I'm a forty-two year old woman smack dab in the middle of menopause. That means that very often I am a danger to myself and to society.
Today is such a day.
At this very moment, I am filled with both crazy, psychotic rage and an overwhelming need to weep uncontrollably. I feel myself entirely capable of pulling the wings off a butterfly. Of course, afterward I’d feel really bad about it and try to super glue them back on, but let’s face it. That butterfly would forever after fly with a limp.
On low estrogen days like this one, what you don’t want is to give me any reason at all to become more upset than I already am. My son and Mr. Man speak in low tones, they don’t make any sudden movements and they only come within striking distance of me if they first hand me a fudge popsicle and tell me I’m pretty.
However, despite their careful monitoring of my environment today, something has happened which has pushed my hormonal imbalance into a Code Red situation.
I have been writing my entire life, but I’ve only been publishing to the web since 2004. I’m not sure why I do it really. It probably has something to do with improper potty training on the part of my Mother or the fact that my Father once gave me a pet duck for Easter and then later whacked its head off with a shovel because it coughed.
Either way, I’m sure it’s my parents’ fault.
Even though I publish my thoughts, feelings and body of lies on the internet where anyone with a computer can read what I have to say, I am always shocked when someone actually does. People who read this blog are super nice to me and often send me super nice emails which make me cocky and full of myself. Lots of them ask me fun, bizarre questions… like how to determine the sex of a gold fish. Whichever the case, it’s obviously the ego boost I need in my sad little life or else I’d stop doing it.
But thanks to a little piece of hidden big-brother technology in the html of my blog, I found out someone in or near my hometown in North Carolina was reading my blog today. I am beside myself with fear, embarrassment and a need to pull the wings off my Mother…who I am sure is at the bottom of this as she is currently vacationing at my brother’s house in the great state of cigarettes and racism.
No doubt she was bragging about her daughter and fired up some relative’s Commodore 64 at a big family function to show them how fabulously talented I am. I can only imagine the awkward silence that fell over the casserole filled room as someone read my words aloud.
“Lions and tigers and bitches and ho’s? Umm, is she talking about a Wizard of Oz garden tool there?”
I’m freaking out, kids. Freaking out to the point of just hitting the nuclear blog button and deleting every word I’ve ever written. The thing is, to even half way appreciate what I write, you really have to be a certain kind of person. There is a very particular demographic who enjoy Wiping the Crazy off My Face and none of that demographic are related to me.
I left the South about ten seconds after I graduated high school and I’ve only been back for short visits since that time. Although I love many things about the South, I never really fit there. I was sort of a pre-op Trans-North Carolinian who after much drama and therapy, changed my name and had that part of me lopped off.
To know that someone who knew me back when is reading all about who I am now is just dang near too much to handle.
When last anyone there knew the OCD Chick, I had big hair, wore a ton of make-up and was going to marry a very unattractive car salesman/preacher who no one knew used to hide drugs in the hubcaps of his yellow Mazda RX-7.
Now I have big hair, wear a ton of make-up and about the only person I haven’t married was the unattractive car salesman/preacher who dealt drugs in between selling used cars and singing in a gospel quartet. I’m a totally different person!
If you come back to this blog tomorrow and all you find is Sher’s recipe for Ritz Crackers & Cheez Whiz Mock Apple Pie Casserole and my list of Top Ten Things I Love about Sweet Tea and Jerry Falwell, you’ll know what happened.
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