FYI: Gordman's has poltergeists.

There is a very real possibility that I've experienced some sort of brain injury which has left me incapable of going in Gordman's without breaking something.

Friday I drove back north to see Kitten...who is some better, but still no where near OK. Anyway, she really needed to get out of the house for a little while as she's been trapped in the house all week storing up nuts in her cheeks and eating antibiotics.

We decided a little retail therapy was in order.

The last time Kitten and I went in Gordman's, I gave her a very stern warning about being careful with the cart so as not to break any of the millions of glass figurines perched precariously on the 20 foot high glass shelves they are so fond of.

"I'm comandeering this cart Miss Kitten," I said in the aforementioned stern way. "You are going to break something if I don't step in right now and prevent it."

Famous last words.

No sooner had I taken over operation of the cart than I backed right into one of those glass monstrosities.

As John Mellancamp said, "And the wall came tumbling down".

If you've never heard a million glass and ceramic things hit a tile floor all at once, you can't appreciate the sound such an event makes. It was like a retail sonic boom that drew the attention of every living thing in an eight mile radius.

I had no idea what to do, so I did what I thought would elicit the most sympathy from the Gordman's police. I stood looking confused and dazed and for extra effect, threw my hands in the air to demonstrate how shocked I was at the whole event.

Kitten helped me out by loudly saying, "Oh my gosh, Mom!" and laughing until she snorted.

Thankfully the cashier that finally spoke to me simply said, "Don't worry about it," and went back to her job. I crunched across the broken unicorns and snowmen and made a bee line to the registers before someone with more authority decided maybe I should worry about it.

I don't know how I managed to do it, but once I was safely away from the towering glass boobie traps, I turned to say something and damned if I didn't knock over yet another non-rubber doo-dilly which fell to it's knick knack death.

I quickly paid for what was in my cart and all but ran to my car, where Kitten and I laughed like insane women that had just pulled off a bank heist. It was all very Thelma and Louise.

I haven't been in Gordman's since. Until Friday, that is.

"Remember last time we were here?" Kitten asked.

Remember it, hell. I half expected to see a wanted poster of myself when I walked in the door.

We shopped and shopped and all was going very well until I saw a big, red Clearance sign in the vicinity of my last killing spree. I couldn't help but travel back into the forest of the giant glass and most definately breakable trees once again. After all, something over there was 50% off. There was no human way I could keep myself from it.

God as my witness, I don't know how it happened. I was minding my own business trying to decide if I had somewhere in my house to put the world's ugliest candle because it was marked down to $3.99, when like a Vietnam flash back, the whole tragic breaking stuff incident replayed in slow motion right before my eyes.

Coffee cups exploded on the ground like plastic explosives.

This time, I simply pretended I was both deaf and blind. "Crashing coffee cups? What crashing coffee cups?" I slowly strolled to find my daughter and explain to her why we needed to make a quick exit.

I could barely get the words out for laughing, which I believe is further evidence of a brain injury. I would expect a drool bib isn't far behind.

Disclaimer: If you work for Gordman's and have the authority to hunt me down like a dog and make me write you a big, fat check, this is a work of pure fiction. Think of me as the James Frey of bloggers.

You will be my one true love. All mushy, all good.

More pitiful Kitten pictures...

Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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Hold this for a couple hundred years, will ya?

Are you a grudge holder? One who gets mad, either for good reason or no good reason, and then hangs onto it forever and ever, amen?

When a relationship ends in your little corner of the world, do you Google "Old Gypsy Woman Spell Casters" in hopes of removing your ex from the ranks of the breathing? Or at the very least, cause them to grow a third nipple...on the end of their nose?

When someone does a wrong thing to you, do you swear that vengence is yours, sayeth you, and then call down lightening upon their heads?

To be honest, I'm not really one to hold a grudge. I've been wronged by some of the great wrongdoers of our time and yet my "I hate you" list is really all but nonexistent. I get mad or hurt or plain PO'd, but then in a day or two, I'm way over it. I figure I have better things to do with my time than remain angry, like practice my fire baton twirling.

A good fire baton twirler is a practiced fire baton twirler. And of course, an angry fire baton twirler is a fire baton twirler in a burn unit.

However forgiving I may be of people who screw with me, I'm not nearly as Protestant towards people who hurt one of my kids.

I find that since my little Kitten has been hurting so badly after her wisdom teeth ordeal, when I'm not worrying about her, I am plotting new and completely illegal things to do to the 13 year old Doogie Dentist that allowed this to happen.

While I'm not necessarily an expert at holding a grudge, I think it would be safe to say that I will remain angry at this little one-eyed jack leg dentist until I am eighty-nine at least. I'm not talking normal angry either. I'm talking crazy, mentally ill, mustard and biscuits kind of angry.

Lifetime movie of the week angry, even. "Why I Cut Off the Penis of a One-Eyed Jack Leg: the Sherri Bailey Story", starring Pamela Anderson as me and Billy Bob Thornton as Doogie Dentist. It'll be a big, big hit.

I want to hurt him in some deep and meaningful way for not taking better care of my daughter. No page full of written after care instructions, no antibiotics in the days prior to the surgery, no after hours contact information when she took a turn for the worst, not even an answering machine he could have bought at Target for $19.99 to tell us where to find him.

"Tell me how to take care of my daughter," I said to him after he had finished and Kitten was sitting in what he called recovery and I called a chair.

"My nurse will talk to you," the boy who has only to pluck the odd hair from his chin every morning replied. He was far too important an individual to impart after care instructions. Why that's women's work.

"He's not very good at that kind of thing," said his nurse about his attitude.

"No. He's not," said angry me.

(BTW, when Kitten called this week to make them aware that she had to be hospitalized and would be out of work for at least a week due to the complications, the nurse said to my daughter, "Swelling is normal". No "I'm sorry", no "I'll have Doogie call your new oral surgeon to find out what's going on", no nothing. The "normal swelling" she referred to is not what is going on with Kitten at all.)

Because my husband is a cop and because some of my closest friends are cops/dispatchers and other people who work in and around the law, I have better sense than to blog here what I would like to do to this juvenile.

But know that the revenge I would wish to deliver would be both brutal and fantastic at the same time, much like a car wreck you can't help but look at even though it makes you a little queasy. There may even be some acrobatics and pulleys involved.

In fact, such is the grudge I hold for this man, I fear not only for his safety but for my own as it's reasonable to believe that I am developing an ulcer even as I type from all the anger I'm swallowing.

I'm pissed. That's all I'm saying. Flat out, all American, blood pressure rising, take the time to learn the science of plastic explosives, freaking mad.

This grudge is for you, Doogie Dentist. You're welcome.

If you don't love this song, I don't even know what to say.



Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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To capture someone's attention....whisper.

I like people. People are the best. I like being around people, talking to people, hearing about people and watching people...whether or not they know I'm watching.

I find that people want to talk about themselves, but truth be told most people can't always find someone to listen to them. Even people who are married, in relationships or have bestest friends sometimes really never get to be heard. If they can't find a therapist to whom they can pay a bucket load of money to listen to them, sooner or later they'll find an innocent bystander and pour out their inner most thoughts & secrets for no good reason.

Apparently I have "innocent bystander" written across my forehead in glowing Max Factor as people tend to want to tell me things. Possibly that's because I ask so many questions. Enquiring minds and all that. I'm deeply and truly interested in humanity.

I'm a friggin humanitarian, that's what I am.

Knowing what makes people tick does it for me. Knowing the secrets of so many people really, really does it for me. Thinking I can singlehandedly figure out why a grown man still sucks his thumb or a lazy-eyed woman is having an affair with a much younger and completely fugly man really, really, really does it for me.

Call me Freud. Sherri Freud.

I hold so many secrets, you have no idea. If the Enquirer had any interest whatsoever in the day to day goings on of Midwesterners, I could build a new house on the cash they'd pay me to spill my guts.

But these guts aren't made for spilling. My guts are in the vault, Baby.

Of course, I'll yank my guts out of the vault for the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou. Or for gum. Or for someone I feel close to for a minute.

I feel pretty close to you, Blog Reader Person. And I totally need to relieve some stress after the highly stressful day I've endured. I find telling secrets is a stress reliever almost as good as throwing darts at pictures of that tiny alien known as Tom Cruise.

Ready? Here we go....

I know someone who is smart and sensitive and kind and not at all a serial killer who told me he killed his favorite pet dog when he was nine because it bit him.

I made a solemn vow never to bite him. (Even though he's hot and sometimes I really want to.)

I know someone who relieves stress by planning murders in his head from start to finish. He figures he is one of the few that could do the do and get away with it.

His name is in a safe deposit box at my bank. If I wake up dead some morning after what looks like a freak down comforter accident, call John Walsh.

I know someone who has slept with any number of people in our community and shared said information with someone who does not have a vault such as mine. As a result, the sharee has spilled a long list of names on the sharer's list of shame with anyone that will listen. And ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm always listening.

Here's Rule Numero Uno of being a player in Mayberry. Keep your mouth shut.

Oh! Here's a juicy one! I know someone who is managing two very different men and managing them well. Each of them thinks they're the only one...the one she's going to marry. One is older and well to do and one is a lowly public servant who carries a gun and gets paid diddly.

I don't know how she does it. I can't manage the one man I do have, and Lord knows I wouldn't know where to find another one even if I wanted to. What's she doing with two of them? Did I mention she's young and firm and has big boobies? I think it's a rule that to have a stable of men, you have to meet those three criteria.

My three criteria are old, soft and training bra. I'm just lucky I'm not made to sleep in a stable.

I feel better now. Don't tell anyone all this stuff, OK? If I hear these secrets on the street I'll totally know you told.

Here's my favorite video of the day. Good stuff, Maynard.

Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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Virtual wish.

The big day is here. Four-twenty-four. Forty-two.

I sort of thought I'd spend it surfing the net for Botox coupons or plastic surgeons that accept old mascara tubes in lieu of Visa.

Not so much.

Instead, I'm sitting in a hotel room in Lansing, Kansas.

I know, I know. You're so jealous. After all, what with the huge penitentiary and world-renowned Dairy Queen, Lansing is the Travel Channel's number three pick for world's best prison view vacation.

Sadly my room doesn't have a view of the foreboding structure, but it does have an in room coffee maker, so it's all good.

Why, oh why Sher, are you in Lansing, Kansas...alone even... on your birthday? You... the OCD Chick...the woman who spends no less than thirty minutes when first she walks in a hotel room looking for microscopic hair and wiping everything down with Clorox Wipes?

Friday at noon, Kitten had all four of her wisdom teeth extracted. I made the trip here to hold her hand, wait in the waiting room and deliver her pain meds when she was all done.

Which I did.

At around 8:00 PM that night, after making sure she was sufficiently drugged and all tucked in bed, I left her in the care of her boyfriend and drove the three hours home.

Early the next morning, her boyfriend called me to tell me she'd been up all night vomiting and crying and in pain. "Take her to the hospital," I ordered.

Which he did.

I got in my car and headed back to Kitten's side. What I saw when I got to the hospital nearly made Momma hit the ground. Her tiny, little face was swollen to such a size, had I not given birth to her I wouldn't have recognized her. Sitting a top her tiny 95 pound body, her noggin' was so Elephant Man enormous, I thought if she stood up she might tip over backwards.

She was spitting blood and sick to her tummy and in pain and it took every Mother cell in my body to keep from passing smooth out beside her hospital bed.

I stayed up with her all night as she couldn't get enough relief to even sleep. It was heart breaking. Heart wrenching, even.

Long story short, she has bled into her tissue and has an infection (already and despite the antibiotic horse pills she was taking). This morning we are going to see a different oral surgeon that is at least in his forties because I'm not letting her anywhere near Doogie Dentist again. This new guy said he may have to drain some fluid...which can't be anything nice. I'm sitting here now trying to prepare myself mentally so that I can fake being a tough as nails Mom and not vomit on the dentist's shoes right before I hit the floor and pee on myself when he explains to us what is involved in "draining".

So to answer your question, I'm in a Holiday Inn Express this morning because last night, in much need of some sleep and a shower, I left her again in the care of her boyfriend and checked into a germ circus aka my hotel room.

"Happy Birthday, dear She-er, happy birthday to you."

If I had a cake, I'd put out the inferno on top of it and I'd make a wish.

Please, please, please, oh great and powerful birthday candles, please make my Kitten all better without having to undergo any further painful procedures.

And if there is any candle magic left, please send me a pretty monkey with a syringe full of Botox in one hand and a fist full of hundreds in the other.
~~~~~~~~
Turn up your speakers and listen to what I'm listening to on my day. It'll be good for you!

Patsy. I can't help it. I love her awful.

Melissa

Rascal Flatts Still one of my favorite songs ever....ever.





Copyright © 2004-2006, 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

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4-24-64...Hike!

PHOTOGRAPH (Nickelback)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

As the 24th day of the 4th month approaches, I find I'm a little weird today. I left work early yesterday, put on Mr. Man's boxers and a no-tell motel t-shirt and sat quietly in my recliner with my dog for a length of time. I'm not sad, so don't cry for me Argentina. I'm just weird... and I am perfectly comfortable with my own weirdness.

Most of the time I'm pretty OK with being who I am inside my 42 year old skin. If you knew even one third of the things this little obsessive-compulsive girl from North Carolina has gone through to get here, you'd be inspired to put coffee cans with my picture on them in every convenience store near you in an effort to collect loose change on my behalf so that I might go to Disneyland... or wherever the severely downtrodden find happiness and redemption.

Forty-two years is a long time. Reference my weird state of mind... I wondered yesterday how many times my heart has beaten in 42 years. I've asked myself how many bananas I've eaten and how many times I've colored my hair. I've pondered (and you know my affinity for pondering) the number of miles I've driven and I've tried to count the number of homes in which I've lived.

I also tried to count the number of husbands that I've said "I totally do" to, but it had the same affect as counting sheep, so I feel asleep and had a nightmare that I was married to Agent Smith on the Matrix and he just kept multiplying and I kept marrying him again and again while continually trying to turn him into Morpheus by nagging him 'cause I really wanted to be Mrs. Morpheus, but never told him for fear of a Matrix rejection.

Geez. That's got to mean something. (Note to self: call qualified therapist after blogging.)

I've asked myself the big, burning mid-life questions.

What have I learned? Why am I here? Have I made an impact on anyone? What if I'd never been born? Would anyone's life have been less of what it is if I were never around? And when I'm gone, will anyone notice for more than a minute? Have I even made an infinitesimal ripple on the ocean of life?

Wow. Deep thoughts by Sherri Handy.

I thought back over the years and the faces of the lovers and the cheaters and the liars and the beaters and the haters and the hurters and I've asked myself whether I learned my lessons and whether I've taught any.

I also asked myself what it is about me that attracts the haters and the hurters like that red syrup stuff attracts hummingbirds. I think maybe its my fabulous blonde from a bottle hair. Mean men dig fake blonde hair.

There have been so many friends. Fair weather friends, friends I'd give a kidney to, friends who'd give me a kidney, friends that didn't understand what that word means, (Friend...not kidney. All my friends knew what the word kidney means.),friends who loved me and friends that took what they needed and moved on.

I've had at least a thousand once in a lifetime moments and have cried at least a million tears. I've laughed at things other people find absurd, enjoyed things no one else seemed to appreciate and faked nearly as much liking and laughing just for the sake of fitting in.

I've loved, hated, cheated, lied and faked. I've left, I've run, I've hidden and I've arrived, stood my ground and turned the spotlight on myself. I've dared people to love me and have made sure I gave them plenty of reasons not to so that I could reason away their shortcomings when they decided they couldn't love me after all. Blaming myself has always been easier than blaming someone else. I have no idea why.

I've buried friends and loved ones and been angry at God nearly every time. I've said good-bye so often that by now I should be better at it.

I was present when two perfect children fought their way from that place to this and I find some measure of pride by telling myself that it could have only been me. Anyone else and I like to think perhaps Kitten wouldn't be so funny or Big Dog such an avid reader.

So, there it is then. Nearly forty-two years of loving, laughing, crying and dying my hair. More than 15,000 days. Just short of 368,000 hours. Wow.

Happy birthday to me!!!
Check out one of my favorite songs. Click on "Landing in London".



Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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Sweeeet.

Yesterday I complained about my stress level. Today I'm concentrating on stuff people have sent me via email that for a variety of reasons, make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. After all, you know what they say.

"Warm and fuzzy on the inside....."

Umm, maybe they don't say anything. They should say something though 'cause that's a great opening line. Totally their loss.

Here we go now. Random stuff in my email that made me smile. (Or throw up a little in my mouth.)

10. "Dear Sher...You may be surprised to receive this letter since you don't know me personally. I am the widow of Umbobwee Zimboztra and you're our next contestant on "Nigerian Millionaire!"

(Can I spend Nigerian dollars at Wal-mart? If so, how many does it take to buy gum?)

9. "Dear Sher, I was reading your blog and came across the name "*** Cabaniss. I work with *** now in Birmingham, Alabama. If you would like to contact him, his e-mail is ***@gary***.org. He is still playing the trumpet. Hope this info is useful!"

(Indeed it was useful, kids. Here's a helpful hint from Heloise on blogging about boyfriends past who were and apparently remain trumpet blowers: never use their real name because here in Bizarro Cyber World, what you write will show up #1 in a Google search for him. Oh, and as he is a minister of music at a large southern church, you risk a heavy rain of locusts.)

8. "Dear Sher, ....Also, did you ever watch Petticoat Junction? All three pretty girls would come out of the shower and then the dog would follow. What gives there? And Uncle Joe, guess you know why that pervert was moving kind of slow, lol.."

(I can honestly say in my entire long-legged life, no one has ever before asked me whether or not I thought Uncle Joe may have been some sort of perverted sex fiend and/or implied the goings on at Petticoat Junction were less than honorable.)

7. "Dear Sher....Yes, I do love you."

(And why wouldn't you? You don't know me.)

6. "Dear Sher....Dies macht Spaß. Wir macht shoud diesen jeden Tag. Es ist wie ein geheimer Code, nicht wahr?"

(Ja.)

5. "Dear Sher... Sir Snot-trotter Tinklefeet"

(Priscilla would never name a monkey that. Duh.)

4. "Dear Sher.... Aha! You really do have a SadieMonkey email."

(Never doubt the word of the Sher when it comes to anything involving a monkey. Or a Sadie.)

3. "Dear Sher... this is a recipe exchange chain email."

(Something bad is going to happen to the evil red-headed Berta Lou now all because I failed to send a recipe to the next person on the list. As I hate chain emails, the bad thing will probably be something I intentionally do to her.)

2. "Dear Sher...How do you spell linoleum?"

(I don't even know what to say to that. How do you spell carpet?)

1. There is no Number 1, people. There was no fabulous warm and fuzzy email to take the spot of Number 1 and you have no one to blame but yourselves! HumorWriter@gmail.com What a bitter end to such a sweeet post.



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Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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For everything else, there's Mastercard.

I'm all kinds of stressed. What with real estate deals and taxes and any number of various and other assorted sundry of maddening problems in my exciting life, I could snap at any time.

I can hear my sanity creaking the same way an old ship on an angry sea creaks before it breaks in half and searches for it's watery grave on the ocean's floor.

And that ladies and gentlemen is as close as I'll ever get to being
"Hemingwayesque". I really shouldn't even be typing the name Hemingway. That's just asking for a smite.

I called my southern Daddy.

"Pop, I'm stressed."

"You can do what I do," said the man with all the answers. "When I fire up that old Stihl and I lay into a big tree, it sorta gives me a charge. Only trouble is I'm running out of trees and I'm gonna have to commence to chopping down somebody else's forest."

Did I mention all his answers have to do with hard labor of some sort?

Mr. Man puts handcuffs on people and throws them in the back of a car to relieve stress. (And sometimes he even does it when he's at work.)

The evil red-headed Berta Lou goes to a gym and lifts her legs until she sweats to relieve stress.

Maybe I need to work on finding my own super fabulous way of relieving stress.

As I don't enjoy doing anything that causes me to exceed the limits of things that are strong enough for a man but made for a woman, bending at the waist or jumping up and down is out.

I've never seen myself as much of a wood chopper really, and even if I were, I'm fresh out of forest to mow down, so I'm going to pass on the woodchuck routine. Besides, a mullet and red flannel would make me look fat.

I did try handcuffing someone once and stuffing them into the back of a car, but Michael Buble has a suprisingly high-pitched scream and freakish upper body strength so I had to flee the scene. (I'm not giving up on that one, though.)

What the heck do I do then to keep myself from going completely batty? Knitting maybe? Gardening perhaps? Vicodin addiction possibly?

At the moment, I'm not sure what I'm going to do to prevent the men with the I Love Me jackets from knocking on my door, but you can bet I'm going to think about it.

"Daddy, somedays I still feel like I'll never amount to much of anything," the whiney version of me said.

"You just keep at it, girl. Even a blind hog'll get an acorn ever once in awhile."

Calling a loved one in another state for reassurance and affection... $5.00
Having your father refer to you as a blind hog.... priceless.


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



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I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Deville.

I'm a people watcher. Always have been. Although I detest mall shopping, I thoroughly enjoy mall sitting and watching. You may have seen me in a mall near you. I'm the blonde chick in camo sitting atop the yellow kid's choo-choo watching you through binoculars and trying to accurately recreate your mating call so you'll look my way.

But I digress. And as I am eating peanut M&M's at the moment, I also digest. I digress and digest both at the same time. Let's see you try and do that one good time.

Anywho... people fascinate me. Especially weird people. My daughter is forever getting on to me when I am in close proximity to weird people because I become so engrossed in watching them, I forget that I am staring. Typically she gives me the old, "Mother! Stop staring!", and I can always tell by her tone I'm about a second away from getting flicked on the end of my nose.

Today at my garage sale, it was weird people central. My stuff was like chum to them. (Which I guess doesn't say too much for the kinds of things I own, huh?) I know I spent the better part of the day staring to the point of drooling, but as Kitten was not there to thump me, I couldn't help myself. I was gawking like no other.

Who could blame me?

There was the guy with crazy eyes about whom I've written before. He showed up in his homemade truck and proceeded to spend no less than five minutes lecturing me about not recycling my price stickers. "I tell Sarah to hang on to them thangs and just put some plastic...but clear... tape on them and they're as good as new. I don't want to say for sure, but if I had to guess I would say she's collected about a million of 'em." He bought a picture for .25 he said he had no room for and an old VHS of The Wedding Singer. Adam Sandler is universally appealing to both the normal-eyed and crazy-eyed people of America.

There was also the world's shortest fifty-year-old woman. I've seen her before, too. Even though her legs would come about to my knee, her pants are always way too short. It drives me nuts trying to figure out why. I've also noticed she enjoys brightly colored socks that in no way compliment her high water pants. Come to think of it, maybe the socks are the purpose behind the pants. Maybe she totally digs them and wants to accent them at every available opportunity.

I was pretty nervous when I saw her coming today. At one of my garage sales past, she peed on herself for a reason that was not clear to me. She was looking at something on a table and just peed right where she stood. It wasn't like it was a little pee, so that maybe she didn't notice. It was a full on bathroom break. What's more, she saw a friend across my yard and practically skipped over to talk to her. Perhaps in addition to bladder control issues, her tiny legs are somehow desensitized to the feel of warm liquid.

A sweet young lady of about twenty or so showed up to check out my book collection. She was a large girl who had on tennis shoes, denim shorts with an elastic waist band, a blood donor t-shirt circa 2004 and huge fancy earrings that one might expect to see Joan Rivers wear to the Oscars. She found a book of fun facts that belonged to my son in 4th grade and proceeded to regale me with information on topics from blood cells to mucus production to how many Americans speak Spanish. On and on and page by page she went until I'm pretty sure she had read me the entire 25 cent book. I was glad when she left. I couldn't fake another "OOOOH. Now that I did not know."

Don't get me wrong. I was in my glory today, kids. But as I sat there watching and thinking about who these people were and what was waiting at home for them, I wondered whether anyone ever watches and wonders about me. Could it be that when I'm out and about in the world someone, somewhere is eyeballing me and trying to figure out why I'm so weird?

Nah. Couldn't be. I'm as normal as the driven snow. (That's a saying, right???) How 'bout, I am to weird as grits are to monkeys. (That's not right either is it?)

Alright. Go ahead and get your bino's.


Copyright © 2004-2006, 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

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