Crazy is as crazy cleans.

I keep telling myself I'm not afraid to have surgery on Wednesday. After all, it's a pretty minor deal, comparatively speaking. It's not like I'm having a leg amputated or anything. Nope. Someone is just going to cut my throat while I'm sleeping and remove a piece of me that humans need to live.

All the cool kids are doing it.

Honestly, I didn't think I was having very much anxiety about the whole thing. Just as I was about to try and dislocate my shoulder so I could pat myself on the back, my Mother burst my bubble, as Mother's often do.

"You're scared, Sher," she said on the phone. "It's OK to be scared, Honey."

Silly, Mother. Scared is for kids.

"I tell you what's scary. How not scared I am... that's what's scary. I am so not scared, it's funny. Hahahahaha. Ha. Hear that, Mother? That's me laughing at the idea that you think I'm scared."

"OK, Dear. So tell me again what you've done today."

"Ummm, let's see. I cleaned the kitchen, did eight loads of laundry, then cleaned the laundry room because it was a mess. I cleaned and dusted the bedrooms, washed the sheets and comforters, washed the throw rugs, took down the curtains and washed those, gave the dog a bath and then realized he needed to be clipped, so I did that.

"While I was clipping him I realized the shower curtain needed to be washed and I figured that was a good time to clean the tub. Of course, after all that, I needed a shower, so I when I put the shower curtain back up, I hopped in. After my shower, I gave myself a facial and while it was doing it's magic, I baked a cake. Tomorrow I have to finish what I didn't get done today."

"Hello, Sher? It's Scared calling. Pick up the phone."

Nobody likes a right Mother.

Dammit anyway. There was crazy on my face all day and I didn't even know it.

So I guess I am a little scared. Not because I think I'll die or anything, although that thought has crossed my mind. We've all watched ER. Chick goes into the hospital to have a wart on her elbow removed and some medical student who has been awake 46 hours and who is distraught because the nurse he slept with a week ago is now sleeping with a grumpy, but handsome, attending, mistakenly removes her heart instead. Maybe just to be on the safe side I should write, "DO NOT REMOVE HEART" in Sharpie over my heart area.

I think I may be a tiny bit afraid because the idea of being put to sleep is not one I cherish. Sure, I've counted backwards from 100 before, but still I'm not loving the idea of it. I'm a tad bit of a control freak and without my being awake to talk the surgeon through it, how do I know he'll get it right? If I'm fast asleep, how am I going to remind him to wash his hands or not to sneeze right in my open wound?

And what about all those people on the Discovery channel who went through surgery totally awake, even though the doctors thought they were sleeping? Holy crap! Their eyes were closed and their body's were paralyzed, but they could hear and feel every single thing. What the hell is that all about?

OK, Sher. Breathe in... breathe out. Relax. Don't do it. When you want to go to it.

I gotta go. I see some dust on my crock pot.

For Willie ~ This is why I do what I do when you say "Hot Pockets".


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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Word to your mother, medical guys.

Problem: I check into the hospital and before I know it, some guy in a mask shows up and shoves a needle right in my vein. Before I can even say, "Hey guy! Stop that!" I'm totally asleep and ready for surgery. Once I'm asleep, a bunch of other guys in masks stand around me, pointing and laughing.

"Look at her nose," one guy will say. "It's too small for her face."

"Yeah! Why are we removing her thyroid when she clearly needs a nose augmentation?"

"I know! I know!" another mask-wearing guy will say. "Let's pose her in funny ways and take pictures and put them on our website, www.uglysleepingwomen.com."

Stupid mask-wearing medical guys.

Solution: Make a phone call to somebody I like to call John Stosell and explain my predicament.

"Here's the thing, Johnny. I have reason to believe that while I'm lying prone in the operating room, somebody will have one too many shots of Jose and one thing will lead to another and the next thing you know, pictures of me naked, with no make-up on, my finger up my nose and some guy's tongue on my eye ball, will fly around the internet just like Paris Hilton's sex tape. No make-up John!"

He'll be all over it. That kind of thing is right up his alley. The only thing that would make it even more irresistible to him is if I tell him there is a distinct possibility one of those mean medical guys might get some sperm on me. John loves a good sperm in the wrong place story. He'll bust out his black light in nothing flat.

Once he's on board, I'm going to ask my 20/20 idol to hook me up with one of those cool hidden cameras they have over there at ABC. Since I am going to be pretty close to nekkid, I got to thinking a hidden camera could present a problem as it might be hard to actually hide it. I figure something in a nice boobie cam or a hidden coochie cam might be in order. As the area of surgical interest is in my neck, surely they'll never find it if I hide it in my 'down there'.

You may stop for a moment and admire my brilliance. I shoulda been a Dick Tracy. Or, in the interest of truth in advertising, a dickless Tracy. Either way, those awful medical guys will rue the day. (What the hell does that even mean?)

My surgery is Wednesday, so be sure to check your local listings for me and my thyroid on 20/20. It's gonna be must see TV.

Disclaimer: Kitten, Mommy is sorry I used words like "hell" and "coochie" and "down there" and "Tracy". Fear has a way of making good women go bad.


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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What I Learned at the Craft Fair.

~ There is something about the smell of walking tacos wafting through fall air that has the power to draw Scrunchie wearing, cigarette smoking women in kitty cat sweatshirts from the four corners of the Earth in record numbers.

~ Little can make me want to strangle a person with an autumn colored grapevine swag more than a 900 year old woman obliviously and repeatedly hitting me in the back of the legs with the tapestry covered craft-hauling device she bought on the Home Shopping Channel.

~ Provided it is bagged and tied with raffia, I will buy anything that smells like cinnamon buns, even if it is an unknown brown substance scraped from the floor of a barn.

~ Similarly, so long as it can be personalized with paint markers, has lights inside it or on it and weighs in excess of 47 pounds, the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou will buy anything, although she prefers to buy it from the craft merchant who is farthest from our vehicle.

~ People from your town who you know and who know you who pretend they don't really know you at all at a craft fair only an hour from your city should not be on your Christmas card list.

~ People from your town who you know and who know you who act like your best friend even though you haven't seen them since last year at this same craft fair should be on your Christmas card list.

~ While waiting in line for your chance to pee in a germ covered plastic phone booth, if you hear one person say to another, “that BBQ sandwich really tore her stomach up”, hold it. A little advise from me to you.

~ Things made out of kitchen towels, whether they be angels, pillows or Bible covers, are over. Please stop it.

~ Squares of glass upon which someone has squirted blobs of orange, purple and pink paint is not a hot seller at a craft fair, no matter how much one shouts out to passersby, "Hey! I take Visa and Mastercard!" (Unless of course it smells like cinnamon buns.)

~ Turtle Cheesecake on a stick is better than sex. (Assuming that is, that a cinnamon bun is not somehow incorporated into love making.)

~ Just because seven years ago Mr. Man once mentioned in passing that he sort of liked Kettle Corn does not mean I should stand in line for twenty-two minutes and spend four dollars for a bag of kettle corn large enough to insulate our home.

And just because I stood in line for the aforementioned twenty-two minutes and somehow managed to get the gigantic bag of steaming popcorn safely back to the car… while at the same time carrying a large and oddly shaped piece of welded iron I just had to have, along with two bags full of cinnamon bun scented rat droppings and various other assorted gingham tied crafty things PLUS the Evil BL's giant, wooden, personalized margarita glass still wet with paint pen… does not mean I can legally beat him within an inch of his life with a pumpkin shaped candle holder when he says, “This kettle corn tastes old”.

Although ethically, I am fine with it.



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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Why can't I have Hashimoto's in my boobs?

“I’m going to send you to a surgeon who will slice open your neck, reach in with his left hand and rip out your thyroid.”

That’s exactly what my endocrinologist, Dr I’m Not From Around Here said to me last week. Well, that’s exactly what I heard, anyway.

My Hashimoto's Disease has kicked itself into high gear and has attacked my poor defenseless thyroid the way I attack Chunky Monkey when nobody’s watching. As a result, it has grown and grown until I feel sort of like one of those Siamese Twin chicks who used to be on the Discovery Channel all the time. I’m actually on the verge of naming it.

Victoria perhaps?

After I had the double breast biopsy due to the micro calcification clusters in my girls and especially after the first thyroid biopsy, I swore no one else would ever again plunge a needle into a sensitive area of my body just because they could.

Come on! The only sensitive place some doctor hasn’t felt a need to poke me with something sharp in the last coupla years is in my china, and as my chick exam is scheduled for Friday, I’ll get back to you on that. If I even get a glimpse of anything that looks like it might possibly be sharp, I’ll clamp down on Chick Exam Doc’s arm so hard he’ll need a cast when I turn him loose.

(Cause I'm talented like that.)

(No... I'm not.)

“If Zach Braff is gonna slit my throat anyway, why in the wide world would I let you do another biopsy, you sadistic, monkey-butt licking, ultra-marooon?” I asked sweetly.

“Because blah, blah, blah,” he said. I really couldn’t have cared less what the actual words were. I was already formulating a plan of self preservation.

“So here’s the thing guy. If you want to get anywhere near my throat with an instrument of any kind, you’d better hit your Pharmacy Sales Reps up for some of the experimental stuff they keep hidden in their hubcaps. It better be strong, bordering on illegal and you best have enough of it to make me forget I am plotting a murder for hire involving your family pet and a seedy character I found on Hitman.us.”

He smiled in such a way that Mr. Man felt the need to issue him a verbal warning.

“She’s not even kidding, Dude.” (Note to self: talk to Mr. Man about his use of the word 'Dude'. Not a fan of the word when used by anyone other than a 20 year old stoner.)

It’s going to be a long, drawn out process of course. The collective "They" don’t want to go ahead and put me in the hospital now. "They" want to run more tests, get more data and pay for their kids' gold inlaid gerbil houses. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM the journey to surgery starts in a city just north of here. The best part of waking up… is a freaking sonogram.

Sweet.

Poor, poor pitiful me. True that.


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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