Wrote a song about him. Wanna hear it? Here it goes.

Is it normal to be crazy about your husband? I'm not really a good judge of what is and what is not normal in a relationship, so that's why I'm asking.

The infamous Mr. Man has something special about him that makes my knees weak, my heart flutter and also occasionally causes a little nausea not unlike the feeling one might get after eating hard-boiled eggs...that you found hidden behind the sofa four months after Easter.

Don't get me wrong. My obsession with my husband took a little break for awhile. There was a time not so long ago when I seriously couldn't stand the sound of his breathing in and out. In my defense, he was going through what I like to call his "Linda Blair" phase whereby he spent several hours of the each day thinking of new ways to be evil.

One day we found a note taped to the front door that simply said, "Dude...chill out. You're scaring me. Respectfully yours, Lucifer aka: Prince of Darkness".

Little known fact: the devil has unusually feminine hand writing.

And then one day I woke up and for reasons I cannot explain, he was my sweet Pookie again. That's the day I fell back in crazy love with the man I married. That's also the day I stopped looking for 2 for 1 buys on rat poison.

Did you ever love someone so much that simply saying the words, "I love you" felt completely inadequate because what you feel deserves its own word with lots of letters and accent marks and maybe a few hieroglyphics as well? That's how it is with Mr. Man. I love him so awful that my love borders on illness. Even talking about it now, I am torn between hugging him until his head pops off or guzzling Pepto-Bismal.

I love him so terrible I want to write poetry about his eyes, write a song about his face and pay a mad scientist a wild sum of money to shrink him down to about an inch tall so that I could enclose him in a tiny little capsule which I would wear around my neck both night and day so that he could never leave me.

That's not weird, is it?

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.



Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online

I'd like to thank the academy.

Don’t you love this time of year? Man, I do. I get all mushy and soft-hearted and icky. In all fairness, I'm mushy, soft-hearted and icky roughly 364 days a year, but this time of year it kicks into high gear. It's all I can do to stop myself from grabbing the stock boy at Wal-Mart and giving him an inappropriate hug. (Again…not that much different than any other day, I guess.)

This morning I went shopping for the turkey, the ham and thirty-three pounds of sugar I will need to make a good old-fashioned Southern Thanksgiving. The entire time I was throwing pecans and lemons and Chinet into my cart, I was thinking about the myriad of things for which I am truly thankful this year.

I'm thankful that at forty-one my girls are still perky, despite the fact that my step-mother used to tell me if I didn't wear a bra 24 hours a day, they'd be dragging the ground by the time I was thirty-five. Ha.

I’m thankful there is no treatment center for addiction to iTunes. Otherwise, I'd be in group therapy right now admitting to myself and to another human being exactly how much money I have spent on Michael Buble and Renee Olstead songs.

I'm thankful my name is not Gertrude.

I'm thankful the candy jar on my coffee table is filled to the top with Dove dark chocolate, Andes Mints and tiny Reece's Cups. I’m equally thankful Mr. Man hasn't noticed it yet.

I'm thankful for coffee. Everyone who has to live with me is also thankful for coffee.

I’m thankful I still cry every time I watch "It's a Wonderful Life", "City of Angels" and "Serendipity". (Which I'm totally watching right now…hang on while I blow my nose.)

I'm thankful that as an adult, I can have Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk for supper if I want and nobody can do anything about it.

I'm thankful for Berta Lou, the best, most evil red-headed friend in the whole big world. She puts up with all the "bizarre-ness" that is me and yet she somehow manages not to put her delicate hands around my throat and stop the madness. She either loves me unconditionally or she's a closet Nyquil addict. Either way, I'm thankful to have her and I'd give her my last kidney if she needed it or even if she didn't.
(Although I might think it was weird if she just showed up at my door and asked me for a kidney.)

I'm thankful for Mr. Man. In the entire universe I'm positive there is not another man alive that could possibly stand to be around me for more than five minutes in a row, much less be married to me.

I'm thankful for my kids. Sure, everybody thinks their kids are wonderful and perfect, but mine really are. My daughter is breathtakingly beautiful, funny and wise beyond her years and my son is incredibly intelligent, funny and handsome. It's worth noting that they both have a remarkable ability to find humor in pretty near anything. That's because during both pregnancies, I watched nothing but I Love Lucy reruns and ate bucket loads of Pop Rocks…which everyone knows is the funniest candy of all the funny candies.

I'm thankful for Belton, Texas. I refuse to say why.

I'm thankful Eric and BD and Trav are coming home. Berta Lou and I plan to kill the fatted calf in their honor in January. What happens in Kansas City stays in Kansas City…and that's all I'll say about that.

I'm thankful for Kev. Even though he is the biggest dork in all the land, I love him terrible anyway. I guess that would make me a dork lover. Maybe I should get a t-shirt made.

I’m thankful for Tanner, the amazing four pound Yorkie. If not for him, I would be forced to dress Mr. Man in tiny red Santa doggie boots and make him do humiliating things for cheese.

I'm thankful I get to say the words, "I love you" to at least one person every single day of my life. If I were granted one wish this Thanksgiving, it would be that everyone every where gets to say those words and hear them each and every day.

Or maybe that I could have a billion more wishes.

Dumpling, dumpling, dumpling...

Wake the kids and phone the neighbors because I passed my state real estate test!

Sweet lord, what a nightmare this has been. Had I been studying for something that is actually hard…like the MCAT's, I'm positive my brain would have spontaneously combusted. Who knew real estate law could hurt so much? Even thinking about it now causes the whites of my eyes to throb.

I've never thought of myself as stupid really. Slow sometimes? Sure. Directionally impaired? Absolutely. But stupid? I thought I was at least marginally better than stupid. Now I realize I'm just one small blow to the head short of having to wear a helmet and a bib everywhere I go.

"You're smart! You can do it!" That's what my friends and family told me throughout this educational ordeal. They've been amazingly supportive and frankly it was that support that made this whole deal even harder. Its one thing to fail when everyone you love expects you to fail. It's another thing all together when you've been told how intelligent you are and then you fall flat on your face. "Gee…we thought you were smarter than that, Sher. Do you need some help feeding yourself or learning to color in the lines?"

The day before the test, I woke up at 2:30 in the morning and studied and studied and studied some more. I consumed unhealthy amounts of coffee with Mountain Dew chasers and ate nothing but spoonfuls of coffee grounds mixed with peanut butter while simultaneously explaining functional obsolescence and stigmatized property to the dog.

I was an alert, wide awake, information machine ready for any test, any where, any how, any time. I could also hear the color red.

That is until about 5 PM when I started to crash from my caffeine induced high. I slowed down to a snail's pace and spent the next hour laughing hysterically while repeating the word "dumpling" over and over again. (In my defense, dumpling is a funny word.)

For me sleep deprivation is the same as smoking what my Daddy always referred to as Wacky-Backy. (I never inhaled.) When my body lacks sleep, I become what I believe is medically defined as wasted.

After sending my son to his Dad's for the night, I hopped in my car and drove way too fast and then way too slow and then way too fast again to meet up with Mr. Man so we could make the drive to the city and grab a hotel. I should have realized I was in trouble when I forgot the location of the friend's house where Man and I were set to hook up. I've only been there a hundred times, but somehow that night it mysteriously disappeared.

I drove around laughing and then crying and then laughing again because I had no idea where my husband was and why every time I called his cell, he pretended to be an old lady and answered, "Thank you for calling Wal-Mart".

The rest of the story is long and ugly and involves me threatening to move to Mexico and change my name to Juan Pedro and sell black velvet paintings of dogs playing poker to tourists. All you really need to know to achieve a nice and tidy happy ending is that I passed the test and nobody got hurt.

And when I say nobody, I mean nobody that the police can connect me with.