Sunday kind of love.

Today is Sunday. That means no make-up, sweats, fresh baked cookies and game playing. It's all good.

Game playing in my house is not exactly the picture of familial joviality that you might see on one of those warm and fuzzy family game night commercials. Although there is rarely conspicuous blood shed, there is at least a fair amount of mental abuse.

During the epic Othello battle between my son and me, here are a few of the actual things that we said. If you’re planning to call child services, be sure to tell them he started it.

I'll let you figure out who said what. It'll give you something to do today.

“You are a cheater. A big, fat cheater. If not for the fact that it would ricochet off you and insult me, I would totally say something mean about your mamma right now.”

“You couldn’t beat a monkey at this game. A drunk, blind monkey.”

“Nobody likes a winner. Especially a winner that prances around singing, ‘I won! I won!’

“That was the stupidest move I have ever seen you make and I have seen you make a lot of stupid moves.”

“Girls don’t like winners. Furthermore, if you continue bragging about winning all the time, you will wind up spending all the weekends of your teenage years with members of the chess club, who will also come to strongly dislike you.”

“Why don’t you think about what you’re going to do instead of just doing it?” (Strangely enough, this is the internal dialogue I have with myself on a daily basis.)

“When I beat you, and I WILL beat you, the headline on the front page of your school newspaper will read, ‘Smart Mouth Bragger Boy Gets Spanked by His Mommy. Cries Like a Small Girl’.”

And finally...here's what we both said at the end of the World Series of Othello.

"I won because you cheated!"


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Ode to Michael Buble.

You so have to click this to understand what I'm about to say.

I love him.

I love him so sick and so weird that I would gladly pay a mad scientist the sum of a trillion-bo-jillian dollars to inject me with a radioactive and undoubtedly carcinogenic substance to ensure that I am sufficiently pickled and will live to be 110... but never look a day over 30 so that he will love me always.

I love him in such an unhealthy and potentially criminal way that I would seek out a crazy old voodoo woman who lives in a haunted cemetery in what's left of the Big Easy and beg her to chop off the head of a one-eyed rooster with which she would prepare for me a noxious tea so that I might cast a spell on him and he'd follow me around like a whooped puppy forever and ever.

I love him so awful that I would climb to the top of the Empire State Building, from the outside no less, with only one good arm and a cast on both my legs while swatting an angry swarm of Africanized Killer Bees if even the most remote possibility existed that he were waiting at the top and would perhaps allow me to touch the hem of his microphone.

I love this man in such a Mary Kay Letourneau kind of way that if left alone too long some night, I might actually get stinking drunk on an old bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill wine I won on eBay and Google the phrase "cheap singer-napper for hire", choose the least expensive one and ask him to nap my pretty boy and deliver him to me at my home... where I would keep him in Mr. Man's garage forever...safe from females his own age who cannot possibly appreciate his fabulousness. I also might occasionally force him to sing Frank Sinatra songs to me like he meant it in order to earn food and water.

All I'm saying is that I love him.



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Dear Kids...Meet your new Daddy.

FEELIN' GOOD (Michael Buble)

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Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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Blogging down lazy river.

I'm utterly ashamed of myself...but not so ashamed that I'll actually change my behavior. I'm home this afternoon and totally should be writing the great American novel I promised myself, my husband and my circle of friends I would write if my boobie results were benign.

They were and I'm so not. I think I have a touch of writer's ED.

Or a concussion.

Earlier today, I fell on my 41 year old lady behind in front of Deputy Pretty in my office...and it was way funny. I'm falling down even more than usual lately. Perhaps I've had a tiny stroke that didn't register on the Richter Scale. Come to think of it, that might explain my sudden and admittedly odd desire to eat chalk and lick grocery store carts.

I was just sitting in a chair behind the secretary's desk. It's not like I was making any sudden moves or about to do a fire baton routine or something. I was simply sitting. I've done it before without incident, so you can see why I was at least reasonably sure I could do it today.

There was no loud noise behind me and if memory serves, he didn't yell "Boo!" for no good reason. All I know is that one minute we're talking about life and twenty-something girls and kidney stones and the next, I'm lying flat on my back and he's standing over me asking if I'm ok...in between laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

I'm nothing if not graceful. A friggin swan is what I am.

The thing is, I suffered the same sad fate only days ago. I was on the phone with the evil red-headed Berta Lou and much like today, was not attempting any sort of intricately choreographed chair dance, when like a drunk on COPS, I fell right out of the chair and onto the floor.

And it hurt. And I almost cried. And my knee was bruised. And I hurt my toe so badly I thought for sure I would not be able to wear my red hooker shoes to work the next day.

Thankfully my Mother instilled values in this OCD Chick. I overcame the pain and managed to wear the shoes...which is what's important.

I'm gonna go watch TV and munch on some chalk. Maybe I'll start out on the floor. No sense in setting the bar too high.

Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten (Exclusive Performance)


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I love it.

Eminem - When I'm Gone


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Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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That would be a pretty name for a girl.

Benign. Benign. Benign.

I think I'd like to write a poem titled, "Benign".

Roses are red
Seven eight nine
The Boobie Doctor called
The spots are Benign.

I think I'd like to put together a tap dance routine using my world famous fire batons and an assortment of spangles and spell the word Benign in Morse Code with my red tap shoes.

I'm totally doing that right now...while typing this... because I'm just that good at it.

I think I'd like to get Mr. Man's nose hair clippers and shave the word Benign on my Yorkie.

Now it looks like my dog's name is Ben 'cause he's really little.

I think I'd like to call up everyone I know and tell them I'm not going to be cremated next week as previously planned so they can go ahead and make other plans.

The evil red-headed Berta Lou said even though I'll still be alive, I can go ahead and come to my wake at her house this weekend anyway. I had to promise to be very quiet though.

I'm happy, ya'll. Crazy, stupid, bordering on slightly frightening, happy.

Thank you all, sweet strangers, for your emails of support and kind words. And thank you for all the good boobie vibes.



Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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You want me to do what?

I’m uh-skeerd. That’s right. UH-SKEERD.

That is southern for tremendously terrified. Feel free to use it in your day to day conversations.

Day after tomorrow is boobie D-Day. Some doctor I’ve never met is going to poke my girls with sharp things and suck out pieces of them I’m pretty sure I’ll never get back. When your boobies are as small as mine, every little bit counts.

A few days ago a “nurse educator” phoned me to discuss what I can expect while I’m at the Big City Breast Center. I’m sure it is a widely held belief among these boobie professionals that the more a woman knows, the better she’ll feel about the whole hoopla.

Yeah. Not so much.

“Sherri, you are scheduled for a stereotactic breast biopsy.” She said it in such a cheerful voice, I thought for a minute maybe she’d called to tell me I’d won a fantastic stereo.

I darn near yelled, “Yippee! I never win anything!” It didn’t take me long to understand I hadn’t won anything so much as I was having to face up to some bad karma that I may have incurred as the result of one or two shady decisions in my past.

She said she was going to tell me everything about the procedure and that I should stop her any time I had a question.

“When you walk into the room, you’ll see a table where you will lie on your tummy during the procedure. Beneath it, the doctor and nurses will sit on stools to perform the procedure.”

Sweet. I’m going to be hoisted up in the air just the way Wal-Mart jacks up my Ford when they change the oil.

“As you cannot move at all during the procedure, the breast will be compressed as the doctor works.”

Totally loving it so far. I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me to get one of these devices for my own personal use. Every woman knows there is nothing more fabulous than having your boobs compressed.

Well, nothing except….

“We will use a small needle to inject you with a little numbing agent and then a larger one to make sure the breast is numb. The doctor will make a small incision and then she will remove about a dozen or so cores of tissue and …”

This is the part it all starts to get a little fuzzy for me. When I heard the words needles and inject and incision and tissue, I put my head on my desk and promised God I’d never again kill even the tiniest and most leggy living thing if He’d please cause the Big City Breast Center to implode before Wednesday morning.

“Your comfort is what matters most to us, Sherri,” she said. “We want this to be as painless as possible. It will take roughly an hour or so per breast and we’ll give you a ten or fifteen minute break between each one. You can even bring your favorite CD’s to listen to and we’ll play them. Anything to make you comfortable.”

Here’s what I think will make me comfortable. I’m thinking a xanex flavored milk shake with a whiskey chaser and tiny little pistol I can use to threaten the stool-sitting boobie doctor should she hurt me in any way.

Keep your fingers and toes crossed, kids and send me good boob vibes. A few more days and hopefully this will all be behind me and I will live a long and happy life that will never again involve lying on my belly six feet in the air with my boobs hanging through a hole.

Unless of course there is Tequila and a fine-looking man involved.





Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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Here's a mirror. Have a look.

I'm supposed to be working right now and I suppose if drinking diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper and listening to 80's music could be made to sound like work, then I'm hard at it. Hey... I'm in the office acting all real-estatie waiting patiently on some people to whom I am going to show a home in just a little while.

Don't be like that. Acting real-estatie is not easy. Sometimes it even stings a little.

Today I've been out and about performing random acts of sucking up so that people who have never met me will decide that I am without question the sweetest Realtor in the entire free world and will not be able to stop themselves from falling to their knees and begging me to sell them a bajilion dollar home. As of 3:31 PM, no one has fallen, but I'm hanging in there. I figure if I can be dedicated enough to sit through several bad marriages while waiting for Mr. Right to show up in his shiny police car and sweep me off my feet, I can handle this.

During my county wide suck up sweep, I stopped sucking only long enough to have lunch with the evil red-headed Berta Lou. Our lunches are less about eating and more about gossiping, but don't tell my father that. Gossiping is a sin.

One of the topics that came up was men. Imagine that. She and I happen to know one or two of them up close and personal and frankly, we're a little confused.

It seems there are any number of men we know who we happen to think are... um.... shall we say, less attractive than they themselves think they are. While I'm sure I'd be pretty accurate to assume they see themselves as at least a solid "8", we see them as a solid "ugly".

However, and here's the confusing part, they seem to get women like nobody's business. Young ones, old ones and all ones in between.

"But Sher," you might say, "I'll bet these women are also probably equally unattractive and possibly do not even have all their teeth."

You'd think so, wouldn't you? And yet, no. Not so much ugly or unattractive as cute, pretty and on occasion, smart even.

How does this happen? Would someone kindly explain to me how a man who is nothing to write home about never goes for more than five minutes without a woman and when he's done with one, there is always another to take her place? Is it the man shortage I've heard so much about? Is some sort of hypnotism or drink spiking involved?

Or is it that women sometimes want a man so badly, they'll lower that bar so far down that the only thing capable of crawling under it is a snake?

And my analogy there was not unintentional. Snake pretty much sums it up. Lying, cheating, skirt chasing snakes... every last one of them. Not content to appreciate the one amazing woman they somehow tricked into thinking they're something amazing, they continue to hunt more... and more... and more.

Help a girl out here. What's going on?

We know guys who are losing their hair, some who are sporting a big ole Buddha belly, some with the manners of a drunk raccoon and some whose idea of an intelligent conversation begins with, "Wanna hear me burp the national anthem?". Even these men wind up with a varitable stable of women who are more than willing to love them, live with them and Lord help us, marry them.

Ugh.

Listen, I don't know what the heck is going on, but I plan to ponder it and in so doing, at some point before I die, I will figure it out. Well, so long as there is no math involved. Math makes me cry.

By the way, in the interest of CMA, let me add this disclaimer:

This commentary is in no way talking about the men I actually like. (Like HD, BD and some more guys with D somewhere in their names.) The rest of you, don't hate me. It's the spots in my boobies talking. They make me an angry white woman.



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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