'd forget he wanted to smack me. And then, with a little lip quiver I whimpered, "The truth is, I have a Benedryl addiction that has really gotten out of control and I think I need professional help. Help that will require me to be admitted somewhere that is not here for at least a month. Last week I was so stoned I couldn't remember how to use a fork and my son had to help me tie my shoes."

The Benadryl defense fell on deaf ears.

As I continued to suck up like I've never sucked up before, it occurred to me that perhaps my husband and I had been unknowingly thrust into an alternate universe. Isn't this kind of situation usually played out in reverse? Correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not the husband's job to forget wedding anniversaries?

Maybe I'm not the woman I thought I was, no matter what my driver's license says. Maybe I've gone so far into the menopause zone that I've actually turned into a man. I don't know. What I do know is that I'm going to go to the pharmacy right now to pick up an estrogen filled Pez dispenser. And maybe another twelve pack of Benadryl.



Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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Thursday, August 11, 2005

Of course, I mean that in the nicest way.

For BD and Eric and Ro:

Some months ago I wrote a column about a few of the people I'd worked with in my relatively brief, however exciting career in the area of law enforcement and emergency services. The evil red-headed Berta Lou best friend doll told me this morning that it caused quite a stir in the local PD. Some of the guys recognized themselves; some recognized others and some managed to escape my sarcasm.

It is my personal policy never to allow anyone escape from my sarcasm, as I am an entirely hateful and sarcastic person. In a good way, of course.

As was the case before, I will oh so cleverly disguise the names of those I lovingly attack so that you cannot use this column against them in a court of law. (And also so that they won't get mad at me and write me many speeding tickets.) Feel free to send this on to the producers of COPS. If this doesn't get them to send a film crew to RV & Corn, Kansas...nothing will.

You've met:

~ The David Letterman grinning ex-Marine who enjoys long visits to the bathroom, writing disgusting greeting cards and homemade meat.
~ The matchbook throwing heartthrob with perfect hair.
~ The crazy tall, Bob-Newhart funny cop who sometimes spontaneously walked on water in Topeka, Kansas.
~ The sneaky, white Ruben Studdard officer who had me wrapped around his little finger and always sounded like he had been crying for hours.
~ The twelve-year-old Ashton.
~ The ticket-writing machine who surely forced his wife to make the "woo-woo" sound in bed because he so loved traffic stops.
~ The mean, mean cop who hated me so much I was sure he wanted me to have his big-headed babies.

Now meet:

~ Officer Rick James. The first few times I worked with Officer Rick, I thought for sure he was the single most innocent, sugary sweet man I'd ever met. He was as cute as a boy scout and I felt if I wasn't careful about the way I talked to him, he'd absolutely blush himself to death. As we got to know each other, I will admit I was a little off in my assumption. The fact that Officer Rick showed up for work each day smelling more like leather than any cow ever has, should have caused me to wonder. Let's just say if he was a coloring book and I was going to color him, I would not use my "innocent" crayon as much as I would my "super freak" crayon.

~ The Bionic Man: As a woman, I walk a fine line between wanting to be stared at by the opposite sex and wondering when I'm supposed to blow my rape whistle. Case in point: During my few years at the PD, there was one employee who was very sweet to me and even had a precious little pet name for me that expressed my bright and sunny personality. Although he was entirely nice to me and even on occasion bought me a little present, I firmly believe that should the need ever arise, he could accurately pick my boobs out of a line up. We never had a conversation that involved eye contact. The evil red-headed Berta Lou often said we should wear shirts with a flashing arrow pointing toward our heads.

~ Mr. Soil from An Ancient Civilization: When I lived in Germany, I worked with a local national who constantly argued with me about how wasteful Americans were to take daily showers. He wore the same two outfits the entire time I knew him and although I can't be sure, I think his favorite hair gel was Butter Flavor Crisco. It was nothing nice and I was certain I would never again meet such a malodorous human being. That is, until I was formally introduced to this guy. Prisoners would plead guilty to crimes they didn't commit just to get out of his patrol vehicle and into the refuge of a urine-soaked jail cell.

~ Most of the wives of the men we worked with were completely lovely and a pleasure to know. However, some were keepers of the cauldrons and some were brain-cell impaired:

There was Miss Nobody Says That Any More, who scolded me severely in front of many people for using Hydrox in a recipe and not Oreo's. If we had to call her husband in the middle of the night on police business, she was inclined to put an evil curse on us. I was always careful to keep my children away from her as I was positive she'd try to steal their souls.

There was Miss Run Forest Run about whom I can't say anything else without running the risk of having the mentally-challenged community leave flaming bags of poop at my front door.

And there was Miss Two Face, who is so named for the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry is dating a "two-face" chick who looks fabulous in some light and like death warmed over in others. In pictures her husband would show Berta Lou and I, she looked quite pretty. In person, she often looked like her religion did not allow the use of cosmetics…or soap… or hair brushes. Bless her heart, she didn't struggle only with her two-facey-ness, but seemingly had some blonde roots as well. She once commented to me on the two-shooter theory of the Kennedy case she'd "just heard about" and wondered if I'd heard about it as well. She was not hooked on phonics, or reality for that matter.

~ Captain Playgirl: Seriously, the one and only time I've ever seen a copy of Playgirl magazine was when I was seventeen and on a class trip and Lee Ann Bauer whipped one out of her suitcase. But, if I were a scout for Playgirl and I were looking for the perfect male specimen to sprawl unnaturally on the hood of a patrol vehicle wearing nothing but a badge and his duty belt, it would be this guy. Everyone knows I love him terrible, to include Mr. Man… who admits he can totally see why I worship him. The evil red-headed Berta Lou also loves him harder than a goat loves a stump and as close as we are, I am persuaded she would wrestle me for him.

~ Ms. Give the Kid Some Juice and Call Me in the Morning: "Well fry me an alligator and call me a sex kitten." 'Nuff said.

~ Baby Lance. Lance started working for the PD when he was so young he could only carry a water pistol and wear a sticker in the shape of a badge. I have to say though, he was the single most enthusiastic officer of them all. He was very much like my four-pound Yorkie, as he was prone to give chase after anyone at anytime for any reason. He'd chase teenagers, joggers, cars and old blue-haired ladies who were just walking to the end of the drive to get their mail. He also apparently kept raw pork chops in his pocket as crazed Pet Cemetery dogs conspired to eat him.

~ Got Any Blankets Cop: Call me a drama queen, but if I'm sitting around minding my own business and my house explodes for no good reason, it's highly likely that will come up in the conversation when I call the police department. Not so much for this laid back guy. Instead he nonchalantly asked for some blankets so he and his family could snuggle up and share quality time drawing on replacement eyebrows for each other under the stars.

So that's it then, kids. The final sarcastic installment of "Meet Your Civil Servants". After this one I may have to move to Mexico and change my name to Conchita.


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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Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Stuff I didn't do today...no matter what you heard.

Not just anybody can work from home. Nope. It requires a special kind of person. You have to be well organized, you must maintain a professional work space and you must always conduct your business as if you were in a traditional office environment.

That describes me to a tee. I'm all kinds of organized, I'm nothing if not professional and business-like is my middle name. (Seriously. I was named after my great-grandmother: Cora Business-Like Petty.)

Operating a successful home office can sometimes be as much about what you don't do as it is about what you do....do. (Note to self: giggle later.) For example, here are several things I did not do today.

~ I did not chase my son around the house with a pair of Mr. Man's underwear which I dug from the very bottom of the dirty clothes basket. I would never do that. I am a grown woman for Heaven's sake and one who would not resort to such a sophomoric activity simply because her son said he wasn't going to clean his room.

~ I did not relieve myself while on the phone with a potential business client. That would be completely unprofessional... no matter how quietly I did it or how much green tea I consumed this morning or how long said client droned on and on saying random letters like, "ROI" or "LMNOP".

~ I did not put the phone on speaker during a teleconference while I danced all over the kitchen pretending to sing, "Mustang Sally" into a spatula. That would be so wrong on so many levels.

~ I did not threaten a business associate by telling him if he doesn't do what I need him to do quickly and efficiently, I will show up at his office and literally start a bonfire under his Italian leather chair and invite all his co-workers to a weenie roast. That's just not the kind of girl I am.

~ I most certainly did not spend half an hour playing solitaire and then tell my son I was in the middle of something critical and time sensitive when he asked me to fix him a homemade pizza for lunch. What kind of mother would do that?

Probably the same kind that would chase her kid around the house with dirty underwear.


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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Monday, August 08, 2005

Say good-bye to your fingers, Smarty Pants.

Would someone please explain to me why men always say women try to change them after marriage, when the truth is it's just the opposite?

My beloved husband, the infamous Mr. Man, knew me pretty dang well before he said, "I do". To the best of my recollection, in fact it was he who asked me to marry him. Furthermore, on our wedding day I believed him to be completely sober and not under the influence of any prescription or illegal drug, and I don't think he'd swallowed too much of his morning Listerine.

And yet very often the man acts like he's never met me.

So I'm in the kitchen being all Donna Reed this afternoon what with the chopping, smashing and frying of things for a gigantic supper I was preparing him and the gaggle of boys in my house. Because the man is almost never home, he decided to share some quality time by sitting in the kitchen and watching me work.

When suddenly, out of nowhere a GIANT FLY buzzed by my head so fast, my hair blew backwards. You should know that I absolutely hate flies. In fact, hate is not a strong enough word. My feelings about flies can only truly be expressed with the liberal and excessive use of profanity. As I am a lady who tries never to use liberal profanity (as opposed to conservative profanity), I will instead use the profanity keys on my laptop.

I hate @$^&@#$^!!@*&^ FLIES! Any questions?

My hatred of these winged and most disgusting insects is not new. Anyone that really knows me is pretty clear on where I stand. During fly season, my drink glasses are perpetually covered with something so that one can't land on them and should a fly get by all the barriers I have in place between them and my food, I throw it out. I would sooner lick a monkey than eat something a fly has touched.

Call me an obsessive-compulsive monkey licker.

Anyway, this rogue fly in my kitchen is whizzing around at top speeds trying to distract me so that he can swoop in and throw up on my lettuce. I know it, he knows it and Mr. Man should know it. "HELP!" I scream at a horror movie decibel, while simultaneously and frantically covering my work space with yards of paper towels. "Do something!"

"It's just a fly," said Mr. Man. "Ignore it."

Ignore it? Is he kidding me with that? Have we met?

"If you don't kill this fly, I swear on all that is holy I will wait until you are asleep and I will write on your forehead with a Sharpie: ASK ME ABOUT MY GIRDLE. Now kill it!"

Begrudgingly Mr. Man walked into the garage to retrieve the fly swatter, all the while lecturing me on my fly phobia... the same fly phobia I've had since I was a child, and why I need to get over it. "Where is he?" he asked rolling his eyes.

"He's over here on the window sill planning his attack, but you can't kill him there. He'll fall in the sink."

"So he falls in the sink? So what?"

"SO WHAT? Mr. Man, you know the drill by now! If he lands in the sink I will have to spend thirty minutes disinfecting it, that's so what. Coax him into the living room by moving your arms around wildly, flipping your head back and forth and making horse sounds. Wait until he's hovering over an empty space on the floor and squash him."

What took place next can only be described as absolute chaos. Mr. Man began swinging the swatter around like he was conducting some imaginary Loony Tunes orchestra, I was hopping around screaming at him at the top of my lungs not to kill the fly in the kitchen and all the while the insect was buzzing around my head sticking his tongue out at me.

Somehow in the commotion, the man actually managed to kill the flying beast...IN MY KITCHEN SINK! When he saw what he'd done, he laid the fly swatter down on my KITCHEN CABINET and reached in to pick up the fly WITH HIS FINGERS!

I'm not sure what happened next because I blacked out holding my Clorox Wipes in one hand and my crucifix in the other.

How did my beautiful family supper turn out? I don't know. They could have eaten a meal of candy bars and marshmallow fluff for all I know. I spent my evening scrubbing, cleaning and installing a new kitchen sink.

Although he doesn't know it yet, Mr. Man has an appointment on Thursday to find out about the joys of replacing human fingers with bionic fingers. Ignore that, Mr. Man.


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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Saturday, August 06, 2005

100 Things About Me

You knew this would happen sooner or later, right? Eventually every blogger does it. It's the blogging law. If you've done it, send me the link. If you haven't done it, do it and send me the link. (No blog? Set one up in under five minutes at Blogger.) I love reading these and getting to know things about people.

1. I was born on April 24.
2. I have known only two other people personally that share my birthday. One is my niece.
3. My parents were 16 when they got married.
4. They were roughly 26 when they divorced.
5. I have 1 brother, 1 step-brother, 1 half brother, 2 step-sisters and 1 half sister.
6. I met my first husband when I was 12.
7. I married him soon after my 19th birthday.
8. From the time I was quite young, I wanted to be a defense attorney.
9. I am so not.
10. My first real date was with a boy named Alan Gettys who was a senior in high school and I was a freshman.
11. We went to see "Alien" and then we ate at Shoney's.
12. I was positive I would marry him someday and I think he had the same thought.
13. I didn't.
14. I have a spectacularly beautiful daughter whose nickname is Kitten.
15. I have an amazingly handsome son whose nickname is Big Dog.
16. I love music.
17. I love good books, but typically only non-fiction. The only work of fiction I've ever enjoyed is the Patricia Cornwell series and I think I've read them all.
18. I am a business consultant for several different companies.
19. I'm 5'5" and strangely enough, I've always felt I'm too tall.
20. I think the scariest movies are the ones that have little kids in them who whisper stuff. Whispering kids freak me out.
21. I have had OCD for as long as I can remember, but was not diagnosed until my late twenties. I tried to keep it a secret from friends and co-workers until I was about thirty-nine. There are several very good informational sites about OCD, but for a real glimpse into the disorder, you should read personal stories.
22. My husband is the only man I've ever met who has read "Phenomenal Woman " by: Maya Angelou. I think I fell in love with him the moment he told me that.
23. In our relationship, I was the first one to say, "I love you". I had never done that before.
24. I regret I couldn't see that I was pretty back when I was.
25. Because of my OCD, I often have an extreme sensitivity to the feeling of certain fabrics and clothing. At certain times, I cannot wear anything except loosely fitting all cotton clothing.
26. I believe in God.
27. I think God believes in me.
28. My Mother was pregnant at my high school graduation.
29. I have a severe fly phobia. Everyone who really knows me knows about it and makes fun of me for it.
30. I think the most spiritual place I've ever been is on the beach at sundown.
31. I don't believe in accidents.
32. The person who has loved me most in my life was my Grandmother.
33. She died in 1983.
34. My daughter is named after her. Her middle name is "Rosie". My Grandmother's legal name was Rosa, but she hated it and so people only called her Rosie.
35. I think reincarnation is bogus, but I have met people in my life who I feel strongly I have known before and with whom I have some unexplained connection. I can't reconcile those opposing feelings.
36. I've always known how I will die, but until now I've only said that to one person because it sounds freaky.
37. I laugh out loud pretty much every day of my life, even on the worst days.
38. I am suspicious of anyone that is too nice to me.
39. As horrible as it sounds, I think men lie easier than women do.
40. I can't roller skate even though I've always wanted to learn. I can however water ski.
41. I get excited about new cleaning products the way most women get excited about a new purse.
42. I hate my lips.
43. In conjunction with the OCD, or co-morbid, I have mild Tourette's which shows itself in tics. Most often they are at their worst when I am upset about something. It's terribly embarassing to have it happen and the only person I talk about it to is my husband. While I'm sure other people notice it, no one mentions it.
44. If someone can make me laugh hysterically, I love them forever.
45. In my first marriage, we didn't laugh together. If I laughed too much, my husband told me to stop being silly. I hate that word to this day.
46. Seven is good. Six is bad.
47. I have a thing for Underwood Deviled Ham. That's weird.
48. Even though I love seafood, I have never once eaten lobster because it would make me feel guilty.
49. I think my daughter has the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. It gives me chills.
50. I often write very serious stuff, but I almost never let anyone read it.
51. My husband has kept everything I've ever written him, even if it was only a note with less than ten words on it. I think that's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
52. I find people's life stories fascinating. I love to listen to them.
53. I have a crazy affection for candles and everyone that knows me knows that. No man has ever bought me a candle, though. I find that remarkable.
54. I do not celebrate New Year's, other than staying awake until it has come in. It has to do with an obsession I have.
55. I wish I lived in a house that was entirely underground.
56. My husband has an amazing voice and it makes my knees weak when he sings to me, but because he thinks he doesn't have a good voice, he almost never sings to me.
57. Fall is my favorite time of year. I feel like I am only truly alive in autumn.
58. I'm terrified of reaching the end of my life without ever becoming who I was supposed to be. That is my biggest fear.
59. Most of my best friends in life have been men. I am fortunate that I have a husband who is not threatened by that.
60. The worst physical pain I've ever experienced was when I had a kidney stone in 1985.
61. I truly love banana splits.
62. Although I took piano lessons for a few years, I can't play. That makes me sad. And pathetic.
63. I think the way our society creates celebrity is ridiculous. I have very little respect for most "famous" people.
64. I love old movies, even the ones with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney that involve putting on a show in a barn.
65. I was the oldest teenager I knew. When I was sixteen chronologically, I was thirty-five on the inside.
66. I really do have a thing for monkeys.
67. My friend Kaye and I have been friends since freshman year of high school and have remained friends no matter how far away I've gone or how long it has been between visits to NC. I love her.
68. My nickname is Bear and has been since I was a kid. My Mother gave it to me. My step-kids from my second marriage (whom I still love very much) always called me Sher Bear. They still do.
69. Speaking of my second marriage, one of my best friends is my second husband. He's a pretty great guy and I think of him as a brother...weird as that sounds.
70. I really like his wife as well and I work for her as a business consultant.
71. Although in high school I never dated boys my own age (always older), there was one boy who was in my class that I secretly thought I might like to go out with, but I never told anyone. He was a "nerd", but I liked something about him. He never had any idea. He's probably a billionaire now.
72. I also had a secret crush on my best friend Kaye's older brother, but for some bizarre & unexplained reason, I decided to fix him up with my sister. They dated for years. (Kaye never knew..until now.)
73. Because of my love of music,I have a nasty little addiction to iTunes.
74. I have absolutely no athletic skills, but I do try to toss the football around with my son and play horse with him as well. He laughs at me.
75. I DETEST anti-anxiety and anti-depressant medications and am firmly convinced they are incredibly over prescribed in our society.
76. My daughter once told me if I wrote my entire life story, no one would be able to read it because it's too upsetting. That's the day I stopped writing my life story.
77. I love words. That sounds a little odd, but I really do. For me, words are brush strokes. I'm attracted to people that use pretty words.
78. The woman I am today would kick the ass (pardon my language) of the woman I was ten or even twenty years ago. I was a door mat, a mouse of a woman.
79. I probably say "I love you" at least fifty times a day. I want to make sure the people I love know I love them.
80. I joke a lot about twirling fire batons, but the truth behind that is I was a baton twirler when I was younger. I was never good enough to twirl the fire batons and I was way jealous of the girl on our squad who was.
81. When I was thirty-six, I came down with a bizarre illness that made me feel crazy dizzy and fall down a lot. It lasted a couple weeks and I spent a few days in the hospital because doctors thought I'd had a stroke. Only one co-worker came to visit me when I was there. Mr. Man didn't even show up. I cried after he left because I thought it was so sweet. I've been a fan of that cop ever since. (He'll read this and know who he is.)
82. In my family, I was the only kid who left North Carolina. I left at eighteen and have only been back for visits. My family thinks I'm nuts.
83. My senior year of high school, I was voted Miss March for the Key Club Calendar. When the President of the Key Club called to tell me I'd been chosen and that I needed to make an appointment with the photographer, I almost didn't go because I thought it was a joke. My Grandmother made me.
84. I was embarrassed as a child that I was smart, so I spent a lot of years dumbing myself down, so to speak. I regret that very much.
85. If I could choose any other time period in which to live, it would be the 40's. I have a fascination for anything having to do with WWII and I collect "stuff" from that era.
86. I want very much to see the National WWII Memorial someday.
87. I have been to Dachau twice. I've never felt anything like it before or since. It was overwhelming. I stood here and sobbed because you can't be in that room and not feel the very spirits of those who left this world in such a horrible way. (Think about how we died here.) You can see more pictures of Dachau here and also here. If you ever have the chance to go, you should.
88. The women in my family on my Mother's side have always been somewhat intuitive, strange as that sounds. The stories I could tell you about them would likely make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. I've always been very sensitive to places and have completely freaked my husband out more than once when we've driven past some place in the county where he grew up and I've correctly told him something about it.(Insert Twilight Zone music here.)
89. I'm always amazed at how self-absorbed people can be. If you find someone in life that really listens to you, you have found something of value.
90. I am convinced that a cure for every disease common to man can be found in nature. Human beings complicate things too much. That will be our ultimate undoing.
91. I believe that everyone who crosses our paths, no matter for how long, is there to teach us and to be taught by us.
92. I'm persuaded that until we learn whatever lesson it is we need to learn from a situation or a person, we will continue to be presented with it. I think that's why we sometimes have people and problems in our lives from which we can't seem to break free. It's like they are on a loop, periodically popping up again and again.
93. I always feel guilty when I want something... no matter how small a thing it might be.
94. My feelings get hurt frequently and easily, although I'm pretty good at making sure you'd never know it.
95. Frankly, I suck at decorating. Whatever female gene that provides for the ability to be all Martha Stewartie is missing in me. I surround myself with things I love, which are usually vintage, and that's as far as it goes.
96. I've been told most of my life by my male friends that I think more like a man than any woman they've ever met. I have no idea whether that is a compliment or a slam.
97. I hate lakes, but I love cat fishing.
98. There is only one person in this life with whom I feel I have unfinished business. There are things that need to be said, things that need to be heard and no matter how long or how hard I have tried to close that door, I will never really be able to do it until I feel it's settled. Unfortunately, I can't just pick up the phone and do that because he is a stubborn jack ass.
99. In my opinion MTV is some of the worst garbage on TV and completely detrimental to our youth. I hate it and what I feel it's done to our kids.
100. This 100 Things thing took me two days to finish and now I'm wondering why the heck I did it anyway. You totally have to do it, too.

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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Attention: The Oprah.

I have only three dreams in this life. The first is to see a book on a Barnes & Noble bookshelf with my name on it. (And not because I took a Sharpie and wrote my name on it.)

The second is to have barrels full of money hidden in my back yard.

And the third is to be interviewed by The Oprah, which will make dreams one and two a reality overnight.

I have come to the realization that The Oprah isn't going to show up on my doorstep and ask if I have a minute to become famous. Nope. The Oprah is far too busy and far too important to drop everything and knock on my front door with fame in a fashionable tote bag.

Thank God, too. With my luck, she'd arrive on one of those Midol days when I'm wearing Mr. Man's mismatched pajamas and no make-up. America doesn't want to hear The Oprah tell me to go brush my teeth. That's precisely why I don't enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. They are sneaky little van driving people who would have no problem broadcasting live as I received my oversized check wearing just my panties and a raggedy old t-shirt that reads, "Party like it's 1999".

In the interest of helping The Oprah decide to wave her magic "O" wand and make me famous, I've compiled a top ten list of reasons she should have me on her show. I'm taking The Oprah by the horns, so to speak. Should you have some Harpo contacts, feel free to pass this right along to her people.

10. Although I have no formal training whatsoever, I am quite the accomplished river dancer. A prodigy is what I am. A savant, even. This artistic ability makes me a most well-rounded guest. If the conversation lulls, I can simply break into dance. Perhaps I could even teach The Oprah the basics. I can only teach her the mechanics of the art form however, because you either have the gift of river dance or you don't.

9. Just like The Oprah, I was born a poor, black child in the south. Ok. I wasn't so much a black child as a white child, but I was still poor in the south. That counts, right?

8. My best friend's name is also Gail. Well, actually her legal name is Roberta, but I can blackmail her into changing her name to Gail. Roberta has lived a shady life so this won't be a problem.

7. The Oprah and I can discuss at length our love of fitness and our daily work out routines. I'm a firm believer in the Moon Pie work out and am happy to introduce it to the world. I won't get into the details here, but it involves putting on sweat pants and eating microwave-melted Moonpies accompanied by a Diet Dr. Pepper. It's very rigorous.

6. I have no problem selling out my entire family and every friend I've ever had. If it amuses The Oprah, I will happily tell every single dirty secret they have ever told me. (NOTE: If I don't blog in the next few days, please alert the authorities as there is a good chance one of my friends or family members may have me bumped off.)

5. I am more than willing to dye my hair to match The Oprah's shoes. Or her chairs. Or her puppy dog's collar.

4. It so happens I am one of those desperate housewives everyone is so fond of these days. In fact, there are few housewives as desperate. I know it's trendy to have an affair with my much younger gardener or the occasional tryst with my pool boy, so I am currently accepting applications for these positions. FYI, only manly men need apply as I was in my plastic pool yesterday and there are any number of dead floatie bugs in there.

3. I will happily pretend to be a woman who loves men who hate her, or a woman with an addiction to shoplifting cat toys, or even a woman who is in the Guinness Book of World Records for the number of times she's been married. (OK...I guess I won't have to pretend about one of those things.)

2. If it makes The Oprah happy and gets me on her show, I will legally change my name to, "Oprah Should Be Queen". You can call me by my nickname though: "Suck Up".

1. I know how The Oprah enjoys a good, "I accidentally got drunk and drove over someone" story accompanied by soft weeping. If it becomes absolutely necessary, I will get sloshing, rip roaring liquored and drive around town until I run into a bus load of nuns or better yet, a bus load of nuns with puppies. I will be arrested and my mug shot... which will make me look like Nick Nolte, will be plastered all over the news.

Alright, that's a total lie. But as I have some less than ethical friends in the police department, maybe I can talk them into arresting me and pretending that I did it. They've been itching for a reason to get me in cuffs anyway. (That, my friends, is a whole other story.)


Copyright © 2004, 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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Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Cookie dough wishes and marshmallow dreams.

I feel good today and that makes me nervous. In my OCD world, I understand all the way down to my itsy-bitsy, microscopic cells that I have absolutely no right to feel good, crappy as life is treating me lately. It's not logical.

And I am all about logical. (I could hardly type that with a straight face.)

Frankly, I'm happy to the point of outright and flamboyant giddiness and the happier I get, the more convinced I am that something has completely shorted out in my brain. I should be spending my time today worrying, fretting and stewing, not skipping around the house whistling the theme to the Brady Bunch.

Don't I know how bad things are?

I've got to snap out of it, people. I've got to get ahold of myself and smack me back down to Earth. Life is hard, people are mean and there are no unicorns. I need to focus on the things that make me feel bad about life...and try to stop thinking of kittens and twenty-somethings in love running in slow motion through wheat fields.

That new Kathy Griffin reality show, "My Life on the D List" should make me feel absolutely horrible about myself. She says things I would never say, she is entirely offensive and I watched her show in the dark with the blinds pulled....as I laughed hysterically. I'm ashamed of myself and you should be, too.

I'm getting kind of used to my TV shame, though. Given my affinity for shows that begin with this disclaimer: "Contains cartoon nudity", I think I have a problem, and that should make me feel bad. The same woman that has MTV blocked from all TV sets in my house and guards my son's TV watching like a bleach-blonde pit bull, has a dirty little addiction to icky TV.

OK, good. Now I'm starting to feel somewhat less effervescent. I'm coming down just a skosh from my euphoria. (Unfortunately the fact that I used the word "effervescent" has now made me giggle. Stupid thesaurus.)

I have totally gone off my diet lately and that's not a happy thing. I've eaten really, really bad things on almost an hourly basis. Things you would never let your kids eat...or even monkeys that know sign language. Things that I feel way guilty about putting in my mouth. We're talking cookie dough, peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches and gallons of Diet Pepsi with vanilla. (Because the surgeon general says Diet Pepsi cancels out all the calories of the afore-mentioned junk foods and the added vanilla makes my insides feel pretty.)

Guilt. That's a good "downer" emotion. That should take the wind out of my sails and the bounce out of my step. I should be saving the money spent on nasty foods and use it fly to Cambodia and get me one of those Angelina babies. I could do my part as a humanitarian and raise it here in the states where it would learn to play PS2, wear Nike's and talk back to me.

There it is. That nice, guilty, I'm not doing enough for the world, kind of sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Now we're getting somewhere.

Oooh-Oooh-Oooh! I've got one! This will totally make me feel bad. The evil red-headed Berta Lou best friend doll told me a secret that is so funny and so potentially destructive to someone we don't like, that I want to tell it to everyone in the entire universe. It's killing me not to shout it from the mountain tops. As she and I have a strict code of putting our best friend secrets in the vault for all eternity, I am not allowed to tell....UNTIL NOW!

If I blab this secret, I will feel like such a rotten, low-down, pond-scum-sucking poop head for breaking her confidence, I will totally mope for days. No more doodling rainbows all over the bills before I mail them and no more using the word "peachy" when random people ask me how I'm doing.

Ready? Here it is:

Prepare yourself. It's mean and sneaky and a secret that could really screw up life for someone with whom the evil 9-1-1 dispatcher Berta Lou works. It would wreak havoc, even. Throw the entire Police Department into a tale spin, cause friendships to crumble and jobs to be lost. It's that bad.

Ok. Here it comes. I'm really going to say it. I mean it this time.


Crap. Can't do it. That's just fabulous. Now I feel even happier than I did before because I didn't spread gossip. Maybe I should call Kathy Griffin and tell her. She could do it.

It sucks to be me. I'm going to go watch, "Terms of Endearment" one-hundred and forty-two times and say mean things to the dog.


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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Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Cause I Said So

So often in my life I've heard others say, "I hate people". To me, that makes no sense at all. I LOVE people! I love watching them, listening to them, finding out about them and more than anything else, I love getting email from them asking me what sometimes can be slightly bizarre questions or commenting on something I've written.

Every morning I can't wait to open my inbox, (did that sound dirty to you?) and read whatever email perfect strangers have taken the time to send me. Totally makes my day.

Some emails are funny, some are hysterical, some are nice and some are so clever it makes me feel completely inferior as a human being. Nothing wakes me up like a great cup of coffee and the fresh smell of inferiority in the morning!

Dear Sher,
GOD....you're a hoot! AND I can't understand why you're not rich and famous....your face and words splattered across America. Hell...America! THEE world!

Dear Person who said splattered instead of splashed,

I'm confused. Do you love me and think I deserve to be adored nationwide? Or do you harbor some ill will toward me which causes you to want to splatter my face from coast to coast? FYI, I did note a slight serial killer slant to your email signature and I have alerted the FBI.
(FYI, FBI...wow, I'm on a roll.)

Dear Sher,
Does Mr. Man read your blog? Does it make him mad when you write about him?

Dear Chick trying to steal my man from me,
Mr. Man does in fact read everything I write. Well, almost. He doesn't read the to-do lists I give him on his days off or the secret and oh-so-sad stories I write that begin with, "It was a dark and stormy night...".

Do they make him mad? If he's ever been upset by anything I've written, I am not aware of it. I'm guessing he has been around me long enough to have learned by now how to swallow hurt and direct his pain inward. So far there are no signs of an eating disorder, but I will keep my eyes peeled.

Dear Sher,
Who do you read? Who is your favorite author?

Dear Librarian,
Me. I read me. I like me and my favorite author is...me. I would walk a mile to hear what I have to say and my dream is to have a first edition and personally autographed copy of "Wiping The Crazy Off My Face" signed by me.

Oh, I also like Maya Angelou.

Dear Sher,
Are you syndicated?

Dear Short email writer,
I am not syndicated and how dare you imply that I might be. I have never been so insulted in my life, and that includes the time someone told me I look good...for my age. Syndicated! The very idea that someone as Southern Baptist and fully Republican as I am would engage in syndication is ridiculous. (I said Southern Baptist and Republican in the same sentence. Is that allowed?) I have never been syndicated in my life, I will never give into the temptation to syndicate and I refuse to associate with anyone that does.

Now that we're clear on that, if you click the little Yahoo button you see beneath here, you can add me to your Yahoo home page. That is SO NOT syndication, so get your mind out of the gutter.



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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Blogroll Me!