Santa Baby.

Dear Santa,

I imagine you were surprised to open your inbox and find an email from me. Since we broke up several years ago after what I refer to as "the incident", I swore it would be a cold day in the South Pole before I spoke to you again.

I ran into Donder at Wal-Mart and he said you recently married again. I hear you guys passed that dangerous six month mark, so congrats for the commitment. Donder's wife says the new Mrs. C. is a little younger than you. Well actually what she said is that your wife is so young, she still believes in you.

So why am I contacting you now when I haven't seen or spoken to you since that night you were arrested in Moline wearing nothing but a mitten and the scarf that gay snowman gave you as a present for slow dancing with him to "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen"? (In the interest of truth by the way, I recall it was a super small mitten. One might even call it petite.)

It's simple, really. I am sick and tired of getting diddly squat for Christmas. I swear on Rudolph's bulb, I'm gonna go all Heat Meister on your ass if you don't pony up with something a normal woman might even remotely want to find under her tree. No multi-colored socks, no Tupperware and for heaven's sake, NO ten dollar gift sets of cheap make-up and bubble bath.

Look, I know why I have been angry with you for so long. You took my heart right out of my chest and stomped on it and never even said you were sorry. One minute I'm thinking we're all good and that you were going to give up drinking and bowling with the elves every freakin' night and the next thing I know, I'm pulling you off some ho-ho-ho who you were evidently glad to see 'cause there was a candy cane in your pocket.

But why, Santa? Why have you been so upset with me? Why such a grudge that I've suffered years and years of crappy gifts?

Was I somehow unkind? If you call stapling your jingle bells together while you were passed out under the sleigh unkind, then yes. Maybe I was somewhat mean from time to time. Maybe I could have been a little less, "Hey, let's staple Santa's chestnuts together" and a little more, "Hey Santa, let's talk about our feelings and crap".

Was I ever unfaithful to you? OK. Maybe I cheated a tiny bit, and I do mean tiny. In fairness, that elf was less than a foot tall and he threw himself at me. You totally know that never would have happened had there been a little less nog and a lot more egg and attention from you.

We've both been hurt, all right? Let's call it square and agree to forgive and forget. Whaddya say? Just to prove I'll meet you half way, I'll forego the fruit cake and milk on your Christmas snack plate and leave you what you really want.

Jello shots.

I hope to hear from you soon, Santa and I hope that when I wake up Christmas morning, I'll find something fabulous with a bow around it just for me. (And I DO NOT mean that same old all occasion gift you always gave me...and half the female elf population... for every birthday, anniversary and Wednesday.)

Most sincerely,
Sher

PS: Make sure you leave that little Easy Bake Oven loving, North Pole Girls Gone Wild starring, HO-HO-HO in the sleigh when you stop by my house Christmas Eve. Frankly, I'm afraid if Mr. Man sees her he'll forget he adores me and trade in his badge for some pointy shoes.

This one's for you, Santa Baby.

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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Over the river and through the mall.

This year, due to both my recovery from thyroid surgery and more importantly, my sheer laziness, I have done the bulk of my holiday shopping with my fingers from the comfort of my own recliner. It's been sweet.

And yet, despite the amazing bargains, the low stress and complete ease of shopping in this manner, I had a tiny stroke on Thursday evening and decided that what I really needed to do was go shopping in a place other than my favorite chair.

What an ultra maroon.

I called my Kitten and said with such enthusiasm that she could not deny me, "Hey, let's drive lots of hours to Yukon (Garth Brooks' hometown and suburb of Oklahoma City), sleep over at your Grandmother's house and buy things from a mall."

Before I go any further, let me say right now that what I'm about to tell you, you are not going to believe. You will totally think I decided it would be fun to lie to blog readers for no other reason than I am bored.

Not so, says me. What follows is an actual accounting of an event so un-freakin-un-believably funny and thoroughly embarassing that it needs not even the tiniest embellishment for comedic effect.

Kitten, Grandma to Kitten (aka my Mother), and myself awoke early on our designated shopping day and drove on over to the Penn Square Mall there in Oklahoma City. I was feeling pretty peachy, even though my Mother had been giving me her equivolent of easy directions to get to said mall.

You should know Mother's directions amount to pointing in a general vicinity and/or waiting until I am on top of a hard left turn, going 70 mph with a semi on my behind and casually mentioning, "This is your turn".

We wandered around the first floor of the mall for a few minutes taking in the sites and smells and trying to avoid the dreaded sample people who want to squirt things on your hand for no good reason when Kitten decides she is ready to move onto bigger and better things surely found only on the second floor. She pointed out the nearest escalator and we started that way.

"I hate them old es-cue-lay-turs," says Mother. (Note to reader: As I am a Southern person, making fun of another Southern person is allowed. If you don't eat grits and fat back regularly, do not try this at home.)

"Hey Kitten," I said giggling, "you remember when Buddy the Elf tries to go up an escalator in that movie?" We both agreed that was indeed a funny moment in recent cinematic history.

Kitten, my beautiful and coordinated 22 year old daughter hopped on the moving stairs with such grace and expertise, if there were a sport that involved escalator mounting, she would surely be rewarded with a trophy... or a medal... or perhaps a t-shirt of some sort.

"You go next," said the woman who swears there were no other brown-haired baby girls born on the same day as me in that hospital in Shelby, North Carolina and therefore she really is my birth mother.

Whether it was the tiny beads of sweat that were forming on her upper lip or whether my ESPN was working particularly well after watching that Lifetime psychic chick so much, I declined and said I would instead follow her.

Do you remember when you were a kid and used to double dutch with your friends in the school yard? Remember how you kind of start getting the rhythm before you actually try to jump in? You sort of sway to and fro, hands stretched out, waiting for just the right moment to hop in so you don't trip and fall in the moving ropes.

That's exactly how my Mother gets on an escalator.

After what seemed like an eternity of planning, reasoning and getting in synch with the rhythm of the moving steps, she carefully planted her left foot and off it went.

I say "it" because that's what I mean. Her left foot took off toward the second floor. Her right foot? Not so much.

When she realized that one foot was heading north and the other wasn't following it's example, she began to do what Mother does when she perceives, no matter how unreasonable her perception, that she is going to be ripped in half in a public place wearing Gauchos.

She screamed, "HELP ME!"

Not once, not even twice did she scream HELP ME, but repeatedly and with such volume and fearful pitch, I have no doubt security guards were on their way to our location in full riot gear prepared to fight off terrorists... or Freddie Kruger.

By the time I fully understood what was happening and that my Mother had no plans to move her right leg so that it too could come shopping with us upstairs, it was almost too late. Although I can't be sure, I would have to say a 61 year old woman is typically not capable of the kind of cheerleader flexibility required for doing the splits so magnificently that the cootchie is flush with the ground. Another few moments however and I would have known for real sure as we were nearing complete cootchie grounding.

My former life as a 9-1-1 dispatcher kicked in, I grabbed her around the waist and issued a firm, verbal command in a calm voice. "Move your leg." (Or maybe it was my former life as a dog trainer. Who remembers?)

Whew.

We made it to the top of the stairs, took a moment to catch our collective breath and survey the majesty and wonder that was the second floor when I asked the question that begged to be asked.

"How is it, Mother, that in the year 2006, a grown-up American woman cannot master going up an escalator?"

She looked at me as though I had been the one to cause the kind of spectacle that makes it to You Tube via some teenaged boys video phone. "Them thangs will kill you! They will grab your clothes and suck you in and rip you apart and that's the truth! If you don't believe me, you go home and look it up on your computer."

So I did.

Hallelujah by k.d. lang If you don't love this song so much it makes your knees buckle, I'm breaking up with you. All of you. And I mean 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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But mom, none of the cool kids have a thyroid.

Wow. Almost a month since I posted. Don't be hatin' me though. I've been sans thyroid and adjusting to life without it and to be honest, not much has been terribly funny.

So, I showed up in the Big City crazy early November 1st with no make-up on as per medical instruction, but with an overnight bag that was filled to the brim with make-up, various and assorted hair styling tools and a gigantic bottle of Joop. I was certain that although I was going in looking like Fred Gwynne, I was coming out looking like Yvonne DeCarlo.

It's interesting to note, it's that same kind of jacked up lack of logic and complete refusal to face any unpleasant reality that keeps getting me married.

After reminding Mr. Man to cremate me no matter what my Southern Baptist family threatened to do to him... even if he has to do it himself with some Kingsford and a match, it was time to go to the little room.

The little room before the big room. The room with medical things hanging here and there that both frightened me and made me want to sing "New York, New York" into them for no good reason.

Before I could say, "just kidding", they put me in a paper dress, slapped some old lady stockings on me and in case I had any pesky shred of dignity whatsoever remaining, they whipped out a paper hair net that was to complete my ensemble.

Not many women could carry off a look like that, but on me it worked.

"Hey," I said to the close talker Grandma nurse who told me how much she loved her job and how she would personally watch over me every step of the way. "Hey... I'm sort of crazy afraid."

The four or five people in the tiny room looked at each other now with obvious envy of the patient dressed in paper as Grandma said, "We'll give you the good stuff and you won't be afraid any more."

Baby, she wasn't even kidding. Whatever it was, it is number one on my Christmas list this holiday season. I'm all kinds of wanting a bonified addiction to it. I'd gladly give up my teeth and do time at Betty Ford ten or twelve years down the road for a steady supply of the "good stuff".

They wheeled me to surgery after the doctor drew a dotted line across my neck and Mr. Man kissed me, squeezed my hand and said, "You're my sweetheart". (How Lifetime Movie of the Week is that, kids? I can totally see Nancy McKeon and Barry Bostwick doing that scene in my head, only in the movie, Nancy would come out with amnesia and Barry would marry her sister.)

I can't be sure 'cause I was wasted and all, but on the way to the surgical suite, I may have told a few people in masks how much I loved them and that I wasn't wearing any underwear. Similarly, I may or may not have also shown any number of those same people my boobs.

I went to sleep at around 8:30 AM in a state of bliss like no other. I woke up at around 2:00 PM in a state of the exact opposite of bliss.

It was un-bliss.

Turns out my thyroid had been hiding behind my sternum and so was much bigger than they had anticipated. Excellent. Know what that means? That means the scar across my neck that was supposed to be small turned out to look like someone found my head on the floor and sewed it back on.

I felt sick, my throat hurt, my neck hurt, I had a nasty 80 foot tube in my wound sucking out stuff I won't even talk about for fear my dear readers may begin to vomit and oddly enough, my arms hurt. (I think the fact that my arms hurt so badly proves my theory that mean mask-wearing medical people get their jollies posing helpless patients in funny positions. There are probably pictures of me right now floating around the net with one hand behind my head and the other one with my finger up my nose.)

In short, I had absolutely no use for my make-up filled bag of denial for I cared not how I looked or smelled.

The good news though is this... during my weeks of recovery, I have felt loved like mad and that's felt all kinds of good. (Not as good as the good stuff, but good.)

Turns out Mr. Man really was awake at our wedding, 'cause those vows really kicked in. He babied me, loved me, pampered me and generally was the perfect husband. My son was my hero, loving and caring for me and rubbing my hands and face at every opportunity. My Kitten and her honey were at my bedside within hours of surgery with books she knew I would love and my favorite lotion in the whole, big world. My Mother came to stay a few days to help out with everything, my ex and his lovely wife brought food practically every night for a week. I received roses, lillies, daisies, and live plants. There were phone calls, messages of love and from my Berta Lou, (the only person outside my family I would let come visit), words of comfort that put it all in perspective.

"You may feel like hell, but you sure smell good." (If that's not a greeting card sentiment, I don't know what is.)

I'm still not really and fully me quite yet, but I'm getting there. And by the way, to those of you out there whom I have never met, but who have been bored enough, kind enough or just plain strange enough to show up here again and again to read my online therapy session, thank you for your emails. I was totally surprised at the number and that you took the time to think of me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. (I'm not dead, Tidewaterbound! Thanks for the virtual kick in the pants to blog again.)

I'm totally ashamed of myself for loving this song, 'cause it's such a chick song. Can't help it though. Happy Chicken Day, Y'all!


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