Laverne and Sher in "Whores who buy groceries and go to church."

OK, I’m not stoned, so don’t even think that. Sure, I may have taken one or two hydrocodone tablets since Surgeon removed my gallbladder the other day, but it’s all good ‘cause I can handle it.

Handle. That’s sort of a muscular word, isn’t it? I wish I’d named my son Handle. Maybe it’s not too late. I am his Mom after all. I’ll bet if I just start calling him Handle it would stick.

So my hospital stay was nice. It was very Blue Cross Hilton. There was a food court, a convenience store of sorts and even a white baby grand piano all nestled inside what they called The Medical Mall. Kitten and I were thinking maybe we’d go back when I wasn’t getting something cut out of me and just hang out. Maybe see a show and grab a little dinner.

In the tiny surgery prep room, people in scrubs and plastic shoes kept coming in to either take my bodily fluids or tell me I looked scared. One of them was a nun. I have to admit I don’t have a lot of experience with nuns as I am not Catholic. But, I thought they had to wear nun suits or badges or something that clearly identifies them as nuns to people who might swear in their presence. If she was in possession of some such ID, I was not aware of it.

Her name was Laverne. I can’t think the nun regulations allow them to have names like Laverne, do they? I know her name was Laverne because she said to me, “My name is Laverne”. I know she was a nun because every other scrub wearing person called her Sister. Nice as she was, it kind of freaked me out frankly, having Laverne the undercover nun attending to me.

I grew up Southern Baptist in a town that was full of other Southern Baptists and the odd Methodist. I have absolutely no nun knowledge. I kept trying to do something that looked Catholic so she’d be inspired to put in a good word for me with her Boss before I went under the knife. All I could think of was to cross myself like I’ve seen boxers and rappers on TV do.

I looked like I was trying to tell Helen Keller I needed some Pepto Bismol and a cigarette.

When first she came in, Laverne called me Sweetheart and I liked that. I’m a sucker for anyone who calls me Sweetheart. Or Sweet Cheeks. Or Sher. Anyway, just like everyone else who entered my little waiting room, she told me I seemed nervous. Regrettably, I agreed with her.

“Like a whore in church.”

In my defense, I don’t think that should go on my permanent record as at that point, I had no idea I was talking to a nun. That’s entrapment, right? When a nurse walked in and referred to her as Sister, I nearly had an infarction.

I tried to fix it.

“Not that I’m a whore or anything. And I’m not trying to judge whores or say they should be nervous in church or something. I mean, you people love everybody, am I right? I mean, you love whores, too. Not that you’re a whore lover, but you’d totally invite a whore to church if you happened to see one out like at the grocery store or something and she mentioned she was thinking about maybe going to church. You’d probably invite her over to your church, right? Right? I just mean that uh… umm… I liked you in Sister Act.”

Thankfully someone stuck something in my arm that made me start singing Itsy Bitsy Spider and showing random people in the hallway my boobs. I don’t know where Laverne the Undercover Nun is tonight, but I want to give her a big blog shout out of thanks. She was a lovely person and a credit to her vocation. In fact, she was so sweet and attentive; she made nunning look like a great job… except for the whole no sex thing. I much prefer the Southern Baptist sex rules: you can do it so long as you feel guilty about it, never enjoy it and pretend you don’t know what condoms are.

I’ve got to run. It’s time for a tiny pill and some upset tummy medicine and even though I’ll want to sleep in tomorrow and waller in my gallbladder-less sick bed, Handle has school in the morning.

Thank you awful for your get well emails and support. You stranger blog readers are the best.



Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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Why you so good to me?

I wasn't going to write anything more here in my online therapy session prior to surgery, but because you guys are way too nice to me what with your emails and good vibes and what not, I had to produce a blip really quick before we leave. (Speaking of producing a blip, my tummy is nervous.)

Kitten came home to drive me to the Big City hospital named after a saint with a really friendly name. I'm betting if he were alive, we'd totally hang out. Anyway, as Mr. Man is rendered useless at the moment, she is my guardian for the duration of my hospital stay. Thank God for 22 year old daughters who respond positively to maternal guilt.

Unfortunately her sweetie had a minor surgery just yesterday, so my kid will be spread thin. She'll take me, wait for me to recover, then run home to baby him. Tomorrow she'll be back to collect me and carry my drugged up and gallbladderless behind home.

Which means I will be alone today and tonight in the saint hospital and that scares the blip right out of me. Mr. Man is my protector and when I am hospitalized, he's the guy in charge of taking me potty and making sure there are no air bubbles in my IV. What am I going to do without him?

Light bulb!!!

Even though I know I am not supposed to wear make-up to surgery, I am going to do it anyway. If I look good enough I'm thinking I can pick up some random guy in the waiting room and perhaps sway him into wanting to repeatedly take me to the bathroom in the middle of the night and stare non-stop at my IV while I sleep. He'll also have to kiss my forehead when I whimper. That's Mr. Man's specialty. Whimper soothing forehead kisses.

I guess I'd better run and prepare myself as the time of departure is quickly approaching and my sitting here writing isn't going to make this go away.

Thank you terrible for your emails of support and well wishes. If the collective you were here right now, I would hug you inappropriately and tell you I love you. I would also probably grab your butt 'cause that's how I roll.


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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No beets, no daisies, no problem.

I am not one to exaggerate. Everybody that knows me knows two things for sure: Sher does not eat beets and she does not exaggerate. That’s why it’s important for me to tell you what my day was like without any exaggeration, added drama or literary embellishment whatsoever.

Here goes.

It was the single worst day of my entire long-legged life and that includes the time I shared an elevator with Kevin Costner…while I was wearing wrinkled sweatpants, holding a six pack of beer in one hand and a package of diapers in the other.

Because I am married and the law says I have to, I took my jacked-up-in the-back husband to the Big City early this morning so the only doctor in the state who hasn’t gotten a piece of our sweet Blue Cross action could buy himself that diamond encrusted toilet seat he’s had his eye on.

As Mr. Man cannot presently sit upright, I had a problem.

I drive a small car that does not accommodate lying down, even though sometimes I want nothing more than to lie down while I’m driving. I called my ex-wife-in-law and sent up the bat signal. She is not as thrifty as I am (read “poor”) and therefore has many lying down kinds of vehicles with leather and heated seats and miniature monkeys who massage your neck when you’re stuck in traffic. She brought me two vehicles from which to choose. I chose the one that I felt might cost me less years in debtor’s prison to repay should I dent it or injure one of those magic-fingered monkeys.

I fed Mr. Man a couple handfuls of the pills that make his nose itch and threw him, gently of course, in the luxurious back seat. I was pretty certain the combination of said narcotics and the soft lull of the large vehicle moving up the road would cause him to drift off to Loritab Land while I drove.

Um, no. He decided to go another way.

“My food is too hot!” he announced. I had made a drive thru run so he wouldn’t experience tummy upset when he took his steroids. “How am I supposed to eat hot food? OW! This hot food burned my tongue! OW! I can’t even eat this food because it’s so HOT! I’m just going to put this HOT FOOD on the floor board because it’s too HOT to eat! OW! ”

Remembering my lawfully wedded husband is unwell with wicked herniated disk pain, I sweetly told him that I didn’t care what he put in his mouth so long as he put something in there. I may have also threatened to pop his head off like a grape if he didn’t simmer down so I could focus on driving.

By the way, kids, here’s a little public service announcement from me to you. If you are accustomed to driving a tiny vehicle, you should never jump in a huge one and assume you can maneuver it without killing something. That goes against the natural vehicular progression. Darwin wrote all about it.

It goes: tiny vehicle, little vehicle, medium vehicle, ex-wife-in-law vehicle. Because I ignored that natural law, several people are living life right now completely oblivious as to how close they came to meeting Jesus today.

“What’s this new thing you’re doing lately?” Mr. Man was awake again and wanted me to know it. I figured he was referring to the slow moving and morbidly obese pedestrian I almost accidentally smashed and left for dead. “You know! That thing where you look at your watch all the time!” The Prosecutor in “To Kill a Mockingbird” was less ferocious.

What does a person say to that? How does one defend one’s self when charged with looking at a watch? I quickly went over my wedding vows in my head hoping to find a loop hole but as I think I promised to love him, honor him and never to bludgeon him, I took a deep breath and answered, “Because I’m a bad, bad person. I look at my watch all the time because I am evil.”

“Well at least that’s an answer.”

Take a moment to envy my wedded bliss.

After visiting with his doctor, I was hopeful that our return trip would be less confrontational. I was feeling a little more confident about my mad driving skills, it was time for more back medicine and I found a station that was rolling out lots of AC/DC. I was even sort of looking forward to the ride.

Until.

“Hey, what say we scoot on over to that little town where we had our beef processed and pick it up on our way home?”

That’s right. We are actually the kind of people who participate in cow murder-for-hire and then have it processed for our consumption. We are red meat eating freaks and I’m very ashamed, although not ashamed enough to quit.

What Mr. Man failed to explain to me in his druggie state of mind was that getting to the meat locker from where we were wasn’t so much a scoot as an over the road long haul.

I drove and I drove and I drove. Occasionally my beloved would help by rearing his head to comment on my horrid watch addiction or shout, “YOU’RE GONNA HIT THAT TOYOTA!” I kept my cool by playing the drums on the gear shift and by trying to figure out how many bags of lye I could afford if I sacrificed a little and bought a cheap shovel..

After what seemed like hours (because it was) we arrived in the town whose population sign proudly announced, “510”. There were lots of cows standing around waiting to be processed, a great many single wide mobile homes circa 1963 and an alarming number of signs that told me not to have an abortion. So many signs in fact, I assumed there must be a town tax that pays for nothing but anti-abortion sign manufacturing. I wondered what must be wrong in a town of 510 that so many of its number have to be reminded on a daily basis to stay pregnant.

“There it is!” my drugged up On Star announced. “It” was a building that I wouldn’t pee in, much less eat something that came out of it.

(I will though. Damn that melt in your mouth Angus. I’m hooked on the junk.)

In a matter of fact voice, Mr. Man directed me to back on up to the side door so we could load the beef. I quickly realized I was being asked to drive backwards in a giant, expensive vehicle into a very narrow space AND I was about to pick up 500 pounds of beef with a man who couldn’t put on his own shoes. I started to pretend I saw a closed sign on the torn screen door, when my sweetheart said the magic words that give me the power to do anything, no matter how absurd.

“You can’t do it. You want me to do it?”

I immediately whipped around, threw it in reverse, closed my eyes and made that ride my bitch. Oh, and I threw up a little in my mouth.

Straightaway Bubba the Butcher came wheeling out a cart with the remains of the animal I am convinced died peacefully in his sleep after a day of eating daisies and reading books to his grandkids. Butcher looked at Mr. Man, Mr. Man looked at me and I did what I always do when I need to convince a man it is his idea to do whatever thing it is I want him to do.

I kicked up the Southern accent a notch and smiled pretty. I also told the guy my husband had seriously injured his back and was unable to help load the truck. Which worked? You decide.

I’d love to wrap this up by telling you it all turned out splendidly, that Mr. Man and I enjoyed a lovely trip home together and everyone lived happily ever after. Except the beef, of course. But, as Friday is surgery day, I can’t tell any lies. That way if I die, I won’t have so many things to say I’m sorry for. To be safe, I’m also not going to eat any daisies or read books aloud to anyone small.

See you on the other side, guys. Of the surgery I mean. Not the John Edwards kind of other side.

How much do I love Blue October? It's not even normal... that's how much.


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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Intrepid? Isn't that a car?

Dear Sher,

I'm a "Mister Man" of 55 with OCD, and a Frenchmen from province of Québec, Canada
I have to write to you to tell you how you make me laugh.

Boy did I laugh especially the foreplay things, almost fell of my chair.

Tank's for your intelligent humor. I hope I'm not offending you by comparing your humor with Rita Rudner that I like very much.

Dear French Guy,

Tanks so much for your email! Almost no one tells me my foreplay things make them laugh, so I'm pretty psyched. (FYI: I plan on using that quote on my resume.) I also appreciate your appreciation of my intelligent humor. I am nothing if not intelligent and humorous. And finally, I am not at all offended by your comparison of me to Rita Rudner. Had you compared me to Dick Cheney, we might have had a problem. (Wow... I'm picking up this new Democrat thing really quickly. I'm all tingly. Tomorrow I plan on saying mean things about Ann Coulter. As a Canadian, you have no idea what I just said, eh? Take my word for it, French Guy. It's both intelligent and humorous.)
PS: Love your accent!

Dear Sher,
I am so sorry to hear about your lump. As if the whole thyroid thing wasn't enough of a downer. I totally empathize with your desire to keep your chick parts. When I went to see my OB/GYN about some female problems the first thing I told him was that I was not looking to have anything removed. Seems like these days the quick answer is always the H word. Stand strong, but that pesky gallbladder probably does have to go. Positve thoughts coming your way.

Dear Nice person I can't even find anything funny to say about,

Even though I have asked all my friends to send me good boobie vibes, you are the first one to actually do it in writing. I'm sorry about my lump, too and I tell my girls that every day. They've been through a lot and have held up nicely, if I do say so myself. I hate to reward them by having Surgeon cut on them. The H Word... sounds like a new show on Bravo.

Dear Sher,

RE: Virgin Sacrifice.

Volcanoes can be found in Washington. Next door to Bill Gates place. Virgins can be found in Spokane. Glad to help - you're welcome.

Dear Dog the Virgin Hunter,
Now I know why I've never been to Spokane.

Dear Sher,
A lump? Geez. I'm sorry.

Dear Beav,
Geez. You got something against lumpy boobies do you? Nice. Now I feel even worse.

Dear Sher,
Your hair is not blonde any more? Wow! When are you going to post a new picture?

Dear Anonymous Guy who wants a picture of me for undisclosed & potentially weird purposes,
I can't post a new picture as vampires can't be photographed. Yeah. Totally so not blonde.

Dear Sher,
Just wanted to pass along that I believe your ovaries and boobies are not only bodacious but are aweless, intrepid, unabashed ovaries and boobies.

Dear Big Word User whose references to my ovaries and boobies are a little frightening, but nevertheless much appreciated,
You had me at aweless.

Doesn't get any better than Mary J. Blige. I plan on being her in my next life. Listen and love it.


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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Virgin sacrifice, anyone?

Dear Diary,

Let's see. When last I wrote, I had been told my gallbladder was coming out, one or more of my chick parts may need to go as well and I had the pleasure of having a garden hose shoved up my behind, otherwise known as a colonoscopy.

Since that time I braved the ice and snow and drove to the Big City to visit with Dr. GYN Oncologist. "You may keep your chick parts," she said after studying my sonograms and holograms and various other assorted expensive medical pictures and of course, after making me put my feet in stirrups while she rooted around in my lady business like she had lost something in there.

I can keep my chick parts! Sweet! I love being a girl and I am firmly in favor of ovaries.

"However." Don't you just love that word, Dear Diary? However. Nothing good has ever come after someone says that word.

"However," says the man after he tells you he loves you for the first time. "I am a woman trapped in a man's body."

"However," continued Dr. GYN Oncologist, "I did find a lump in your breast."

Sour! I am even fonder of my girls than I am my ovaries. Nothing against ovaries, but I can't see them in the mirror, they don't make my sweater look cuter, and no guy has ever told me I have bodacious ovaries. Come to think of it, no guy has ever told me I have bodacious boobies either.

Stupid guys.

"Well, seeing as how I am having surgery on the 23rd, I think I'll just wait until after and then I'll go get a mammogram." I don't like having too many things to do in one month. I especially don't like it if one of them is having my boobies squished in a giant boobie squishing machine. (Just a thought here, kids. Why do women have to put their girls in a mechanical device until they are approximately tortilla shaped in the interest of good health, but men get their jewels checked with a physician gently cupping them and asking them to cough? Something is awry here.)

She didn't like my idea very much, so she looked at me sternly and said words that made me throw up a little in my mouth. Needless to say, my mammogram is in the morning...right after I give my other doctor, Dr. Dances With Wolves, more of my blood. Although I can't be sure, I think my doc's are conspiring to clone me. No one needs that much of another person's blood unless there is an evil plot involved.

So, Dear Diary, I did what any woman does when she has had it up to her eyeballs with doctor's and lumps and tests and so on. I went to a salon and had an extreme head makeover. What was once blonde is now the opposite of blonde. With red highlights. And a new cut. I look like I should be wearing a cape and have a hunch-backed slave named Igor.

And that's OK with me. I needed a total and complete change and that's exactly what I got.

The Evil Berta Lou said, "Oh, Sher!" after hearing what I'd done.

My ex-wife-in-law-friend said, "I love it!" in that way only friends will say "I love it!" even though they are sort of certain you have had a tiny stroke.

Deputy Pretty said, "I will love you anyway and I will tell you that you are beautiful when I see it." Of course, that's only after I reminded him that he took a vow to love me in good times and black and red hair times, so help him his gun.

Mr. Man, my beloved, said drooling, "Come here, Baby, but don't tell my wife!"

And speaking of Mr. Man, Dear Diary, I forgot to tell you that his doctor thinks he has ruptured a disk as he is in great pain. He is scheduled for an MRI tomorrow and currently is drugged to his teeth. That explains the drooling. He waits anxiously for four hours to pass so he can have another happy pill. I am witnessing the birth of addiction.

Now back to me.

Because Mr. Man is selfish enough to injure himself in such a dramatic & painful way, I have no idea how I'm getting to the Big City hospital for my surgery next week. I could drive myself there, but I might experience some difficulty driving back the next day. I thought about hitch-hiking, but I'll bet people don't tend to pick up women who look like they might suck all the blood from their bodies. Just a guess.

What is going on around here, Dear Diary? What have I done to bring such a string of unfortunate events to this house? Perhaps the gods are angry with me, or more likely with Mr. Man, and need to be appeased. Wonder where I can find a virgin and a volcano in the Midwest? Do you think a blow up doll and a Hibachi would work in a pinch?

Signed,
Sher
AKA The incredible hollow woman with ovaries.


Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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A Colonoscopy & Hershey's Kisses

Because I am a giver, and because I can’t keep anything to myself,(not even what happens between a girl and her gastroenterologist), I am going to give you a step by step, blow by blow, guide to the joy that is a colonoscopy. You will enjoy an extraordinary eye witness account of what it’s like to prepare for a colonoscopy, what it’s like to get a colonoscopy and what it’s like on the car ride home after a colonoscopy.

Not since Katie Couric was anally probed on national television has there been such exciting colonoscopy drama. Grab yourself a beverage, relax your colon and prepare to be dazzled.

Part One: The Colonoscopy Prep.

7 AM: I took the day off work so as to give my full attention to all the necessary colon cleansing activities. At least that’s what I’m telling everyone. The truth is I am taking the day off to avoid a long and very public trial and an inevitable and lengthy prison sentence. As my doctor’s orders say I can not have one single bite of any solid food the entire day, nor can I have even the tiniest bit of creamer in my morning coffee, it is highly likely contact with any annoying person will cause me to kill them with something sharp or blunt.

7:10 AM: I’ve been told that the giant jug of Trilyte that comes with several flavor packet choices is my ticket to colon cleanliness and the last hoorah that will make me ready for my rectal close up. The instructions say to mix it with one of the flavor packets and water so that it has plenty of time to chill in the refrigerator. Purportedly it’s much better cold than not cold. I decide that when I am to start drinking this stuff at 6 PM, I will go one better and make Trilyte slushies in my blender. It’s such a fantastic idea I make myself a note to send the TriLyte people my recipe and a bill for $100,000. I may be a giver, but I don’t give it away for free.

8 AM: I’m starting to get a little hungry now. That coupled with the fact that I have had to drink coffee without Coffee Mate has caused me to yell at one of the Yorkies that he was adopted and that his real mother was a bitch. I grab a tasty cup of colored water known as Jell-o and try to pretend its Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts smeared with loads of real butter. I remind myself how important it is to keep a positive attitude as this is going to be a long day.

9:46 AM: Hmm. I’ve never noticed how much a Yorkie looks like a turkey.

10:14 AM: I’ve got to do something to keep my mind off food. I should try to find something on TV. You know, that yellow Wiggles guy is pretty hot actually. I like the way he waves his arms with such enthusiasm, like he really does love fruit salad. Crap. Fruit salad.

11 AM: I have no idea what time it is really, because I don’t have the required energy the brain needs to actually tell time. I slide off the sofa and belly crawl into the kitchen for more Jell-o and diet soda.

2 PM: It’s time for the first pooper-shooter medicine. I am to drink a small bottle of something that calls itself an effervescent laxative. That sounds kind of pretty and for a moment I consider pouring it into a champagne glass, but I’m too weak to reach the champagne glass shelf. How bad can something be that has the word effervescent right on the label?

2:01 PM: Sweet mother of a monkey! Dear God in Heaven above! That is some nasty, nasty, NASTY liquid. Is it possible my pharmacist gave me a bottle of effervescent dead roach and road kill juice instead? It tastes like the sourest lemon mixed with loads and loads of salt and baking soda. And dead things. Lots of old, nasty dead things.

2:01 and 20 seconds: My ex-wife-in-law friend calls to check on me. She gets to hear me make noises that are both indelicate and disgusting as I try to finish the little bottle. I use lots of terrible swear words some of which I do not even know the meaning, but heard a rapper on TV use. She tells me she has had sympathy pooping all day for me. I tell her it sounds like a really bad greeting card. “Roses are red, violets are blue, all day long I’ve pooped just for you.”

2:35 PM: I am lying on my bed trying not to move my eye lashes or else I will throw up. I would actually love to throw up were it not for the fact that the instructions on my colonoscopy preparation sheet say that I am not allowed to throw up. I guess if they say I can’t, then I can’t, so I chew it back and pray to Jesus that he will smite the inventor of that bottled poop juice with some locusts or something equally Biblical and scary.

3 PM: There is no movement yet on the western front.

4 PM: All is quiet in Bathroom Land and that surprises me. Everything I’ve read says to pack some books, a phone and a pillow in your colonoscopy preparation survival kit and prepare to spend some quality time with the porcelain goddess.

5 PM: Time now for the Reglan pill. I am relieved at least that I do not have to drink it as I only just stopped feeling sick. Among other things, Reglan is supposed to strengthen my lower esophageal sphincter. I’m thrilled to hear that as I have been concerned about my sphincter strength as of late and have had no idea how to remedy it. Still no movement and I’m starting to think…

5:25 PM: Now I know what effervescent really means. “Hurricane force”.

6 PM: Time for that chilled TriLyte that has been waiting for me all day. I have to pass on my slushie plan because I’m fairly certain I can’t get them made in the 2.8 seconds I have between toilet tidal waves. I chose the pineapple flavoring because I decided it would probably taste tropical, like a daiquiri. I pour my one cup full into the glass I have kept in the freezer, hold my nose and take my first gulp.

6:01 PM: Dear Jesus, remember when I asked you to smite the bubbly poop juice guys? Well, since you’re smiting anyway, would you just go ahead and add the makers of TriLyte on your to do list? Don’t worry about bringing locusts. Just pry their pharmaceutical mouths open and pour in a big swig of this pineapple flavored cooking oil that they expect me to drink every ten minutes until my “effluent” (which is French for poop) is clear.

The hours from 6:01 PM until I finally passed out from not eating, not having Coffee Mate and sprinting to the bathroom was spent expelling things from my body with such force, I may indeed hold some kind of record.

Part Two: The Colonoscopy.

3:30 AM: Wake up and insert a Dulcolax suppository as per my instructions. As we have to leave at 4:30 AM to make the two hour drive to the Big City Hospital, I have only one hour to turn my haggard looking self into a colonoscopy beauty queen. I consider having Mr. Man write something clever in Sharpie on my behind, but he sucks at spelling and I don’t want the butt doctor to think I’m stupid.

6:35 AM: Arrive at hospital, take off all my clothes and put on a lovely dress opened in the back designed to accentuate my behind. The nurse asks me a million questions, including whether or not I would like to create an advanced directive. “Do not pull the plug,” I say to Mr. Man. “Keep me hooked up to everything they have for as long as they have it.” End of advanced directive.

6:37 AM: I have changed my mind. I decide I don’t want a garden hose shoved up my butt and I try to figure out how I can escape wearing nothing but socks and a backwards dress. “You’ll be fine,” says the nurse. “We will be giving you some Demerol which will make you very sleepy along with some medicine that is a short term amnesia drug. You will be able to hear us and respond to our commands, but you will not really know what’s going on.” (That drug might explain how I wound up staying in my first marriage for so many years. I knew my cereal tasted funny!) She assured me when I woke up I would remember nothing and made me promise not to drive or use the stove. I wondered how I was going to remember not to drive or use the stove if I had amnesia.

7:15 AM: They wheel me and all the wires they have stuck to me into what must be called the special rectal filming room. I see a long coiled thing in clear plastic and nearly climb off the table. There is a big TV screen in front of me when they tell me to roll over on my side and 3 people, one of whom is a doctor who looks as if he only woke up five minutes ago. One of the nurses keeps telling me I’m going to be fine and continually asks me to scoot my butt closer to the edge of the table. I’ll bet the only people that ever hear that line are strippers and people getting a colonoscopy. As I am telling the doctor that I was just kidding about this whole colonoscopy thing, he is sticking needles in my IV. I try to finish my sentence, but the Recovery Room nurse is waking me up. It’s over.

While you will read again and again online that the worst part of a colonoscopy is the prep, you will likely not believe it. After all, how could drinking and pooping, both very natural things we do every day, possibly be worse than having a hose with a camera on the end of it pushed up your exit shoot? Well believe it. The actual colonoscopy was beyond a breeze. Nothing to it and absolutely no pain whatsoever. If you have been putting off getting a colonoscopy because you were afraid of the procedure, you’d better find another reason. Hey, if the promise of zero pain isn’t enough to sway you, how about this: I was so blissfully stoned after the procedure, on the car ride home I told Mr. Man I thought a Hershey’s Kiss in a purple wrapper would make a lovely hat and that old ladies sometimes eat cheerleader’s pom-poms.
Colonoscopy: Crazy expensive, but billed to Blue Cross.
Getting to spend the day legally wasted: Priceless.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Lisa Nowak, you had me at Depends.

I am nothing if not a dignified woman. I always have my make-up on when I go out in public; I am known to routinely wear shoes with mad high heels; and I almost never spit in mixed company. (I would probably be OK with the spitting thing, but I’m no good at it. That’s why there is often chewed gum stuck to the outside of my driver’s side door.)

Let’s face it, kids. I’ve got classy coming out the wahzoo. And tomorrow I will have a whole lot more than class coming out my wahzoo.

It may be just another Thursday to you, but for me it will be National Colonoscopy Preparation Day. In anticipation of the celebration, I picked up all sorts of liquid excitement at my local pharmacy.

“Awww. Poor Sher,” said my pharmacy girls. They looked at me with their smiles turned upside down and their eyebrows furrowed while they clutched their chests. So distraught were they when I handed over my prescription, I wondered if maybe Mr. Man had dumped me and I just didn’t know it yet.

When the pharmacy tech plopped a giant container with some white powder in it on the counter in front of me, my dignity left the building. It didn't help that two old men waiting for their old man drugs nearly had an infarction. "That’s not mine!” one yelled. “I know what that mess is!” said the other.

Fabulous. And it only gets better from here.

“Umm, Sher, we are going to just give you your Dulcolax suppository for free. No charge, Sher. No charge at all for your DULCOLAX SUPPOSITORY! It's complimentary. We’re just going to put your FREE DULCOLAX SUPPOSITORY right here with ALL your OTHER LAXATIVES!”

Judging by the volume and enthusiasm of her voice, I half expected her to hop up on the counter and shout, “Give me an L! Give me an A! Give me an AXATIVE!!! Goooooo Sher!”

I was relieved I hadn’t taken off my dark glasses, but that relief was short-lived when I realized I was wearing a jacket with the name of my employer on it. I am in our company’s TV commercial and so more often than you'd think, I actually get recognized. Up until now it’s always been, “Hey, aren’t you the lady in the real estate commercial?” Now I’m pretty sure it’ll be, “Hey, aren’t you the lady who buys laxatives by the trunk full?”

Apparently free suppositories aren’t the only thing that gets this pharmaceutical chick crazy excited. When she was putting all my Colon Blow goodies in a giant bag, she could barely control her delight. “The good news is this LIQUID LAXATIVE THAT YOU’RE GOING TO BE DRINKING TOMORROW comes with flavor packets! Yay! Let's see. You’ve got your pineapple-orange and your orange-pineapple and your orange! Yummy!”

She totally has me sold on the astounding power of the flavor packets. It’ll probably taste just like a milkshake or a daiquiri or raw sewage.

Once I was at home with my fun in a jug and away from the person with the volume control issues, I decided I’d better read over the medical information sheets my pharmacy provides.

“Do not drive or operate heavy machinery when using Colon Blow as it may cause drowsiness.”

Curious.

“Do not drink alcohol as it may intensify drowsiness.”

I have to admit I’m experiencing a little trepidation after having read that. I’m not a medical authority, but it doesn’t seem very efficient to me to make a person drink a gallon of Colon Blow, another small bottle of Sparkling Colon Blow, a Colon Blow pill and of course, the famous FREE DULCOLAX SUPPOSITORY and then have them nap.

Maybe they are counting on my being able to multi-task.

I have no idea what to expect, but I’m going to have Mr. Man blow up the air mattress and put it in the loo, just in case. I used to be quite the sleep walker back in the day, but no sense in taking chances.

You know, now that I think about it, I’ll bet that Lisa Nowak wasn’t nuts at all. She was probably just on her way to a Colonoscopy.

The late, great Phil Hartman and the hilarious Colon Blow commercial.



Copyright © 2004-2007, 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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I'm not just the President. I'm also a customer.

I have a secret I haven't told anyone. Not Mr. Man. Not the Evil Berta Lou. Not my ex-wife-in-law friend.

Nobody.

I think I can tell you though 'cause we’re close like that.

I'm a little scared. There it is. I said it.

I, Sher the OCD Chick, am the tiniest bit afraid.

Whether it's the surgery, or the looming possibility that Dr. Surgeon might also want my inside girl parts when he takes my gallbladder, I don't know.

It could be that I'm worried about having a camera shoved up my delicate derriere on Friday by someone I've never even met and who I'm sure isn't going to care one little bit about my personal policy when it comes to my delicate derriere.

And I totally have a policy.

Maybe I'm plain old sick and tired of being sick and tired. Or maybe... just maybe... I'm wondering how many times in the span of about a year one woman can get dragged to the edge of Cancer Mountain, told to get really close to have a look, only to have some guy in scrubs run up behind pretending he's gonna push you.

Then he doesn't. But, he thinks it’s funny, so he does it again.

I couldn’t care less about the gallbladder. It’s bigger than it should be, just like me, and so it must be yanked out. Frankly, I’m hoping it weighs at least 20 pounds so I can stop trying to diet. However, I’m pretty fond of the inside parts that make me a girl and I think I might like to hang onto them a while longer. I’m afraid if they take them all out I’ll wake up from the anesthesia and suddenly want to watch football and scratch my testicles.

As long as I’m telling you my secrets, I may as well tell it all.

Umm, I don’t really handle being scared very well. When I am afraid, there is a short in my obsessive-compulsive brain that starts making a weird sizzling noise much like when a squirrel gets fried on an electric wire. I start thinking weird thoughts and doing weird things. Plus there is that awful burning smell no amount of Joop will cover.

Here’s a glimpse into my fear induced crazy. Today I have been very concerned about my eyebrows. Not like you normal people worry about your eyebrows, but in a way only obsessive-compulsive people can worry about eyebrows. (Normal people do worry about eyebrows, don’t they? I have no frame of reference.)

My philosophy is that eyebrows are like little hats for your eyes. I look at other people’s eyebrows and I always think one of two things:

a. I am jealous of your eyebrows, or…
b. You would look better if I shaved your eyebrows off and drew them in with a Sharpie.

I spend a lot of time on my eyebrows. There is a regimen of plucking, shaping, brushing, and coloring. This morning I was in too big a hurry to go through all the necessary eye-hat grooming steps, so I skipped a couple. As a result, I worried all day.

Because I felt like everyone who looked at me thought they might like to Sharpie my face, I kept trying to turn my head in search of a flattering eyebrow angle. I’m reasonably certain I looked as if I was afflicted with some malady which causes peculiar head tilting.

And the beat goes on. In an effort to fix the eyebrow insanity that happened today, I will wake up early tomorrow and begin plucking and shaping and teasing…always trying to make them perfectly even, because that’s how we OCD’ers roll…until I have tweezed myself into a happy place where the fear of another hike up that mountain can’t touch me.

You see where I’m going here, right? I’m all kinds of crazy right now and if I don’t find a healthy way to handle it, I might have to call Eyebrow Club for Women and get myself some implants.

Watch that little picture of me up there in the right hand corner to find out how I’m doing. If I suddenly look like Groucho Marx, please send your eyebrow replacement donations to humorwriter@gmail.com.


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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I'll feed it bananas and teach it to twirl.

Yesterday evening Dr. Surgeon's appointment maker left me a message at about ten til five. When I called her back, she said these actual words, "Oh my gosh! Thank God you called me back!" After she assured me that the words 'imminent death' had nothing to do with her dramatic greeting, she informed me the guy with the knife needed me to come early.

"Why?" I asked.

Silence. Apparently no one in Dr. Surgeon's office is accustomed to questions.

Long story short, I woke up at the crack of dawn and drove to the Big City this morning so as not to upset the delicate Qi (chi) of the cutter. While its OK to be mean to him in a blog he will never read, I would never risk actually upsetting him in real life. In retribution he might sew my elbow to my vagina and that would greatly hamper my social life.

In the interest of truth, Dr. Surgeon was super nice today and not at all evil looking. He was all decked out in a great tie, slacks, expensive shoes and a crisp, white lab coat with his very own name embroidered over the pocket in a fancy font. Noticeably missing however, was the golden band on his married finger. I wanted to ask whether he had dumped Mrs. Surgeon or whether he lost it in someones lung, but the elbow-vagina thing stopped me.

Also in the room this morning was his trusty side-kick Dr. Medical Student. He was in scrubs the color of pond water and those little plastic shoes made popular by five year old girls and women who are too busy to tie. Or shop for real shoes.

Although he never spoke an actual word, he was far from silent. If my office visit was a movie, Dr. Medical Student was the guy who adds the cool sound effects that make everything so much more exciting.

Dr. Surgeon: "Your gall bladder is very thick."

Sidekick inserts a dramatic air sucking noise which rendered the room almost devoid of oxygen.

Dr. Surgeon: "You're going to need some additional tests prior to surgery."

Sidekick inserts a gulp that sounds like he just swallowed a large wad of cartoon gum.

Dr. Surgeon: "Now I'm going to say some random words that should technically scare you, but because I am going to also say the magic words 'abracadabra don't worry', they won't. Ready? Here we go. Colonoscopy, GYN Oncologist, sticking something down your throat and into your stomach."

Sidekick inserts the sound of galloping horses and finishes it off with a cat when it's in heat on a warm summer's night.

All in all, it was a super-dee-dooper great visit and I left there with a list of more doctors and more tests which must be completed prior to my surgery on the 23rd. I'm thinking by the time they're done with me in the Big City hospital, Dr. Surgeon will toss his scalpel and bring an ice cream scoop from home to make the hollowing out of my body that much easier.

"Look on the bright side," said my good friend and second ex-husband's third wife. "Everything they take out of you weighs something, right? It's an easy way to lose weight!"

"You're a regular motivational speaker," I said. I'm thinking of encouraging her to write her own Chicken Soup for the Surgical Patient's Soul book.

Although my ex-wife-in-law did her best to help me look on the sunny side of the knife, I must admit I'm not looking forward to these next couple weeks. After the year I've had of health issues here, there and everywhere, what I could really use now is some serious cheering up.

Anyone have a monkey they aren't using?


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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Just wiggin and eating a dog. Thanks for asking.

Because I have to go to the Big City tomorrow morning to see Dr. Surgeon who has no time for me and loves himself almost as much as he loves his shiny knife... and because I have to do it alone because Mr. Man has abandoned me tonight and tomorrow... I'm wigging.

And when I wig, I want to eat. And when I want to eat as a direct result of my wigging, I want good, nasty things that only Southern people eat. Tonight it was "all the way dogs". If you aren't from South of here, you don't know what that is. As I love abusing even the smallest amount of power I have over others, I'm not going to tell you. All you really need to know is that I ate them and they were good.

Know what else is good?

Dear Sher,

I think maybe all your trouble started many, many moons ago, when the really not so evil BL, thought it would be fun to go out to the bars. You had not been in the bar 4.5 seconds when a flying bomb shell attacked you ( aka a pool ball ) and clocked you upside the head. Everyone in the medical field knows your gall bladder is connected to the "upside the head" part of your body.

Hope this is the last of the side affects to the incident. Also I hope this helps settle your thoughts that this has to do with you old age obsession. You are not old, you are aging to perfection.

Luv ya

The Sweet BL

Dear Person I've been writing about for years but who only just now has publicly responded to my blog,

A. Your memory sucks. Point of fact: I only stopped in the bar after returning from a training excursion with the meanest person in the entire city, if not the universe, so that I might say howdy-doody and see if you wanted to TP her house or put a black magic curse on her.

2. Your knowledge of what is connected to what is suspect. I may have gotten clocked upside my head with a pool ball traveling at the speed of a guy leaving your house after you tell him you love him, but I rather doubt that has anything to do with my gall bladder not gall bladdering and my ovary not ovarizing. It probably has everything to do with why I pee my pants everytime I I hear the word "break", though.

XXV. I do not have an old age obsession. I have a wrinkled, old, blue-haired lady obsession, as in I don't want to be one. Thank you for comparing me to a bottle of Boone's Farm though. I feel all warm and fuzzy. (That may be more to do with the all the way dogs than what you wrote, though.)

Dear Sher,
I have been reading your blog and love it. Your humor is great. I enjoy reading your blog and the new stories you post there. I also have OCD and understand some of the things you deal with.

Dear Other OCD Chick,
You wanna start a club? I could be the Queen and you could be the Treasurer or something. It would be a really clean club and all the electrical appliances would definitely be turned off and the doors would really be locked since we'd each have to check them and recheck them until we're sure they're OK...which is never. I'll bring the Lysol Wipes and you bring the gloves.

G'd'ye Sher,
I tripped across your blog by accident about a month ago. I think from Erik Decker's (The Laughing Stalk).

"Sher's House of Testicle Removal" was the first treatise that I read. I've been addicted to you since. The most consistently humorist writer I've read. (I'm comparing you to the likes of: Dave Barry, Matt Farr, Erik Decker (The Laughing Stalk), Bruce Cameron, and Michael g.Valliant.

It's taking a while to 'get thru' all your 'stuff'. I'm still working my way thru the 2004 archives of Wiping the Crazy off My Face. But I'm also keeping up with the ocd-chick.blogspot and working backwards. I'll meet myself in the middle of your writing somewhere if I don't get lost.

I have not yet seen any reference that you have written a book. How can this be? Perhaps I got lost in your pages and missed the link? Your humor hits so close to daily issues that we all have. I would think that your book would be a NY Times best seller!

I am 'passing on' links to your blogs to all my friends and family, of course. It's the least I can do to increase your popularity. And it persuades friends that I am savvy to the ways of the internet.

Signed,
Jealous of your husband

Dear Guy who was nice to me so now I love him,
I am very fond of men who suck up to me by telling me I'm funny and that they are jealous of Mr. Man. But when they say I should be on the NY Times Bestseller List, AND they use words like 'treatise' AND they offer to increase my popularity by persuading friends and being savvy, I am fully prepared to have my tubes sewn back together and birth them some big-headed babies. Nothing says loving like offering to gestate for a stranger.

Dear Sher,
Thanks. I needed that this morning.

Dear Guy who isn't Mr. Man and whose email sounded dirty but it's not,
Your email sounded dirty. But, it's not.

HumorWriter@gmail.com: You know you want to.

Amos Lee on the Today Show. He's all good and nothing nice. (Make sure you download Southern Girl on iTunes. Crazy 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.



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