I'm OK. You're OK.

The OCD Chick is staring down the barrel of 42 years old. April 24, the birthday all other birthdays are jealous of, is quickly approaching.

And check this out kids...I'm not even freaking out about it. I'm going to be 42 and that's all good with me. Yep. Forty-two. Fooooooooorty-two.

That's a fun number to say, isn't it? Say it with me now. Four....teee....toooo.

I have no problem with it whatsoever. In fact, when my next husband Michael Buble sees me in the frozen pea aisle at Wal-Mart and asks, "How old are you, you not at all old looking woman that I am confident would not make me throw up if I saw you naked?"

I will happily answer, "Four-dee-toooooooooo". And then I will hit him over the head with a bag of frozen chicken gizzards and stuff him in my cart.

This feels good. I'm really and truly OK with turning the big fooooooooor-di-too. Look at me being all mentally healthy and everything. I'm an example for women everywhere, that's what I am.

I'm so OK with it, I wouldn't even freak out if I had to tell a deaf guy how old I am, even though it might take me a minute.

*For those of you not walking around in my head, picture me flashing all my ten fingers really fast the way four-year-old kids do when you ask them how old Grandma is and they say, "This many!"*

I'm so completely comfortable turning fower-deeee-doooo, I am going to give up my dream of mugging a blind nun to get enough money to have plastic surgery on all my parts that I feel are not up to par.

Little known fact: blind nuns are loaded. Just a little School House Rock tidbit I picked up when I was ten. You're welcome.

I can hardly wait 'til the 24th to arrive, Baby. I may just go ahead and start telling people I'm forty-two right now. Right this very freaking minute. I'm about to give drinking and dialing new meaning.

How are you with my turning 4-T-2, blog reader person??? You OK with that? I invite you to share in my OKness. Send me an ecard and tell me how not freaked out you are to be reading the blog of a woman who has been on this earth for FORTY-TWO YEARS!!!!

Gotta go. It's ringing.


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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Saaaaaaa.....loooooot, Buck.

Buck Owens passed away. The evil red-headed Berta Lou called today to deliver the sad news.

Growing up I was an avid Hee-Haw watcher. Not always because I wanted to be, but because my family insisted that I be.

I remember Buck and Roy and Grandpa Jones and Minnie Pearl and those big-breasted blonde chicks who bobbed up and down for no good reason in the corn field.

I think they were called the Hee-Haw Whores. Or something like that.

There was that family of freaks that sat on a sofa and talked about one thing or the other week after week, that fat lady with black hair named LuLu and the one guy whose phone number was BR-549. My Daddy still thinks that's funny and has used that number as his standard fake for as long as I can remember.

Hee-Haw had a fair amount of gospel music and bluegrass during the show each week, which suited everyone in my family. Growing up, I knew all the words to Rocky Top and The Old Ship of Zion, but only about half of the national anthem...

"Jose, can you see?"

One of the best of the Hee-Haw gospel guys was the Rev. Grady Nutt.

I actually had the opportunity to meet Grady Nutt in 1982 right before he died in a plane crash. My fiancee was interviewing him for the radio station where he worked. I wrote all the questions and then sat dutifully behind my man in my Southern Baptist dress with my North Carolina big hair while he asked them.

The good reverend complimented his interviewer after their visit together on how funny and insightful his questions were. I remember when he shook my hand thinking his were the biggest hands I'd ever seen. He was dressed impeccably and was a really nice man. He died only weeks after our interview.

Hee-Haw was more than a TV show to most of the people I knew back home. It was like sitting down each week for a visit with your relatives. That's because we heard ourselves on that show. They sounded like us, they sang the same songs we sang and at the center of all the picking and grinning, they worshipped the way we did. They were us. We were them.

And if Roy Clark and Junior Samples and String Bean and Marianne were our television cousins, Buck Owens was the favorite uncle that everyone loved most. That perpetual boyish big grin is unforgettable to this little Southern girl even after all these years.

How sad there is no Hee-Haw, no Roy Clark and no Buck Owens I can force my son to watch with me every week. It's his loss. It's everyone's loss.

They're gonna put me in the movies
They're gonna make a big star out of me
We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely
And all I have to do is act naturally


Well, I bet you I'm gonna be a big star
Might win an Oscar you can never tell
The movie's gonna make me a big star,
'Cause I can play the part so well

Well, I hope you come and see me in the movie
Then I'll know that you will plainly see
The biggest fool that ever hit the big time
And all I have to do is act naturally

We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely
Begging down upon his bended knee
I'll play the part but I won't need rehearsing
All I have to do is act naturally



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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Mmmmm. Pain killers.

Some how, some way, the OCD Chick jacked up her back. My doctor says it's possibly an infection or just a good old fashioned injury.

But that's not important. What is important is that I am swallowing pain meds and muscle relaxers on a regular basis this weekend.

Sweet.

Among other things, my OCD causes me to worry about taking medication. So much so in fact that when I see a doc who wishes to give me any sort of pill, I talk him out of it. I don't like medicine unless it's totally necessary.

Which it so is right now. And as a result, I'm legally stoned.

Mr. Man is off protecting a giant radioactive dome today, my son is at his Dad's for the weekend and so I'm alone with the dog, my pills and two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Life is good.

Yesterday life was good as well. My Mr. Man took care of me all day. He cooked for me, he brought me drinks, he kissed my forehead and he helped me move around the house without falling down. In short, those wedding vows he took really kicked in.

I love marriage. It's a fabulous verbal contract that forces someone to take care of you in sickness.

Did I just say I love marriage? Geez. I am stoned.

I have a million funny things rolling from side to side in my head this morning, but I'm beginning to feel icky, so I'm going to make a muscle relaxer omelet and go back to bed. Feel free to write your own funny stuff in the space below.









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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Paint this.

I love words. Big words, little words and foreign words that don’t have nearly enough vowels…they all make me happy. I’ve often said that for me words are brush strokes and no one appreciates an accomplished verbal painter like this bleach blonde vocabulary groupie.

I once married a man simply because he used the word pungent. Sadly I later divorced him because he mispronounced spaghetti.

The dictionary has roughly 300,000 words and over 600,000 word forms. That doesn’t even take into account the slang words and regional words we use in this country. Scholars say the actual number of English words cannot be counted.

Which just proves my theory: scholars are lazy.

So here’s what I want to know. With so many words at our disposal, why do we only use about 2000 in a week? (Apparently scholars can count to 2000 before they get bored and take a nap.)

I don’t get it. With such beautiful combinations of letters and sounds available to us, why don’t we make use of them?

Just once, I’d like someone to answer the phone “Greetings!” rather than hello. Or when I ask a person how they are, I would be thrilled to hear “Tremendous!” rather than fine.

Some words simply beg to be used, even though it can be hard to work them into a sentence. Words like obtuse and discombobulate and fetching and misogynist tickle your mouth when you say them, but don’t necessarily lend themselves to a conversation with your neighbor.

“Good morning, Sarah! My but you look fetching in your Wal-Mart robe and curlers this morning. How is your misogynist husband today? Still smacking you around when you burn the toast? In my humble opinion, he is an obtuse twit and you should discombobulate his manhood while he’s sleeping.”

Of course I know discombobulate doesn’t mean to lop off the genitalia of a sleeping man, but it should.

Come on people. Join with me and at least for today, let’s use words that sound cool… even if we don’t know what they mean. Call someone you love and masticate the fat with them. Grab your coworker and whisper something surreptitious about the boss and his secretary. Call your sweet baboo and promise to do iniquitous and quite possibly illegal things to him or her at their earliest convenience.

I’ll do my part. I swear on my favorite red shoes, the first person to use the words splendid, perfunctory and dazzling in a sentence to me today will have to withstand a wicked smooch from crazy Southern lips. (Please Jesus, do not let that ugly guy at the gas station with four teeth and a gigantic ring of keys have an impressive vocabulary.)


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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Put if off, Percy.

Right now at this very moment in time, I am putting something off for no other reason than I don't wanna do it.

This weekend I am scheduled to teach a little "how to" class to about 20 or so local citizens who want to know what I already know and are willing to sit still and listen to me because they are under the misguided impression that it might be worthwhile.

And, I guess it might. If I would actually write down what I am going to say. Which I haven't. Which brings me to the aforementioned putting off deal.

I love to write. Love it like no other. But apparently I only love to write when I don't have to write. If I feel even the least bit of pressure I get all James Dean and rebel.

Or is it Jimmy Dean? Which one of them makes sausage? 'Cause I don't freak out and fry sausage. I freak out and rebel. See how that's different?

Unfortunately I have only myself to blame as this whole freaking thing was one of my brilliant marketing plans. Since I am the one forcing me to write and also the one who is rebelling against being forced to write, this is a bit of a pickle. A conundrum, if you will.

I suppose I could rebel against myself. Maybe I should cook a big pot of lima beans and then refuse to let me up until I eat them all. That'll show me who's boss.

If I didn't want to write the blasted thing, why did I volunteer myself for it anyway? And when I volunteered myself, why didn't I tell me I already have too much on my plate and gracefully decline?

Because I'm a pushover who can't say no to anything (or any wedding proposal), that's why.

Or maybe it's because I'm so pushy and I won't take no for an answer. Not even from me. I can be a very intimidating woman. Just ask me. I'll tell you.

Whatever.

I'm gonna pull a Scarlet O'Hara and think about it tomorrow. For right now, I believe I have been completely successful at putting off what I wanted to put off. I totally have to do it tomorrow though or I'll have hell to pay when I find out the class is Saturday and I've not done it yet.

I can be such a task master.

Ooooh! This is too good.

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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The mating call of the bleach blonde, titanium breasted Southern tarheel.

I like make-up. Actually… that's not accurate.

I love make-up. In fact so great is my love of make-up, it would be reasonable for you to assume that I would forcefully and intentionally run you over with my Wal-Mart cart if for some weird reason you tried to stand between me and the Max Factor.

Almost every morning I wake up bright and early to stare into the bathroom mirror and begin the process of painting, applying, spackling and powdering myself so as to be at least presentable to the rest of the world. If during the course of my day no one suddenly vomits while they are looking at me, I call it good.

Since I spend so much time in front of the mirror, I have lots of hours to ponder things that need pondering. The main thing that crosses my mind each day during the primping and teasing is the same thing most women think about when they are putting on make-up.

Of course, I’m talking about anthropology.

Anthropology is defined as the scientific study of the origin, the behavior, and the physical, social, and cultural development of humans. When I’m painting my lips a ruby red or coating my eyelashes with black goo, I wonder what would happen if suddenly there was another ice age and I were preserved in thick ice for about a jillion years only to be dug up and studied by anthropologists.

How would they explain me to their students?

“What we have here ladies and gentlemen is a wonderfully preserved example of the female of the species from the year 2006. She was apparently frozen in the midst of her pre-mating ritual.

“As you can see, her face is painted in various colors. We have thick black lines around her eyes, brown & sparkly paint on her eye lids, a pale pink on her cheekbones and her lips are covered in what appears to be a blood red petroleum substance.

“What’s more, she has somehow applied a thick substance on each individual eyelash and for reasons we have not yet figured out, she appears to have pulled out most of her own eyebrows.”

I can almost hear the gasps from the white coat wearing class room.

“Based upon our studies of other specimens found during the great 2006 freeze, we have hypothesized that this elaborate painting ritual was something the female of the species did in order to attract the male. It’s interesting to note that while the male was apparently very attracted to the intricate facial artwork of the female and would only mate long term with the most well painted, the female was apparently attracted to what today we might call the malodorous and unkempt. Clearly males were in high demand and therefore did not have to make any great effort to get or keep a mate.”

“Geez. It’d be nice if females were still like that,” some college sophomore would snicker.


“That’s it for today, class. Tomorrow we’ll be discussing the ancient male’s bizarre obsession with the female’s breasts and the preposterous and inexplicable lie females would sometimes tell males after mating known as the “it ain’t the size of the ship, but the motion of the ocean” myth. Your homework tonight is to write a short 100 word essay describing what you think this thong looking thing she’s wearing might be and why no male has been found wearing one.”

Here's your great music video of the day: Kenny Wayne Shepherd.

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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Look at me being all busy.

No time to write today. I'm busy as a beaver. A real estate beaver.

However, you gots to hear one of my favorite, favorite songs ever.

Be brave. Go there now.


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