Phobia is such a pretty girl when she smiles.

"I'm obsessed, thank you very much."

When Kirby said that to Dale, I could identify. Obsession, fear, phobia...these are words that speak to me.

And when I don't take the pretty pills, I speak to them.

Disclaimer: That was a joke, kids. This OCD Chick does not take pretty pills. I prefer to crawl up on my crazy board and ride the waves of madness wherever they may take me.

As summer is dang near upon us and my son, AKA Big Dog, gets out of school this week, that means vacations are soon to follow.

In the words of the great Charlie Brown, "ugh".

I say "ugh" not because I don't enjoy trip taking, 'cause Lord knows no one appreciates a good trip like me. I say "ugh" because with vacations come obsessions and with obsessions come fear and with fear comes compulsions. It's like being on a mental merry-go-round with Jack Nicholson running the ride.

One of my biggies are malls. Don't like them, don't like people who do like them. In my opinion, no good can come from a mall.

It's not that I have anything against a nice Orange Julius and a Payless BOGO. Who doesn't love paying $8.00 for a watered down drink made just for you by an acne covered 17 year old boy who thinks that sign warning employees to wash their hands before returning to work only applies if the number two is involved?

Its just that malls were created by Satan, that's all.

My beautiful son wants with his whole heart and soul to see the Mall of America this summer. Damn the Travel Channel anyway. He is captivated by the idea that we can buy a shirt, ride a roller coaster and walk underneath sharks without ever having to leave one building.

While he envisions days of retail glee, I see days of tics, queasy stomach and wondering why I didn't get my doctor to give me a xanex Pez dispenser with a Freud head.

Some weeks ago my Kitten and I went shopping in a mall that although large for the land of milo and RV's simply would not compare to the Mall of America. For about the first thirty minutes, everything was going famously. I was dutifully following her into stores and even picking up a few things myself. I thought maybe I'd been cured by one of those late night evangelists when I touched the TV screen.

That was until we went to the second floor. I don't care for second floors, nor do I care for any floors above the second. I'm a first floor kind of girl.

While she was looking at a size double zero pair of pants in a store that was packed wall to wall with other double zero girls, I felt the floor move. I did. I swear. I immediately knew something had to be horribly awry with the construction of the mall as there was no way all those double zero girls collectively weighed enough to make anything shake.

I was sure the whole jalopy was going to come tumbling down and I was going to die feeling fat and old and without ever having known how a person becomes so skinny that their clothing sizes start actually going in the negative numbers.

Forget for a minute the fact that buildings more than one story don't make logical sense and will eventually all fall to the ground. Malls are breeding grounds for germs. Think about it. Hundreds or even thousands of people all closed up tight in a giant cement and glass bubble.

People sneezing and coughing and spitting and rubbing their noses and touching hand rails and hangers and doors.

Again I say, "ugh".

So how does this obsessive-compulsive Mom who loves her son more than pretty dang near anything (but entirely equal to my Kitten) tell him he can't go to the Mall of America? How do I tell him that instead of taking trips and staying in hotels and walking under sharks we'll stay in our one-story home, snuggle up and read the King James version of the Bible?

How 'bout this?

Dear Son,
The Mall of America fell down. Pop some corn and wait for me in the recliner.
Love,
Mom





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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Here's to good friends. Last night was kinda special.

This chick has had a rough couple days. I had to drive nearly 5 hours south one day and then the same back the very next day. I wasn't loving it.

So when the evil red-headed Berta Lou asked me and someone else who has the same name as me to come drink something frozen and sit in her shiny new hot tub last night, can you get out your abacus and tell me how long it took me to get there?

I don't know how it is for men as I am not one (note the ovaries and boobs), but for women, friends are sometimes the only thing that stands between you and putting on a track suit and drinking the Kool-Aid.

Last night as we sat there being all girlie and decompressing, I wondered whether our nights out are very different from a boy's night out. As Deputy Pretty was recently describing... in way too much detail by the way... a boy's night out he had, I figure I have a frame of reference from which to compare and contrast

Girls: one or two pink, frozen drinks with paper flowers in them.
Boys: buckets of Crown Royal and enough beer to fill a wading pool.

Girls: sitting on a veranda in the evening air listening to good music.
Boys: "playing golf" (translation ~ driving a golf cart at Nascar speeds and occassionally hitting a ball.)

Girls: Pizza.
Boys: Pizza. Hot wings. Doritos. Burritos. Cigarettes. Chew. Something they found on the ground and blew the dirt off of.

Girls: Confiding.
Boys: Bragging.

Girls: Talking about boys.
Boys: Talking about boobs.

Girls: Making fun of boys.
Boys: Talking about boobs.

Girls: Swearing each other to secrecy.
Boys: Talking about boobs and then lying about who's boobs they've actually seen.

Girls: Sending text messages to other friends.
Boys: Drunk dialing.

Girls: Gerkins vs. Polska Kielbasas.
Boys: We all live in the make believe land of Polska Kielbasa.

Girls: Saying good-bye and let's do this again and coming home to snuggle up next to our Mr. Men.
Boys: Passing out and what was that chick's name and waking up on the bathroom floor next to their porcelain goddess.

It was a nice night out, kids and one this chick needed terrible. Now I must go and put on a cowboy hat for a fundraiser benefitting the American Cancer Society at my local Wal-Mart for many hours. Wonder what boys do the morning after their night out?

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.



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People who email me.... come on down!

Dear Sher,
Hello. My name is Tammy and i work at a college that reads material to the
court reporting program for practice. I came upon your site and think your stuff is amuzing. I wanted to know if i could print it off and read it to the court reporters.
It will not be used for any other reason.

Dear Tammy who wants to print me off,
Yes. You are more than welcome to read my stuff in an effort to help our nation's future court reporters. Anything to keep them and their stenotype machines off the streets.

Please remember to do it with a southern accent and a lot of make up, otherwise you lose something in translation.

Dear Sher,
I can't sleep. What do you do when you can't sleep?

Dear wide awake,
I find that twirling the fire batons is good for whatever ails you. Headache? Twirl. Late for work? Stop and twirl. Husband cheating? Gas 'em up and toss them in the air...and into his hair.

Dear Sher,
I read your blog about marrying somebody. Can you really marry people?

Dear Person I can't think of a clever name for,
Don't be ridiculous. Of course I can. I experience a Pavlovian response when a man gets down on one knee and I scream out, "Yes! I will marry you!" (Even if he's just tying his shoe, he's getting up engaged.)

Did you mean can I marry other couples? Yep. You betcha.


Dear Sher,
I love reading your blog! Do you have a book and if so, where can I buy it?

Dear lover of the blog,
Thank you. Yes, in fact I have lots of books. Sadly I did not write any of them. I will be happy to sell some of them to you, though.



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

His turn on’s: Brown eyes, dark roots and O negative.

The OCD Chick is so much more than just a bizarre lady who can’t say that number between 5 & 7 and who has to repeat the word “gumball” 21 times while shampooing my hair so that God won’t kill my daughter’s cat.

Oh yeah. I’m a big ball of diverse talents.

I’m a writer, a Mother, a friend, a helluva twirler, a Realtor, a fake blonde, a rebel, a cook, a terrible singer and believe it or not… but why wouldn’t you…I’m an ordained minister.

You may call me the “Reverend OCD Chick”, or even “Your Holy OCD Chickiness” if you prefer.

Did I become ordained many years ago while surfing the internet in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep?

Yes, I did.

Does that make me any less a minister?

Probably.

But in the land of RV’s & Milo’s, my late night online ordination does give me the legal ability to marry people who want to be married. And believe it or not, some people do want to do that, no matter how hard I try to talk them out of it.

This weekend I brought together a man and a woman in holy matrimony. It wasn’t just any man and woman either. It was a man and woman who are occasionally very Goth, very renaissance, very different.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. They are merely lovely people who would rather pierce something in a sensitive area than to ever be seen in clothing from Old Navy or have a tan.

Out of all the fascinating people who were in the wedding party and/or in attendance, and believe me when I say there were a few attention-grabbing people present, there was one at whom I couldn’t stop staring no matter how I tried.

He was a vampire.

That’s right. An honest to goodness, I ain’t even making this up, vampire.

He showed up for rehearsal with a pale white face, jet black hair nearly to his waist and long, silver fingernails. He was dressed all in black clothing and wore nearly a floor length black overcoat. It was vampire casual. When he smiled, his mouth looked as if he may have just had a quick hit of O negative in the parking lot.

I was strangely enthralled.

Later when I returned for the ceremony, he was in his vampire finest. He wore a black suit with a white ruffled shirt underneath open to reveal his pale chest. His hair was slicked back and pulled into a pony tail. On his little finger, he wore a silver “ring” for lack of a better word, which had a long pointy thing that I’m guessing vampires use for either helping to open a vein or getting pickles out of a jar. In his right hand he carried a black walking stick that had a skull on top.

Sounds bizarre, huh?

Well here’s what's even more bizarre. Remember those old black and white vampire flicks where a perfectly normal looking red-blooded woman would beg the evil vampire to bite her so she could live forever in the netherworld with him?

I totally get that now.

No matter where he went, I stared. While Mr. Man was doing his best to get as far away from this guy as he could, I was figuring out ways to stand near him. When he asked me whether I would hold his cane for him, I think I may have even answered, “Yes, Master”.

At one point, he walked over to me and actually said these words, “My Darling, you look lovely this evening. I must photograph you.”

I nearly passed right out.

Thank goodness Mr. Man and Deputy Pretty were there to look after me or I really think I might be sound asleep right now in a two bedroom coffin in the basement of his castle.

Or with my luck, sound asleep in a two bedroom mobile home where he lives with his parents while he works nights at Jack-In-The-Box.

Yeah. That seems about right.



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