Monday, January 17, 2005

Real Women Don't Quack.

Dear Ms. Angelina Jolie,

The women of America have some issues with you that need to be addressed. As a result, they have banded together and appointed me as their spokesperson. In that capacity, it falls to me to write you this letter.

We're simply going to have to ask you to stop it.

That's right. Stop it. We've had it and we cannot in good conscience allow you to continue doing what it is you do. Life for the rest of us is becoming unbearable. The men of this nation compare us, and always unfavorably I might add, to you. It's time you started acting like a real woman so the rest of us can catch a break.

Alien goddess that you are, we understand that you may need some direction toward that end. And so to help make the transition easier for you, allow us to offer you the following advice.

First of all, you're going to need to have a lip reduction performed as soon as possible. Your lips have gotten entirely out of hand. When reasonable women are lining up outside plastic surgeon's offices to have fat sucked from their behinds and squirted into their lips in an effort to look more like you, something has gone awry. We are quickly becoming a generation of duck-lipped women and the phrase, "kiss my butt" has taken on a whole new meaning.

Enough already with the tattoos. Our men think you are exotic, but we moms just see a kid that can't quit drawing on herself. If you were our daughter, we'd take your Crayola markers away and make you write one-thousand times, "I will not draw bizarre symbols on my body".

Although you may not know this, a normal woman doesn't typically spend hours and hours in tattoo parlors having some pierced and bearded guy named Viper permanently write things on our stomach. That is partially because we spend all our money on other exotic things like food and electricity and partially because our tummies aren't exactly a flat canvas as they have been stretched out beyond repair by carrying around one or more big-headed babies.

Speaking of big-headed babies, was it entirely necessary to go to Cambodia to get a child? Would it have been too much to ask for you to get drunk and wind up pregnant by someone you really didn't like all that much like the rest of us? Not to mention that real women don't get to fly off to Cambodian-Babies-R-Us to pick out a dark-haired bundle of perfection. No way. If we get one with webbed toes and a lazy eye, we put it in a helmet and love it anyway. That's what being a mother is all about.

A snake as a pet, Angelina? We think not. Our organization will allow dogs, cats, gerbils and even the occasional monkey in a leisure suit, but snakes are not on the approved list of pets for women. If men see you walking around with a snake wrapped around your neck, they don't come running to our rescue when we are standing on the kitchen table screaming, "MOUSE!".

And what in the world were you thinking when you let Billy Bob hand you a vial of blood in place of jewelry? Are you kidding me? It's taken centuries to develop the part of a man's brain that creates mind numbing fear if he forgets his partner's birthday or anniversary. Thanks to you, now we women have to worry that when our men visit the doctor for a rectal exam, they're also shopping for us.

"Would you like a gift card with that urine specimen, Mr. Man?"

Think about that the next time you are tempted to accept DNA instead of a diamond, Angelina.

We are confident that you can make the changes necessary to join the ranks of real women, Ms. Jolie. All it takes is a little effort, a little sensitivity and a lot of late night binge eating. We look forward to seeing the new and improved you at our next meeting or on the cover of our weekly newsletter, "The National Enquirer".

Kindest Regards,
Ms. Crazy On Her Face
President of Real Women Don't Quack



Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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Sunday, January 16, 2005

I'm looking for some people.

Well, it's official. I'm soon to be a star. We all knew it was coming. I was destined for greatness, designed for fame. The big fake blonde hair is finally paying off.

I taped an interview for the local CBS affiliate here in the Midwest regarding an event I have planned. Sure, the interview only lasted approximately 3.4 minutes, but that's all the time I needed to make an impression on the scads of talent scouts that I'm sure search for up and coming stars on early morning television. When you've got it, you've got it and kids, I'm pretty sure I've got it.

If I don't have it, then I have something that I need to have examined by a trained medical professional because it's starting to swell and itch.

The interview airs only two days from now, so I'm thinking I'd better write one final thing for all you little people. As I need to make a "to-do" list anyway, I figure I'll just kill two birds with one stone and let you read the list.

To-do list of the new rich and famous me:


1. Arrange a proper burial for two birds and pay OJ a huge sum of money to get rid of a bloody stone.

2. Call the local McDonald's to make sure they catch the TV interview. I'm not waiting for a table there ever again.

3. Hire some people so that I can say, "Have your people call my people and we'll do the lunch thing".

4. Pay off everyone I've ever known so they will not sell photos of me eating Moon Pies and ice cream in my fat pants to the Enquirer.

5. Call Anna Nicole Smith to find out how she gets the M&M's manufacturer to put xanex in the middle of her candy. If I'm going to be a star, I'm going to need a drug habit and I can only do it if it tastes like chocolate.

6. Pre-register with the Betty Ford clinic so that I can kick my M&M xanex habit after I get arrested for beating up a nun and cry to Oprah about how hard it is to be rich and famous.

7. Get my tubes untied and have another baby so that I can name it something like, "Grapefruit" or "Snowdrift" or "Peculiar".

8. Prepare Mr. Man for my fame by explaining to him that he will soon be referred to by the press only as Mr. Crazy-On-Her-Face.

9. Leave some mayonnaise out in the sun a couple days so that I can inject it in my wrinkles and get rid of pesky facial expressions.

10. Get married like a zillion times. Oh cool. I've already done this one.


Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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Tuesday, January 11, 2005

The Red Shoe Diaries

I got a phone call yesterday from a producer with the local CBS affiliate. They have asked me to come on their morning show to talk about an event myself and my business partner are hosting.

"Gee that sounds swell," I said when asked if I was free. If you knew me, you'd know that talking like the Beav is always a tell-tale sign that I am about to have a little stroke. Well that and not being able to see the color blue.

My partner and I are supposed to be at the studio on Friday at 7:20 in the morning to tape the show. They would prefer not to have us do it live. Probably worried about the possibility of inappropriate scratching or something. Let's face it. Nobody wants to see a forty-year-old woman scratch while they eat their Wheaties.

After I hung up the phone and did the obligatory, "I'm going on t.v." happy dance, the reality of what I had agreed to do set in. Coincidentally, that's about the time I started to taste burnt pennies.

What in holy heck was I thinking? Me! Go on television! In front of actual people! I must have passed out because the next thing I remember Tanner, the amazing 4 pound Yorkie, was licking my hand and Mr. Man was trying to button my shirt.

Men. You can't live with 'em and you can't pass out in front of them without being groped.

Naturally as soon as I got off the floor I did what any woman in the same situation would do. I bitch-slapped Mr. Man and drove ninety-five miles an hour to the local retail establishment in search of suitable attire. Wanting to be a part of my excitement, the Man came along. And by came along, I of course mean he grabbed onto the bumper and held on for dear life.

I spent the better part of my afternoon trying on everything in the entire store to include a cute sweater the sales lady was wearing. I tried on black things, pink things, orange things and I think a couple blue things, although I can't be sure because of the side effects of the stroke and all.

"What do you think, Mr. Man?" I asked after modeling each and every item.

"Well, I don't really care for that one," he'd say looking disapprovingly at me. "It doesn't do anything for you." This coming from the man that spends his days off in zebra print sweatpants and a t-shirt that says, "Eat At Bubba's Bait and Tackle".

"Try this one," he said, handing me a double-breasted, black suit with gray pin stripes. It looked like something Baby Face Nelson would have been buried in. All I needed was a long, gold watch chain and a Tommy Gun and I'd be all set for a night on the town shooting feds.

"Wow, honey!," Mr. Man gushed when I came out of the dressing room looking for all the world like a gangster pimp. "You look very professional. That's the one. That outfit really says something."

"I agree. It says I like bathtub gin and hookers."

I'd love to tell you that I had more sense than to actually pay money for that suit and take it home. I'd love to, but I can't. Just as I was about to take it off and run screaming from the store, I saw them. The one and only things that could redeem this awful blend of polyester and big buttons. The very things that have tripped my trigger since I was old enough to have a trigger to trip.

Red shoes.

There they were. Four inch heels, red strap around the ankle and calling my name. If I could only have those shoes, I reasoned, I could wear the zoot suit. Red high-heel shoes can repair anything. Bad outfits, horrible marriages, lasting effects of mini strokes. I'm thoroughly convinced if my first several husbands had worn red high-heels, we'd all be living together in a commune somewhere.

"Sack it up, Baby!" I said to the sales lady. She agreed with Mr. Man that it was indeed a stunning outfit, but I think she only said that so I'd give back her sweater. She looked cold. "Grab the bumper, Mr. Man. We're going home."

This all happened yesterday. Today, in a much calmer frame of mind and no longer suffering from the red shoe induced hypnotic state, I decided to try on the suit and the slutty shoes and have my son tape me with the video camera. I figured I'd get a good look at me before I let people eating breakfast in four states look at me. I'm oh so glad I did.

Sweet Lord. What a disaster. I looked like a little girl playing dress up in her Daddy's old suit and her Mommy's high heels. A gender confused little fat girl. A gender confused little fat girl from 1920. I've never been more embarrassed to look at myself in my life and that includes the time when I was seven and I let my Mother give me a home perm and dress me in a shirt made out of dish towels.

I don't know what I'm going to do. The taping is two days away and unless I am lucky enough to come down with the Monkey Flu and suffer severe vomiting and diarrhea, I rather doubt I am going to lose thirty pounds prior to going on television. Not to mention that I have nothing to wear... again.

Oh well. What are you gonna do? I'll simply have to get up bright and early in the morning and take the vintage pimp-wear back to the store. I just hope the sales lady is wearing something cute.


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Friday, January 07, 2005

How do I love thee? Let me count the maxi pads.

We live in a society where ordinary, everyday people will reduce themselves to eating rotten gorilla gums for money while the rest of us... who firmly believe we are better than they are...will sit in our living rooms and watch them do it on television and call it entertainment. Our progress boggles the mind.

But despite our willingness to talk about, watch and take part in any number of disgusting behaviors in our never ending attempt to stave off boredom, there remains one subject about which we are so gentile, we must only discuss it with those closest to us.

OUR PERIODS!

That's right. I said it. Our periods. Our menstrual cycles. The monthly curse. Aunt Flo. The pip. Whatever you want to call it, if you're female you've likely either had it, gon'na get it or just getting over it. It's part of what makes us women and somehow over the course of time we've allowed men to convince us that our periods are something we need to keep to ourselves. They just don't want to hear about it. And frankly coming from a group of humans that very often feel the need to announce the frequency and length of their own bowel movements, I'm saying as women we need to band together and put a stop to this double standard.

As Cher said to Nicholas Cage, "Snap out of it."

I myself have come forth and taken a stand for women everywhere. What did I do? Well, if you've ever been running a 104 degree temperature, haven't bathed in two days because you've been so near death you swear you saw your dead Uncle Bert standing by the microwave, and then had your period start only to find the Kotex box had nothing in it but the tiny,folded up pamphlet about toxic shock syndrome, this one's for you.

Ladies, I made my husband buy my feminine products.

Right now, you're gasping in disbelief. I know, I know. Not since Mary Tyler Moore threw her beret in the air has the women's movement been so advanced by a single act. Men simply will not buy feminine products of any kind. Every woman knows it, but for the life of us we can't figure out why.

What possible reason could they have? Maybe they worry the clerk will think they use them themselves. Maybe they are afraid they'll look gay, even though I'm pretty sure gay men aren't typically seen walking down the street with a box of maxi pads swinging from their belts. They can ask us to buy everything from jock itch powder to bunion pads to condoms, but if we dare to ask them to pick up a tiny box of "woman things" at Wal-Mart, the response is always the same. "I'm not buying that stuff."

So it was in the interest of feminism that I sent my Mr. Man out into the wilderness to forage for the much feared woman things. Not wanting to send him out on his own this first time without proper training, I gave him a quick crash course in all things feminine.

Over coffee we talked at length about pads and tampons, wings and liners. He was clearly mesmerized. Feeling secure in his newfound knowledge, my hunter set out bravely, in broad daylight even, to provide for his mate.

I have to admit, I was amazed at how easy it was to get him to go. He didn't put up too much of a fight. In fact, after he left it occurred to me that he wasn't going to get my menstrual supplies at all. I imagined he was probably at a cock fight or something equally manly trying to build up the testosterone he felt he had lost after spending the afternoon talking about tampons. As time passed and he still hadn't returned from his journey, I started to think maybe I wasn't imagining things.

Just when I was about to call the local cock fighting arena to have him paged, he drove up. I saw him get out of the car and he had not one single package, the rotten little man. Crouching down into prime pouncing position so as to mount a surprise attack on his genitalia, I watched him walk around the car and pop the trunk. Low and behold, he had actually been to the store. He pulled out a bag... a really big bag. That's just like him, I thought. Send him to get one little thing and he comes back with fifty things we don't need.

Then he pulled from the trunk another bag. And then another. Mr. Man had three big bags stuffed to the top.

"What did you buy? Did you even get what I sent you after?" I said as he walked in the door.

He sat the bags down on the floor and without saying a word, one by one he unloaded his bounty. Box after box after box of every feminine product manufactured in North America was now covering my living room. The man had bought every size, every shape, every color, every absorbency. He had things with wings, little things, big things, flat things and things that I wasn't too for sure weren't premie diapers. I had enough menstrual supplies to open my own periodical warehouse.

"What in the world were you thinking?" I asked, not knowing what the proper response might be when one is presented with such a windfall.

"I love you," said Mr. Man. "And nothing says loving like a trunk full of tampons."

What can I say? You gotta love a poet.


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She bang.

I'm distressed. Sure, that's a normal state of being for me, but this time I'm really, honest to goodness disgruntled.

I was happy only a few short hours ago. There I was ripping open the gigantic box that contained my brand spanking new stereo Mr. Man very generously bought me. I was full of joy and hope for the future and one-hundred percent fully gruntled. In fact, I don't recall a time in recent memory of being as totally gruntled as I was at that moment.

Kids, this stereo is so cool. It has buttons and lights and boostie thingies and it shakes the floor underneath me. Mr. Man had to leave for work, so my son and I spent a good half hour doing nothing but attaching wires and pushing buttons. Sounds perfectly lovely, huh?

Yeah... not so much.

I found one of my favorite CD's and cranked up the volume. I knew I had it just right when the dog's hair blew backward. It was like AC/DC was right in the middle of my own little house.

Yeehaw!

I've said it before and I'll say it again. AC/DC is all powerful. If you are younger than forty, you'll no doubt want to tell me they're not cool any more... or whatever word you people are using to define cool now. If you are older than fifty, chances are you're sure listening to AC/DC will send me spiraling to the very pits of hell.

As is always the case, if you don't agree with me you are wrong. I'm sticking with "all powerful" and I'm betting any forty-something worth his or her salt would say the same. If not, they suck. And I mean that in the nicest way.

There is something about AC/DC that cannot be described. I just realized that as I am a writer, I am not allowed by law to ever say something can't be described. That's for you non-writer type people. I must describe. It's the nature of the beast.

First of all, you gotta love any grown man that has the cachongas (did I just create a new word?) to wear an Eddie Munster suit every single day of his life. Give him the same name as a brand of beef and you got something. Get yourself a band that does songs like "Highway to Hell" and "What Do You Do For Money Honey" and people are gonna notice. It's just good stuff.

So there I am, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" blasting away and without even realizing it I found myself doing what I always do when I hear AC/DC. I started to move. First it was just a little head bob. You know the kind. All the geeky wallflowers at the school dances used to do the little head bob. It's sort of the international symbol for "I'm a closet head-banger but I'm too shy to actually dance".

But as I said, AC/DC is the stuff and it's hard to stick with the little head bob when you hear "..pick up the phone, I'm always home, call me anytime.." In fact, it's been proven by actual lab-coat-wearing scientists that human beings are incapable of maintaining the little head bob when they hear AC/DC. I had no choice.

Next thing I know, through no will of my own, I'm in the middle of my living room fully engaged in what can only be described as full head banging activity. I'm flipping my forty-year-old hair around like I'm eighteen while simultaneously playing air drums better than any drummer, male or female, has ever played air drums in the history of the make believe instrument. I was transported. That's the power of the band.

And then it happened. The exact moment that I went from gruntled to dis in zero to sixty seconds. I never thought this day would come, but it did. I heard those three little words that every teenager swears their kids will never, ever say to them.

"You look stupid."

My ten-year-old son had the nerve to say to me the same thing I had once said to my Daddy when he wore black socks with his white tennis shoes and Bermuda shorts. How in the name of all that is good and right in the world could my son think of me, his way cool mom, the same way I thought of my dorky dressing father? Clearly he could use some time locked in his room writing, "My Mom is the coolest" no less than one-thousand times.

Somehow when I wasn't looking, I became the parent. Yuckie poo. Apparently no matter how hard you try not to be the stupid looking mom or dad, it happens in spite of you. Personally I don't know when it became stupid looking for a forty-year-old woman to blast AC/DC and dance around in front of her ten-year-old son like she's in the middle of a rock concert, but I......

Oh my gosh! I am a dork! I am the dorky parent. I'm the big ole embarrassing parental unit that my son feels compelled to explain to his friends. This is a sad day indeed.

Well, I don't recall Daddy giving up the black socks no matter how much I protested, so I don't think I'm going to give up Angus or head banging without a fight. Besides, I have a lot of practicing to do. If I'm going to enter the two of us in the elementary school talent show I've got to work extra hard on my new air drum routine. I think I'll play Wipe Out. When you've got this kind of talent, you can't let the protests of a ten-year-old keep you down.

He'll be fine. And even if he's not, we've got good insurance. It'll pay for all the therapy he needs.

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Sunday, January 02, 2005

Dick Clark ain't gonna get me this time.

Here it is again. A new year. Another quick look back at the year I just laid to rest and a feeling of complete and utter failure as I examine the resolutions I never came close to fulfilling.

Sadly, I am neither twenty pounds lighter nor twenty million dollars richer. And most distressing of all my failures, I am no closer now to seeing my name on the New York Times Bestseller list than last year. If it counts, I do however feel considerably closer to climbing to the top of a water tower in a clown wig with a high-powered squirt gun and having my way with the ant-sized people below. I've never cared much for ant-sized people. They make me feel fat.

This year though, I have a plan. This year I will not fail at achieving my New Year's resolutions. In order to accomplish my goals, I will simply set the bar so incredibly low for myself that even a brain-dead gerbil could manage them.

In no particular order, here they are. My top ten New Year's resolutions. Feel free to emulate my low standards so that you too can enjoy a successful year.

10. Collect as many old margarine containers as humanly possible. While I already have an extensive collection that comes pouring out of my cabinet every time I open it, I know I need more. When we are attacked by aliens from Neptune and discover their currency is in fact used dairy containers, I will be able to buy my way out of captivity. Those of you who have been throwing them out all these years will naturally be forced to live in cages and juggle for their alien amusement.

9. Do at least one load of laundry a week. Currently I do about thirty-seven loads of disgusting family laundry per week and that's a conservative estimate. This year, if I get four a month completed, I will feel entirely successful.

8. Save money by not taking tap lessons. Of course, I wasn't planning on taking tap lessons, but if the mood should strike me, I will deny myself in the interest of financial security.

7. Stop eating brussel sprouts. As I'm not entirely sure what a brussel sprout looks like, I see no foreseeable problems here.

6. Take vitamins every day. I am a big vitamin fan. I like them, therefore I consume mass quantities of them. Big ones, little ones and ones called "muddy pond water time release capsules". Do I feel any healthier than when I don't take them? Not really. But, it looks good on a resume.

5. Use more baby talk with my Yorkie. Tanner is my four pound Yorkie that is so ugly he's cute. Although I talk to him like he's my two-week old baby, I feel there is room for improvement. I plan to use more words like, "poopie-woopie" and "wittle, bittle, baby-wabee" when I address him.

4. Have fewer "relations" with Mr. Man. Here's where setting the bar low really comes in handy. What with my premature ovarian failure which is causing my woman parts to shrivel up like old avocados, I think it only makes sense to cut back. Sure, he may find this resolution a bit harsh, but let's face it, I'm forty. I can't be a sex kitten forever. The three times bi-quarterly that we presently "relate" would even exhaust Hugh Hefner. Come to think of it, swallowing oatmeal would exhaust Hugh Hefner. He's like a thousand.

3. Watch "The Oprah" and Dr. Phil more. How will I do it? I don't know. I'm remembering on my visits to Graceland seeing a wall of televisions in the King's media room. That might work. Mr. Man's going to need another job to pay for my new Elvis entertainment center, though.

2. Find extra job for Mr. Man. If I could find him something involving a head set and fried chicken maybe I could do something crafty with all the empty buckets he could scavenge. I am oh-so-crafty. A little hot glue and some lace and I've got myself a perfectly lovely urn. I could throw in some lighter fluid and a Bic and sell it on eBay under the heading, "White Trash Home Cremation Kit". If I put a Nascar sticker on it, I'd make a fortune.

1. Buy all my pants three sizes too big. This way, no matter how much weight I actually gain from all the Moon Pie consumption, I can still complain to Mr. Man that all my pants swallow me whole. Takes the sting right out of the inevitable dieting failure. Bite me, Slimfast.


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