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.
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