Boo.

I love Halloween. Frankly, I love the whole series of holidays that Halloween kicks off. When trick-or-treat day comes, I know it's only a matter of weeks until my Santa Baby does his thing.

When I was younger, I was all about watching scary movies on Halloween. I was a fan of all the classics: Friday the 13th, Amityville Horror, even The Blob. If it was scary, I was going to see it... and have nightmares about it for no less than six months.

But then I grew up, got married so many times I lost count, and had children. Somewhere in that process, I became scary movie intolerant. I totally can't handle them. In fact, I can't even stand to hear the "somebody is fixing to get their head whacked off" music when Mr. Man is watching a horror flick in another room of the house.

I'm not sure what's happened to me, but I think it has to do with the fact that the real world is plenty scary enough. I don't need to pay ten bucks to get the pee scared out of me when I can turn on CNN for free. Reality is frightening.

With Halloween creeping in tomorrow, here is my list of the top ten things that make chills run up and down my spine... and not in that good way, either.

10. I hate it when little kid ghosts whisper. Especially ones that hide behind your drapes and try to brush your hair or hold your hand while they whisper, "You're pretty, Mommy." I know my memory is sometimes selective, but I think I would have remembered if I had given birth to a ghost.

9. Even worse than little kid ghosts that whisper are little kid ghosts that sing little kid songs in a spooky, ghosty voice. Not cool.

8. I'm afraid to walk around the house in my underwear and socks for fear of having my head lopped off. (In every horror movie, there is always one chick that decides to go check out the creepy noise in the basement wearing nothing but her underwear and socks which ultimately leads to having her head chopped off with a rusty lawnmower blade.)

7. I'm totally afraid I'll wake up crazy one day and I won't know it. I'll be skipping through the streets wearing a tin foil hat and have absolutely no idea people almost never do that.

6. My garbage disposal scares me. I keep having the thought that maybe I'll be walking past it one day and suddenly have the overwhelming desire to shove my hand in it and flip the switch. (Say hello to my little friend: OCD.)

5. Sometimes I take my son to school wearing my pajamas with no make-up on...and before I've even brushed my teeth. I'm terrified I will have an accident and a gorgeous firefighter with big scissors will have to cut my clothes off in order to save my life and he'll be all, "Yuck" and I'll be all, "I swear...I really don't look like this all the time", but he won't be able to hear me because I'll be dying and everything. Later he'll tell all his gorgeous firefighter friends how he had no choice but to let me die because I hadn't brushed my teeth or put on any make-up and he doesn't get paid enough to deal with that.

4. Jello scares me.

3. People who eat Jello scare me even more. Come on...nobody really likes that stuff. What are you trying to prove?

2. Gas pumps are one of the scariest things around. I don't like to touch them. Have you seen some of the people that pump gas? Think about it... everybody pumps gas and puts their grimy hands on the pump handle. Criminals pump gas, lepers pump gas, people who have just washed their hands in toxic waste pump gas. If I ever find a gas station that offers free disposable gas-pumping gloves, I'm a customer for life.

1. The bird flu terrifies me! Yesterday I had an unexplainable desire to buy gummy worms at Wal-Mart. That can't be a good sign.


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

Waiting on her give a damn to bust.

My friend calls me today to tell me that a guy we know has asked his wife for a divorce. She remembered that a few months ago he hit on me and wondered if maybe I should go speak with his wife and tell her about it now.

Her: "She has no idea why he's leaving her. Do you think if you told her about your experience with him, she'd understand a little better?"

Me: "Ummm...yeah...not gonna do it."

Here's the thing with women. Out loud we say to our friends, to our co-workers and to our men that we would want someone to tell us if our husbands/boyfriends were behaving badly. However, the truth is we do not want to know because if we did want to know, we'd know without having to be told.

On some level, I believe we women understand that despite thousands of years of evolution, men barely have their knuckles off the ground. Their hearts want to be faithful to one woman, but their inner caveman tells them a hungry dinosaur is always right around the corner waiting to devour their family. Their tom catting around is nothing personal...just a little natural survival of the fittest to ensure a male has a gaggle of children to keep the old bloodline going and to help him swat the occasional Pterodactyl when he's in the mood for fried poultry.

That's why they can utter that old standard, "She didn't mean a thing to me," and mean it. Isn't biology interesting?

Having said that, whenever a "friend" tells another "friend" that her man has been giving into his biological need to spread his seed all over the jungle, the very first thing she does is to confront said man about the accusation.

Her: "Sally says you hit on her last week. You'd better tell me the truth, you scum-sucking sperm machine!!!"

Him: "Baby, I swear it wasn't me. NO way would I ever do anything to hurt you. I love you so much. You're beautiful and smart and besides that, Sally is fat and ugly. I wouldn't want her if she was the last set of ovaries on earth." And then he finishes if off with one last and highly emphatic, "I swear".

Her: Crying and blowing snot bubbles, "Ok, Honey. If you really swear you didn't do it, then I believe you. I'll be back in a minute. I'm going over to Sally's to leave a flaming bag of poop on her front porch."

And that's the name of that tune. Although the 6'3" evil doer in question did in fact very specifically ask me to run away with him and join his circus, I won't be visiting his soon to be ex-wife to share that information with her. All it would take is one, "I swear" and I'd have a smelly fire at my door and nobody wants that. Eventually she'll figure this all out. We all figure it out eventually... when we're ready to know, that is.

I do feel badly for her because I know that pain and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. She can do better than him though and my guess is that like all of us who have had our hearts smeared all over the pavement, she will realize that at some point. She'll go from crying to swearing to "how is it possible I never noticed his nose was so crooked?". That's the circle of getting over a man.

Somebody cue the theme from Lion King.


Buy OCD Chick Stuff


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

Take a memo.

Dear Man,

You know I love you so much it makes my teeth hurt, however I'm thinking I could love you even more if you'd straighten up and fly right. Because I know your mind reading skills are severely lacking, I thought I'd clearly spell out exactly what I need in black and white using easy to understand, real life examples. Let's see if you get where I'm going with this.

1. Before my gynecologist gloves up to root around in my lady business for fun and profit, he sits down with me and we have what is known in the outside world as a conversation. "How's it going, Sher? What's new with you, Sher? Tell me what you're working on lately, Sher?"

It's important to note that at no time does he ask me to pull his finger nor does he ask me why I haven't bothered to fix supper yet. Equally important is that I have never once told my gynecologist that I have a head ache. Coincidence? I think not.

2. When I go to the grocery store the pimple-faced bag boy packs my groceries in bags AND takes them to my car where he unloads them for me with a smile and tells me to have a good day. He has never once waited until I have packed all the groceries myself and then said, "Did you want some help with that?" Neither does he stand there with his arms folded while I do all the work and bark at me, "If I do it, you're just going to tell me I did it the wrong way, so you might as well do it yourself."

3. Each time I get my medicines refilled, my pharmacist asks me "Is there anything going on I should know about, Sher?" I've never gone to get my meds and had him give me the evil eye and say, "You never tell me anything until after it's already happened!" He knows a person who doesn't take the time to ask the questions shouldn't kerbitch when they don't get the answers.

4. Amazon.com totally gets me. They keep track of all the books I've read and based on that, they recommend books they think I'll like. I'm pretty sure there is a little Amazon elf that understands he can find out a lot about me based on the books I enjoy reading. He pays attention to what interests me. What do you think interests me? You might be surprised to know that I almost never read anything involving cooking, cleaning or the joy of picking up your husband's dirty socks. You did know I could read, didn’t you? I thought maybe since you don't write me sweet notes any more maybe you had forgotten I knew how.

5. The Schwann's guy is seriously trying to steal my heart. Like clock work, he shows up every two weeks and says, "I just wanted to see if there was anything you wanted or needed." WOW, a man that is all about fulfilling my needs and wants. The really cool thing is that when I tell him what I want, he runs back to his truck and gets it for me immediately. I'm going to bet if he were to walk in my bathroom and noticed the empty bottle of perfume that's been sitting on the counter for three weeks; he'd get the hint that maybe that's something I wanted and run back to his truck to get it for me. Better watch your step, Sporty Spice. I'm about one frozen pizza away from hopping on his truck and riding off into the sunset.

There you have it, Mr. Man. In the words of the sexiest bald man in the world, "Make it so, Number One".


"You won't regret it, women don't forget it, love is their whole happiness. And its all so easy…try a little tenderness".



Buy OCD Chick Stuff


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

Riddle me this, Joker.

I don't understand people. And when I say people, I mean people who aren't me.

Me I totally get.

Recently everyone I knew caught Powerball fever. The pot was more than a GoZillion dollars and tickets were being sold like mad. Of course, Mr. Man and I were no exception. We always buy two tickets a week and have for years using the same numbers every time. I won't tell you our super secret numbers, but I will tell you if you knew you'd be all, "Oh, how sweet," because our numbers have to do with our love.

Ick.

While I would venture to say that most people who buy lottery tickets do so in hopes of winning the grand prize, the OCD Chick does not. In fact, I actually pray that we don't win big. While I'd love to win a million or two at the most, I start flipping the light switch on and off seventy-seven times and washing my hands with Lysol if I allow myself to imagine more money than that.

"If I won the lottery, I'd want everyone I have ever cared about to be rich, too," I announced to Mr. Man after we bought our tickets. "I'd throw a huge party and invite all our friends and family and I'd totally give them bucket loads of money." I was practically bubbling.

He looked at me adoringly and said, "You are an idiot."

See why I love him?

"Why in the world would you do that? Why would you give away all your money? You'd wind up poor and do you think they'd be there to help you when you needed it then?" Mr. Man is a nice guy for the most part, but clearly he has some unresolved sandbox issues from his childhood. Either that or his Mother didn't nurse him long enough.

I don't get it. How could a person sleep at night on piles of jillion dollar bills when you knew your friend across town was still making car payments on their 1976 Pacer? That is inconceivable to me. Money, much like love and sexually transmitted diseases, should be given away. (Quick, someone put that on a t-shirt.)

I decided that my 6'2" bundle of gorgeous was simply stingy with money and since we're going to be poor forever and it will never be a bridge we have to cross, I could deal with that. That is until a day or two later when my friend, the evil red-headed Berta Lou, was going to the hospital for a "procedure" and his I-me-my attitude reared it's ugly head again.

First of all, don't worry too much about Bert. She's gonna be fine. She was just running about a quart low on iron. Although the doctor's can't figure out where the leak is coming from, they do know that she's leaving a puddle in her driveway periodically and her "check iron" light is blinking on long trips.

I love my Berta Lou terrible, so I called her and begged her to let me do something to help while she was in the shop.

"I'll go and hold your hand," I said.

"That's ok. My husband is going," she said.

"I'll break out the fire batons, the tap shoes AND the boobie tassles and do a little show in the hospital," I said.

"Let me get back to you on that," she said. I think I had her interest until I threw in the boobie tassles. I always go too far when I love someone. Some people say if you love something, set it free. I say if you love something, make a complete fool of yourself.

When Mr. Man came home from work, I announced that I was giving Berta Lou a kidney. "Does she need a kidney?" he asked in horror.

"I don't think so, but I love her and you can never be too sure. I'm giving her something. It may be a kidney or a cornea or a hair transplant, but she's my best friend and if I've got a spare part, she's getting it whether she needs it or not. That's what friends do," I could tell he was skeptical of my wanting to donate my body parts to someone who may or may not need them, but he was just going to have to trust my judgment. "Oh...and by the way, you need to give her something, too."

"What? Why do I need to give her something? You're already handing over your innards. I don't have anything she needs anyway."

Now he was making me mad. It's one thing to be stingy with money, but to refuse to have your guts surgically removed for a friend was too much.

"You are so giving Berta a body part, Mister, and that's final! You can either pick the part and we can do this the easy way, or I'll pick the part and we'll do it the hard way. Let me make it perfectly clear that I have no problem donating one of your testicles to my best friend. Now what do you have to say?"

"I say I'm not going to sleep in this house any more."



Buy OCD Chick Stuff


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

You tell me.

Ok, this is weird, but I need to know if this has ever happened to you.

Did you ever think someone was really cute and then you see them up close and after staring at them for some length of time, you totally realize that they are not cute but you're already on a date with them, so you have to figure out what the symptoms of mad cow disease are so you can fake sick and get them out of your apartment?

Wait… I'm not finished yet.

And then you see them again years later and you think, "Wow, I was mistaken. They are way cute" and you try to act like you don't know them because you look awful and you don't want them to think they look all good and you look like you've been awake all night vomiting and they are so lucky you dumped them because it would be awful to wake up next to you every single morning of their lives?

The whole Garth Brooks Unanswered Prayers relationship theory.

So then you go home and you think, "Why was I so mean to that person that I faked mad cow disease and stopped taking their phone calls? Why didn't I see how good looking they were?" You're happy you're married to the person you're married to, but you'd like not to feel like a total evil monkey every time you see them because of the whole faking the cow thing, so you keep your fingers crossed you don't ever see them ever, ever again.

And then you do. A bunch of times. I mean, every freaking time you go to Wal-Mart, there they are, lurking right around the coffee aisle, which is bad because you drink a lot of coffee.

They are always dressed very well, no matter what time they are shopping for coffee, and you ask yourself why they insisted upon dressing like a member of a boy band when you dated them all those years ago when clearly they have an incredible sense of style now.

"I saw him again and he looked really good," you tell your husband, who is way too understanding which makes you think maybe he's doing something he shouldn't be doing because what husband would be so totally cool about his wife drooling over some other man unless his own hand was in somebody else's cookie jar, so you make a mental note to take the money you have hidden in the ashtray in your car because you don't smoke and it's the perfect place to hide money and hire a private investigator to follow him around.

Then you see the person again, only this time, you don't so much look like you've been blowing chunks all night so you decide to walk right past him and act like you don't know him in an effort to seem better than him just in case he has developed some sort of smug attitude about you after years of seeing you hiding behind the non-dairy creamer in sweats and your husband's t-shirts. You stroll on by, making sure to suck in your tummy and act aloof and all, "I so don't even see you there", but you see out of the corner of your eye that he sees you and he totally knows you.

So he conveniently winds up on your aisle every few minutes, even when you're in the feminine hygiene aisle, which you realize all too late and get crazy embarrassed over because the last thing you need is for this guy to think Aunt Flo is visiting, which she is, because you're working so hard on the whole aloof thing.

You decide you've wandered around Wal-Mart long enough and you've got to leave and the person starts to get in line behind you and some woman who you presume is his wife pulls his arm and he's gone and you're thinking, "Crap. Almost had him. Almost forced him to see I'm still too good for him by letting him talk to me and then acting like I can't remember his name". What a fabulous plan you had and now it's blown completely.

But on your way out, you bump right into this person and the woman you think is his wife and you get a good look at him while he's trying to figure out whether she would lop off his manliness if he spoke to you and you think to yourself, "Wow. He's really not that cute. I was right the first time".

Has that ever happened to you?

Me neither.



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

Sherri Dearest

Most men say I love you with flowers or a mushy card. Yesterday Mr. Man tried to say I love you with a bottle of Lysol and a broom.

The only man on earth that can as easily make my heart go pitter-patter as he can make me want to gouge his eyes out with a grapefruit spoon, spent his day cleaning the house as a gift to me. In a normal relationship, that might not be such a hard thing to do. But, when you're married to me, that is a bigger job than you can even begin to imagine.

My house can't just be clean. It has to be OCD clean. Not only are we battling dirt that is seen, we are battling the unseen killer germs that live in weird little places that only people with OCD x-ray vision can find and effectively eradicate.

Properly cleaning the place I inhabit involves industrial strength and absolutely toxic chemical cleaners, no less than four rolls of high quality paper towels and toothpicks. Lots and lots of toothpicks.

Things must be dusted, scrubbed, de-germed and vacuumed and once that's all been done, if it doesn't "feel" clean to me, it must be done again… but only after I've screamed at you for five straight minutes, which may or may not include any number of bad words and possibly an insult about how your mother earns a living.

And then there is the matter of the laundry.

When someone else attempts to do the laundry in this house, I both appreciate it and want to kill them at the same time. I have a system that is very rigid and any attempt to stray from it in an effort to save time may cause me to fling sharp things in the direction of one's family jewels.

This was the case when I walked in on Mr. Man doing laundry and caught him in the act of hanging pants on a wire hanger!!! I went from Sher to Mommie Dearest in 0-15 seconds.

"NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!" I screamed after I shaved my eyebrows and drew in old lady "I'm so surprised" eyebrows with a black Sharpie. (This was your Joan Crawford reference for the day.)

"What's the big deal," he asked. "They're my pants anyway. Who cares?"

I proceeded to explain to him in loud detail why God hates people who use wire hangers, how wire hangers are the single biggest cause of the decline of civilization and the little known fact that wire hangers were actually invented by Hitler.

I thought I made myself extraordinarily clear.

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Man had the audacity to put his hands on his hips and tell me he guessed since they were his pants he could hang them on whatever the hell he wanted and if I didn't want him to walk right out the front door and leave me to finish cleaning the entire house alone, I'd better turn around quietly and exit the laundry room.

And that's exactly what I did.

By the way, if you'd like to send get-well-soon cards to Mr. Man, please address them to:

Man with Wire Hanger Through His Genitalia
C/O Midwest Hospital, Kansas

Real Estate for Dummies

I have gone and done something remarkably stupid and for me to admit it while I am actually smack dab in the middle of doing something stupid means it's a biggie. Typically I like to wait until I've already done it, taken medication to get rid of it or divorced it before I admit it was indeed an act of utter stupidity.

If you've read my articles for very long you know that I create an aura of bull excrement for a living. Basically I use words to convince people to do what I want them to do, which is typically to buy something. It's actually a job I enjoy very much and I'm even told by some that I’m pretty good at it. If only it were a talent that I could use on Mr. Man, I'd be one happy woman. As it is, I can't even persuade him to flush the toilet half the time.

So why, oh why, did I suddenly decide that what my life was really missing was the ability to sell real estate? It seemed like such a good idea at the time…which should most definitely be the name of my autobiography.

"Do yourself a favor and go to the class in the city. It takes four days and then you're done with it," said my soon to be broker, who also happens to be my second husband's third wife. I'm not sure, but I think that makes us wives-in-law twice removed.

"Oh no," said me, the woman who prior to this incident thought I was a pretty smart cookie. "I am going to go against all your experience, training and advice and go online to real estate school. For I am Sher…Queen of doing it my way."  

Famous last words.

I signed up for the class, gave them my $250 and I was off. Sure it's a thirty hour course, but I figured that was for the legally retarded students or people who actually read the directions on a box of Pop-Tarts. With my amazing level of intelligence, I would probably have the whole thing done in about three hours and fifteen minutes, and that's if I stopped to pee.

To say this course is hard is an understatement of epic proportion. It's like saying Scarlett O'Hara was a little bit dramatic or Mr. Man only smells a little bad after he eats three or four convenience store burritos at work.

I have spent my week engrossed in terms I've never heard, ridiculous math problems and words that I'm pretty sure are made up by a deranged monkey with nothing better to do. I've barely showered, my hair looks like my dog licked it clean and I actually dreamt that I showed up at my broker's office for a meeting…naked.

You might say I've been slightly distressed.


My daughter Kitten, who passed her real estate exam earlier this year, called me to ask how it was going. Between the sobs, about all I could get out was, "What in the H-E-Double-Hockeysticks does fee simple mean and who in the crap owns the land underneath a creek?"

"I'm sending you my workbook from the real class, Mom," she said. Thank God for the pity of my way smarter than me daughter. The book arrived yesterday, complete with little drawings of cartoon people throughout its pages who serve to help explain whatever concept is being covered.

Now when I'm stumped about who owns the air space in a condo, I can look at the little picture of the real estate agent on the side. If her eyes are popping out of her head and she's holding her hand over her mouth in shock, I know immediately something has gone terribly awry with Sally Smith's real estate deal.

If there is a cartoon figure of an evil land owner with a big red x through it, I can figure out pretty easily that Sally's landlord has tried to pull a hinkey move that real estate law does not allow.

If I see a stick figure of a frog in a top hat and a cane, I realize I need to stop eating coffee right from the can.

It's real estate for dummies. Thank you, Jesus.

I have no idea whether I will pass this course and become one of those late night real estate people who barely speak English standing in front of my expensive sports car which is parked in front of my abnormally large yacht sipping champagne, but I intend to at least try. You don't see enough abnormally large yachts in Kansas. I blame wheat.

Frankly, as much as I am looking forward to this new experience in my life, at this point my one and only motivator is not to be declared legally stupid by being the only person I have even known to fail the test.

I hear once the State Real Estate Commission says you're stupid, federal level stupidity can't be far behind…and that goes on your driver's license…just like whether or not you're a donor. No way I'm having a big, red "S" stamped next to my weight of 103 pounds.

Yes. I said 103 pounds. I may not be smart enough to know how big a township is, but I'm plenty smart enough to know better than tell the government what my real weight is. Only my hairdresser knows for sure.

Baskin Robbins Women

Mr. Man and I have an old friend that we don't get to see often enough. He's a single cop who lives only a little more than an hour away and yet there is rarely a night when at least one of us doesn't have something scheduled. We're pathetic.

This month, we've decided to try again. Mr. Man has a night off, I am free as well and now we're waiting on our friend to verify his schedule is clear so we can get hotel rooms on neutral territory. Keep your fingers crossed.

So I get an email from him telling me he might invite his "flavor of the month" to come with him. (His words, not mine.) "She's nice and we have fun, but she's not the one," he said. "She's too young."

I won't say how young she is other than to say she is legal to play with in the state of Kansas and I am old enough to have given birth to her. You can imagine how much I am hoping he'll bring her along. I look forward to a night of stimulating discussion about whether Kevin and Brittney will make good parents and swapping Easy Bake Oven recipes.

I would ask him to explain to me his fascination with young women, but I really don't need his enlightenment. At forty-one, I'm pretty sure I have the math figured out. Young girls have firm behinds, their boobies are still perky and they make a fabulous accessory that goes well with anything.

When I told Mr. Man about our friend's new play thing, he said and I quote, "Woo-hoo!" And then he saw the look on my face and whimpered off to a corner and hid.

What I want to know is, when did this happen? When did I slip from hot, young girl to "excuse me, Ma'am"? When did I become the old lady that hates to see a perfectly good man waste his brain cells and sperm on a too young for him girl?

When I was nineteen, I married Husband #1 who was quite a bit older, completely settled in his career and already had two kids from a previous marriage. Everywhere we went we attracted attention. People were sometimes even rude enough to look right past me and say to him, "You like 'em young, don't you?" He saw that as the biggest compliment anyone could give him. He wore me like an expensive suit.

I wasn't even old enough to drink when I married him and yet somehow, I was sure the age difference didn't matter and we were going to live happily ever after. It's worth noting that the girlfriend he felt necessary to have while we were married was a lot older than me. Hmm. Perhaps he needed a more stimulating conversationalist.

Our friend is a good looking, wildly intelligent man. He's successful, funny and the kind of guy everyone loves to be around. While he tells me that he has no intentions of getting serious with this girl, I can tell you from experience that she is already wondering whether they should release doves or balloons after the double ring ceremony.

I'd feel sorry for her too, were it not for the fact that she is a scab taking jobs away from grown up women who are forced to go man-less or worse yet, settle for men who only have hair in and around their ears and wear tube socks. Thank God I am married and therefore have a man who is forced by law and the fear of alimony to love me. If I were single at my age, I suppose my only recourse would be to cruise the halls of retirement homes and talk loudly about how much I love blended prunes in the hopes a hundred year old man would find my lack of Depends panty lines arousing.

I'll be sure to let you know how the evening turns out. I figure if I make it the entire night without telling her to sit up straight and stop playing with her tongue ring, I'm golden.


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

Buy OCD Chick Stuff