It takes a village to raise an OCD Chick.

Today I was at the office "working", which is French for "talking bad about spouses to co-workers", when something dawned on me.

Mr. Man is a pretty good guy.

Please do not tell him. I like to keep my husbands a little afraid they are going to be kicked off my island at any moment. I insist they keep a bag packed by the front door at all times and I don't allow them to hang anything on my walls. I find it keeps them on their toes.

The ladies with whom I work are not so fortunate as to have a Mr. Man. They are wives to some guys that even I wouldn't marry, and you and I both know a guy has to be lot lower than a snake's belly to keep me from saying yes. It isn't that these men are physically abusive or noticeably ugly or anything. Its more that they are non-supportive and controlling.

Controlling. Now there's a word I'm not very fond of.

One of these buck-toothed Jack Leg men puts up a fuss if his wife has friends, talks to friends, eats with friends or pretty much says the word friends. She isn't "allowed" to do anything at any time with anyone for any reason.

I thought I might throw up when she was telling me about him, but I chewed it back and tried to say something supportive instead.

"Divorce him. Divorce him now. He is scum and must go live alone in the wilderness with only tree people and giant, eyeball eating frogs to keep him company."

I even offered to let her use my divorce attorney punch card so she could get a free Slurpie, but she wasn't persuaded. Something about vows and kids and til death do she part no matter how mean he is. I didn't really hear most of her excuse because I couldn't hold back my lunch any longer and was on my knees cleaning up her shoes.

"He even comes home and looks for tire tracks in my drive way that he thinks shouldn't be there. He thinks he's CSI tire guy or something."

I don't get it. She's a very pretty woman who has an amazing sense of humor. She could have any guy she wanted, and yet she stays with freaky mean tire track guy. I don't know how she survives because I might shrivel up and die if Mr. Man told me I couldn't have my friends.

And by shrivel up and die, I mean I would die laughing once I paid a voodoo witch doctor to shrivel Mr. Man's head to roughly the size of a walnut. I'd probably go ahead and throw in an extra ten bucks and some chicken lips if he'd sprinkle some of that shriveling dust on what we like to call "little Mr. Man" as well.

I love my beautiful husband terrible and awful, but I need a bunch of people around me who love me or at least fake loving me when I need them to....which is all the time 'cause I'm needy like that. I like to laugh, to chit chat, to eat food in restaurants and I like hearing "Love you, Sher" from as many people as possible as often as is possible.

The truth is Mr. Man needs me to have friends because I am a handful. There is way too much of my crazy for just one person. He couldn't care less if my friends have girl names or boy names, either. He just needs the assistance.

Since I can't get my co-worker to browse the aisles of my favorite store, "Husband-Mart" and I can't convince her that women really can grow a set of ping pong balls of their own if they clap their hands and truly believe, I'm thinking my only recourse is to kidnap her in the dark of night like they do those chanting bald people who sell flowers at the airport and de-program her.

I'll lock her in a room and force her to listen to Tina Turner and Bonnie Raitt over and over again. I'll withhold chocolate and diet Coke until she admits women are people, too. I might even let her have one or two of my friends... on loan of course... so that she understands how nice it is to have people who aren't obligated by a wedding band and threat of child support to tell her they love her. Oh, and that her hair is not ugly and she hasn't gained weight. That's the best.

Whatever happens, I'm not gonna let up. I'm going to be her very own Harriet Tubman until she hops on the underground railroad to lady freedom and at minimum goes out to supper with someone who is not him.

I'm a lucky, lucky woman. I loves me some Mr. Man and I loves me some people who are not Mr. Man and that's a very good thing.

Wow. That was very Martha Stewart Mental Health Collection of me. Pre-prison Martha, of course.




Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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I don't mind telling you.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I love pretty words and I love people who use them. If someone uses a big ten dollar word when a tiny fifty cent one would have worked just as well, they are my new best friend.

If Mr. Man had said, “You are pretty,” rather than “You look simply marvelous,” we wouldn’t be Mr. & Mrs. Man today.

I’m sorry. That’s a total lie. We both know I would have married him even if he’d said, “You have a purty mouth”. I marry everybody.

But let me tell you what isn’t a lie. I do not care for medical people and their fancy made up words and their secret medical handshakes and gang signs. Not one little bit. They trot around in their medical leisure suits and their body fluid resistant foot-wear randomly tossing around pretend words like echotexture and heterogeneous and ovary and it makes me all kinds of mad. Irate even.

As a patient with what I’ve been told is at least an average ability to understand a fair amount of English words, it is upsetting to receive a report full of words on top of words that simply make no sense.

How’s a girl supposed to even ask half way intelligent questions of her physician when she has to first sound out words like a kindergartener as she traces along them with her pointer finger?

“I’d like to know what you feel is the best plan of action for my cu..cu..cooo..lee…su…….su……..su…sis…tie…tis? And should I be concerned that my left ovary is enlarged and I have a uterine lu…lu….lu….leee…. umm, what’s this word here? The one with nine syllables and not nearly enough vowels?”

Even worse is to try and understand their explanation when they are standing right in front of you obviously making up words as they go. Oh, they’d like us to believe that medical verbiage has a Latin origin, but that’s doodie. The language they use is so ridiculous, so completely preposterous; I would easier believe it has its roots in Pig Latin.

My primary care physician has long understood that I lack the brain chip that translates medical gobble-dee-goop to real words and has adapted his bedside manner accordingly. He draws me pictures. In these past few medically troubling years I have seen stick figure drawings of my thyroid, my breasts, my ovaries and a couple of internal body parts he says I have but I can find in no anatomy book.

I have an appointment with my sweet etch-a-sketch Doc Friday morning before making yet another trip far north to see the man with the sharp knife and the weird spot on his face that in my non-medical opinion really needs to be lanced. While Dr. Dances with Wolves (that’s code so you can’t guess my Doc’s name and call him up pretending to be me and find out how much I weigh)…while he will draw me a stick figure with a sad face and lots of arrows pointing to my abdomen and my bank account, I know Surgeon Spotted Face Guy will not be as kind.

He’ll rush into the ugly green and antiseptic smelling exam room breathless, wearing scrubs and one of those little unnecessary scrub hats, as if he has exactly three minutes to be near me before the stick of dynamite he has shoved up his behind explodes.

Dripping with self-importance, he’ll throw me a half smile and say things like, “Your zomaseetussi has developed four large mamootriads that should be knickerbockered as well as possibly bimbamaloosud. Don’t you worry though because I trickatrack something like this about eighty-cuh-trillion times a month so I could do it with my eyes closed. In fact, I plan to do yours with my eyes closed. I may even tie one hand behind my back and have the surgical tech spin me around really fast a couple times first.”

And then he’ll disappear in a cloud of smoke and his lovely assistant will clap wildly and tell me how lucky I am to have him slice me open and that someday my scar will be worth millions.

Here’s a little tip from me, a chick who this year has been poked, prodded and spread eagle more times than Blue Cross can even count, to the medical people who have accomplished all that poking, prodding and spreading: talk to me like you and I come from the same country, OK?

Stop slapping “itis” on the end of everything, don’t use a word twenty-four inches long and then tell me not to worry, and in the name of all that is good and decent, don’t you ever… and I mean never, ever sully a wonderful image of a food I love to describe some completely disgusting body thing.

You’ve been warned.

Nothing has cheered me up during this trying medical time like seeing Ponce along with Ozzy's little boy get their chestnuts roasted by a taser. That's not weird, is it?


Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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Wow. That was quick. (If I had a nickel for every time I've said that.)

Disclaimer: Since Blogger unleashed its brand spanking new Blogger land, I can't seem to make things work like they are supposed to. One minute my font is normal, just like me, and the next it can only be seen with a giant microscope, just like my breasts. Sorry kids.

Dear Sher,
You poor thing! I'm so sorry you have to have surgery again. You'll be ok though. I know someone who had gallbladder surgery and they're fine. They can't eat certain foods though is all.

Dear Caring Nurturer,

I was fine until you went and told me there are going to be foods I won't be able to eat. Now I'm sitting here in a pool of my own tears eating my weight in brownies and potted meat. Nice one.

Dear Sher,
...its not that bad really. I just watch what I eat and...

Dear Satan,

I would have rather heard it is the norm for a surgeon to mistake a patient's eye for a gallbladder than to hear I will have to watch what I eat. You're mean. You are simply a mean, mean person.

Dear Sher,

It is obviously payback for a silly string incident that occurred approximately six years ago. See what happens when you viciously attack an innocent man's equipment (and I am talking about the car).

Dear Giant Law Enforcement Officer,

First of all, it can't have been six years because that would mean I am six years older, and as you can see by my fuzzy out of focus and outdated black and white picture, I am not.

Second, I don't know nothing about no silly string.

And finally, if I did know something about silly string and an innocent man's equipment... although it has been established beyond any reasonable doubt that I do not.... I'm sure the alleged victim did something to deserve it. Like, I don't know... maybe stealing someone's very own personal brownie and taking it for a ride in a patrol car or helping another donut eater to post pictures of said someone in the men's bathroom.

Oh and PS: the appropriate get well message from a friend to another friend does not begin with: "why you are being punished". Consider us broken up.

(OK. We're back together. You know I can't hold a grudge.)

Dear Sher,
...You are so funny. I'll bet you'll find something funny in even this.

Dear Henry,

What do you mean funny? Funny like I'm a clown? Am I a clown to you? Do I amuse you? Do I make you laugh? (I totally sounded like Joe Pesci right there didn't I? You had to look over your shoulder just to make sure he wasn't standing right behind you, didn't you? I should have a one woman show in Vegas.)

By the way, how much do I love Ray Liotta. I would totally have his little mobster babies.

~*~*~*~

Your mind expanding OCD Chick music clip for the day:
My next four husbands.... after Michael Buble and I get a divorce. (Click on Windows Media Player or Real Player to see 'em.


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Stuff a Sher

When I was a kid my parents raised me to believe that if I made fun of someone, God would get me by causing whatever thing I was making fun of them for to happen to me. Its no exaggeration to say that this little OCD girl DID NOT make fun of people under any circumstance. On the contrary. Me and my obsessive-compulsive disorder could be found perpetually complimenting the profoundly stupid and freakishly ugly.

While other kids my age might have stared or giggled at someone with half an arm, a giant wart on their nose and one unusually large and yellowed tooth, I was all, "You have pretty eyes".

Every time I notice my whole arm, the absence of a nose wart and my numerous teeth, I am thankful I made the effort.

But since last Friday, I have been asking myself at what point in my life I might have laughed at a forty-two year old woman with no thyroid, a bad gallbladder and a jacked up ovary. Yep. It seems that the invisible OCD score keeper who lives in my head wasn't done evening the score with the thyroid surgery. Now he wants my gallbladder and my ovary as well. If I don't figure out who it was I made terrible fun of in my life and make amends, I'm well on my way to being completely hollowed out by a surgeon's knife.

I do remember that once I paid a quarter to see the world's smallest woman at a fair in the great state of North Carolina. Maybe she didn't have a thyroid, gallbladder or ovary. I don't recall. I was too distracted by her vigorous and toothless gumming of what seemed to be an imaginary peanut butter sandwich and the fact that she was sitting on the floor knitting something that needed to be knitted completely oblivious to the line of gawking, ignorant people who had nothing more exciting to do with a quarter on a Saturday night. (And before I forget it, I've seen littler.)

Since I don't have to gum things and I am not forced to make my living in the back of a circus trailer (yet), maybe that incident wasn't the one that caused my medical problems. Besides, that was so long ago I'd have a hard time finding her to apologize. She's probably in a tiny grave by now.

There was the one time when I was younger and hotter that a remarkably ugly man wearing a fuzzy vest and an invisible cloak of B.O. approached me at a club to dance with him. Although I did not point and laugh, I may or may not have said I was gay and my girlfriend would kill me. Looking back, he did walk funny... which might have indicated the lack of a gallbladder. And based upon his manly stinkiness and the four or five rogue hairs on the top of his head, I'm reasonably certain he did not have an ovary. I didn't see the tell-tale scar across his throat though, so its likely he still had a thyroid.

Cross that one off.

Let's see, now. I recall the evil red-headed Berta Lou and I pointing and laughing at one or two people in the last several years. Its a well documented fact that I was a wonderfully kind woman before I met and became friends with the Evil BL. If I am being punished for something, chances are its her fault.

There was a hateful woman we knew who had teeth the color of old tea bags and never ironed her clothes. She was terrible mean to me and never tired of making my life miserable. The Evil BL and I frequently wanted to punch her, but I'm not sure we technically made fun of her so surely she's not the cause of my innards going sour...unless she and her coven put a curse on me, that is. (Note to self: be more careful where I leave locks of my hair.)

Here's a little public service announcement from me to you, kids. Ugly is often a condition of breeding by a male and female who shouldn't have done the do, but that's no excuse to be nasty and wear wrinkled clothes.

Oh well, I guess have no idea what in the world I've done to warrant such problems as these. I know for sure I always touch the oven knobs seven times and if I see the image of Tom Cruise in any form of media, I am always careful to spit 21 times and cross myself for protection.

Whatever it was I did, looks like I'm going under the knife yet again. I'm thinking this time I'll just go ahead and have them hollow me out and stuff me with something warm and pliable so as to prevent future outbreaks of "old lady insides" disease. On the bright side, it'd be the perfect time to have my breasts done!

I don't know why, but I'm in a big Roxanne kind of place today. Maybe it's the Police thing. You know how I love police.







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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I warned you and yet you couldn't stop yourself.

Dear Sher,

...I have been amazed at how many similarities I find between us. I also love Michael Buble and recently took my 21 year old daughter to see him in Reno. Unlike you, however, I don't so much want him as my next husband so much as a son- in- law. I also love Stewie Griffin, which I am fortunately able to justify with the fact that I have a 13 year old son.

...Anyway, I am glad to hear that your surgery did go well and I hope life is easier for you without that pesky thyroid thingy.

Dear Long Lost Siamese Twin (which is hard to do, by the way),

First of all, I would give my daughter anything. A kidney, money, I'd even give her my fire batons if she ever took an interest in the art form. But Michael Buble? Are you kidding me? There is only so much sacrifice a Mother can make.

Second, I don't justify my Stewie love to anyone. Is it unnatural and weird and childish that I am a huge fan of a cartoon baby with an English accent and a penchant for world domination? Absolutely. But then, I am known for being unnatural, weird and childish.

And finally, thank you for your kind wishes for my thingy removal. I love people that use the word "thingy" to replace other words. If you were a guy, I'd marry you.

Dear Sher,

If I can't pee when I'm alone in the house without closing the door, so do you think that means I have an OCD problem or something?

Dear Private Dancer,

Um, yeah. You win the award for craziest OCD question ever posed to Sher. Based on that, I'm going to go ahead and give you a big fat yes to the "or something".

Dear Friend,

Forgive my indignation if this message comes to you as a surprise and may offend your personality for contacting you without your prior consent and writing through this channel. I got your contact from a professional database found in internet while searching for a reliable and honest person that will be an anointed steward in a vision very dear to me.

I am Mrs. Isabela Rodrique person from Puerto Rico undergoing medical treatment. I was married to Dr. Castillo Rodrique who was a gun runner supplying arms and ammunition to warring factions in Africa before he died in the year 2002. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or get a child outside my matrimonial home. When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of 11.8 Million Pounds Starlings (Eleven Million, Eight Hundred Thousand Pounds) with a Fiduciary company. Presently, this money is still with the Fiduciary Company.

Recently, my doctor told me that I would not last for the next three months due to cancer problem. Though what disturbs me most is my partial paralysis. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to an organization or individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. I want an organization or individual that will use this to fund, women and youth groups, victims of war, environmental protection, charities, orphanages and widows or properties for orphanage homes. It is said that blessed is the hand that giveth.

I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and as a part of restitution for the atrocities of my husband which I tacitly supported. I don\'t want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner, hence the reason for taking this bold decision.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord. If you consider yourself adequately equipped morally and spiritually for this mission, please send me a brief memo of how you intend to use the funds. Thank you and God bless.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. Isabela Rodrique

Dear Mrs. Isabela Rodrique,

You have no idea how thrilled I am to hear from you. Wow! Eleven million pounds from a gun runner I've never met. Sweeeet!!! I knew posting my email address on the internet where anyone could find it would pay off.

You said you'd like to know how I intend to use the money, so here goes:

I plan on spending the bulk of it on creating a charity that is near and dear to my heart.My most sincere desire is to boost the esteem of war torn women and widows by providing for free breast augmentation to as many of them as possible.

To be honest, this idea was really more my husband's. He and I were watching news footage of a war torn country full of flat-chested orphans and widows and he, with tears in his eyes said, "You know what I wish more than anything? I wish that some how, some way I could be found through a professional data base and offered a massive sum of money from the widow of a former physician/gun runner who is dying of cancer so that I could put it to good use by giving all these war torn women bigger boobs."

You can see that our matrimonial home is filled with love for others. (Most especially my husband's love for others. He's sweet like that.) You can also see that Mr. Man and I are totally equipped morally and spiritually to handle your dough while you are all snuggled up in God's bosom.

Please send the cash as quickly as you can as you are already partially paralyzed and set to drop dead in the next ninety days. I prefer PayPal.

Happy Birthday, Elvis. I still love you awful and as I always am on your birthday, I'll be dressed in my pink poodle skirt waiting for you at midnight. (I've been very good this year.)



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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Wind me up my Dear. Had it up to here.

Y'ever wake up and decide you're done? Ever think you've had just about enough of whatever you've had enough of and today is the last day you put up with whatever that is?

Well yesterday was my personal I've had enough of it day.

I woke up early, got the Big Dog off to school, came home and cranked up the angry white woman music to permanent hearing loss levels, which is what I always do when I’ve reached my “no, you did not” level.

Feeling sure that the regular me wasn’t tough enough to handle what I needed to handle, I began the process of changing myself from docile door mat to Sadie the Butt-Kicking Superhero.

I love her.

Of course, everyone knows when one is morphing into a superhero the very first order of business is to apply lots and lots of make-up. Angry as I was this morning I quickly discovered the more make-up I put on, the madder I got. And the madder I got, the bigger my hair got. And the bigger my hair got the more make-up I needed. There was teasing and spraying and painting going on with such fury I had to ratchet it back a little for fear the sparks I was creating would ignite my hair spray soaked head.

You want to know what had me in such a tizzy, don't you? Well that's some more of your business. As I am suffering still from a little residual hatefulness, I may tell you and I may not. You'll just have to stick around and see how it goes. I wouldn’t get my hopes up though.

Moving on now... after my general head area was fully prepared for my big bad-ass-ed-ness, I went to my closet and picked out what Mr. Man refers to as my dominatrix Realtor outfit. Don't listen to him, kids. It's not a dominatrix outfit at all. It's just a plain old ensemble that any Realtor might wear.

If she's a very angry Realtor and somebody is about to get very hurt.

With every button, I got tougher and tougher. By the time I put on the shiny black boots with the crazy high heels, I was approaching ten feet tall and bullet proof.

Now I don't know the main component a guy uses to quickly pump himself up to be a big, bad superhero, but if I had to guess I'd say it likely involves some sort of alcoholic beverage and something to do with sperm.

I do however know how chicks do it. How this chick does it anyway. Even more than high hair, heavy make-up and threatening attire, there is one vital item that gives us more muscle than any other weapon in our lady arsenal.

Shoes.

Not ordinary Mom taking the kids to school shoes. I’m talking about big, scary, nosebleed high shoes. The higher the heel, the more empowered we become. If you're ever in a pinch and liquor and sperm is not readily available, I highly recommend putting on crazy tall shoes prior to opening a can of name brand whoop ass on someone.

With my cruel boots on, I could have easily kicked Steven Segal's behind like no other… if he had shown up in my house for no good reason. Of course, I realize he's about ninety now and has to be routinely diapered by Kelli LeBrock so that statement doesn't mean as much today as it did in 1985, but you get the idea.

I had the big hair, the eight coats of maybe it's Maybelline, the intimidating clothing and the requisite all powerful heels. I was taking no prisoners and no matter what happened or how much blood shed might be necessary (so long as it wasn't mine), I was intent on drawing a line in the sand. I was done. Enough is enough is enough.

I drove…with angry music shaking my car windows… to the place where I was set to unleash my terror upon the unsuspecting townspeople inside. I, Sadie the high-heel wearing Superhero would rain fire down on who it was that needed rained on and in such a way he and all his descendants would rue this day.

I'm forty-two and I still have no idea what rue means. I don't even know how to spell rue.

And Baby, rain I did. Wielding the notes in my Palm Pilot like King Arthur's sword, I came down on that one-eyed Jack Leg so quick he never had a chance. He threw his arms up in defeat, begged me to take the heel of my boot out of his special bathing suit area, and promised to do what it was he should have done in the first place.

I came, I conquered.

I got my doctor to listen to me.

Got a crisis of your own? Here's a little advice from me to you. Solve it with shoes. Trust me.

Maybe I should just become a Rock Star


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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This is what separates me from a ferret.

I am feeling so unfunny, I should invent a new word for it. Ever since they sawed my thyroid out for fun and profit, I can't stop crying and eating cereal out of the box. As a result my eyes are forever puffy and I've gained ten cereal pounds.

I decided that since I am pretty much incapable of any behavior that could even be half way construed as productive, I would take this opportunity to read some stuff I've written in the past... stuff people email me about and tell me they peed their pants when they read it. I guess I'm sort of gonna see if I can laugh at myself and in so doing, maybe feel a little less like sitting in my garage with the engine running. (With the garage door open, of course. Don't want to take a dirt nap.)

You can read them too if you want. If you don't, don't tell me. I'm out of Chex.

Husband number XIVXII, come on down! People seem to be fascinated with Middle Aged Crazy Guy.

Dick Clark ain't gonna get me this time. As I am too depressed to make resolutions this year, I'll try these again.

Sophisticated people almost never pee in mayonnaise jars. I get a lot of requests to reprint this one, which I never allow unless accompanied by cash. Or flattery.

Cause I Said So I've written lots of "Cause I Said So's" 'cause I get a fair amount of email from people who don't mind that I make terrible fun of them. Gotta love people like that.

Are you people like that? Send me an email so I can make fun of you. If you've written me in the last couple months, don't worry just because I haven't humiliated you online. As soon as I'm done feeling sorry for myself, I'll poke fun at ya.




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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