You know, I joke a lot about being crazy, but the truth is...
it's no joke. I really am certifiable. Completely batty. At least that's what it says on my permanent record.
Personally, I don't normally have a problem with my own nuttiness and so long as Mr. Man, the Big Dog, Kitten & the evil red-headed Berta Lou don't mind my madness, I figure I'm in a pretty sweet position. It's not everyday someone can deal with their mental illness in such a mentally healthy way.
Way to go, me.
But I have to admit that from time to time my Mr. Man thinks I've gone way too far around the bend. (Or is it way too far around the Ben? I have no idea. Maybe Ben has a glandular problem.)
I had a dream the other night. It was a very vivid, very bizarre dream that wigged me out. Honestly my dreams very often wig me out. While normal people who dream that a monkey chased them around the White House with a rectal thermometer might simply attribute that to the tub of margarine they ate before bed, I feel it necessary to analyze my dreams like no other.
I will talk about it, draw pictures of it, force my friends & family to talk about it and draw pictures of it and if it's a really whacko dream, it's conceivable that I might make a diorama of it using an old shoebox, dried beans and some of those little green plastic soldiers.
For the OCD Chick, there are no accidents and no rectal thermometer toting monkeys who aren't symbolic of something deep and meaningful that the universe is trying to tell me.
The universe and I are tight, so it’s always trying to tell me something.
As much as I am all about symbolism and hidden messages in my dreams, all that crap goes to the wind if my dream involves Mr. Man cheating on me. Make no mistake about it, Baby. If I catch Mr. Man in my subconscious with some bimbo doing something that requires him to put his wedding ring in his pocket, somebody is getting beat when my eyes fly open. Even if he is lying right beside me with an "I worship my wife" nightie on, I’m still going to open up a big can of “No He Didn’t Whoop Ass” on him with my pillow.
Or a hammer.
So there I was the other night, just minding my own business sleeping like a little lamb, when suddenly…
That lying, cheating, no good, booger eating, Mr. Man was running around in my head with some freakishly tanned chick that had gigantic earrings and tiny little feet. (That’s right, I said booger eating.) She had some kind of jezebel name like Linda or Chiquita or Mary and she had the nerve to eat lunch with him at a purple Burger King that was flying over my house. They were talking and laughing and she was feeding him lemon peels as fast as he could swallow them, which he seemed to love.
Funny. He never has a second helping of lemon peels at home.
I’ve been beside myself since. Every time I look at the man I am torn between wanting to scratch his eyes out and shopping for gigantic earrings so he’ll leave that whore of Babylon and stay with me forever and ever until he dies of what the police will undoubtedly believe was natural causes.
I love him that much, kids. Enough that I am willing to purchase oversized jewelry and wear tiny shoes to hold his interest and enough that I have planned the perfect murder if I ever find the name Chiquita in his wallet when I am doing my weekly evidence check.
Not for nothing, but the perfect murder I have planned is so deliciously wicked and clever, I am compelled to share it with you. (Since I live in the land of Milo’s and RV’s, it’s not likely you’ll wind up in the jury pool anyway.) This is how it’ll go down: I will coax Mr. Man into rubbing his feet across the carpet about a jillion times and then ask him to pump gas. He’ll explode into itsy-bitsy pieces of charred guy all over the Exxon parking lot and no one will be the wiser.
I’m gifted. I know.
Anyway, I’m still so angry at Mr. Man and his creepy anti Peggy Hill chick that I’m not sure I’ll even be able to sleep tonight.
I hope I do though. I have a date with Michael Buble and the frozen pea guy in the no-tell motel on Cloud Nine and I don’t want to keep then waiting. They turn into grasshoppers and play poker if I’m not there on time.
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