My Fellow Americans.

There are some gross people in this country. And by some, I mean millions. The ACLU requires that I not use the word gross. They advocate the more politically correct “clean-challenged”. Although I always try to do what the ACLU thinks is best for me and those around me, I’m tossing my cookies to the wind and calling a nasty a nasty. They are gross.

Let the law suits begin.

No matter where you are when reading this, you either personally know or have been in some way affected by a gross person. If you are not aware of any grossness among your family, friends or co-workers, that is a clear indicator that you yourself are gross.

Normally I require gross people first boil themselves in a combination of Clorox and Peroxide before continuing to read anything I’ve written, but because I think you could learn something from my insight, I will allow you to stick around until the end. Just be sure you don’t touch my picture.

Those of you who are not gross know exactly what I’m talking about.

Walk into any public restroom in America and you often have to ask yourself whether you may have accidentally wandered into the one reserved for “Big Dirty Poop Throwing Guerillas”. The level of nasty in our nation’s public potty spaces is simply unspeakable.

Allow me to try and speak it anyway.

The very first thing you see when entering one of these places is that the trash cans are overflowing with wet, brown, paper towels. To the untrained eye that would indicate a great many people who have passed through that room have paused to wash their hands and are therefore good and decent Americans who understand that cleanliness is next to godliness.

Only terrorists use the bathroom without washing their hands after.

Upon further investigation, however, one will find that is not the case. Anyone who cannot master the intricate mechanics of flushing a toilet does not possess the fine motor skills necessary to rub their hands together in a back and forth motion.

So where do all those wet towels come from? My OCD factory second brain will not allow me to even contemplate why all that paper is wet if not a byproduct of hand washing.

I guess I could contemplate it if I really wanted to, but then I’d have to turn the light off and on like a hundred times while repeating the word “Crayola” or else the Nigerian Prime Minister would die and it would totally be my fault. I don’t have that kind of time tonight and besides, Junichiro Koizumi is probably a pretty nice guy with a lot of living left to do.

Ghastly as gross people make our bathrooms, there is even worse floating around out there.

The other day I was at Wal-Mart during one of my daily pilgrimages and I grabbed what I know as a buggy, but you people probably call a cart. I don’t like using them because they are germy, but because I am building a Diet Pepsi fort, they are a necessity.

The idea of putting my hands where so many other people have had theirs makes me cringe. (For those of you keeping score at home, that’s also reason #475 why I’m not still married to my first husband.)

So I put my hand on the bar to push it and I feel something so gross, even now as I write I am working to suppress my gag reflex.

Snot.

There on MY cart, touching the OCD Chick herself, was so much snot I looked up to be sure aliens weren’t clinging to the ceiling, dripping their snotty alien slime all over Wal-Mart.

First of all, if you are even close to capable of producing that much mucus, you are seriously ill, most definitely contagious and should be in a hospital where medical professionals wear masks and only touch you with tongs.

And second, if some bizarre and unexpected allergic reaction occurs while you are shopping for Red Vines and a shower mat rendering you absolutely incapable of stopping the gale force sneeze that shoots that brand of nasty out of an orifice, NORMAL PEOPLE WOULD CLEAN IT UP.

So here’s what I’m saying. If you are gross, you need to stop going outside your house. Ever.

More importantly, if there is the smallest chance you might be gross, like if your Dad is gross but your Mom isn’t and you aren’t sure if the gross gene was passed onto you, DO NOT procreate. No babies for you. America cannot take that chance.

If you find you are somehow lucky enough to talk a drunken person into being near your private grossness and the potential for fertilization of a gross embryo is even remotely possible, please do the right thing… the American thing… and use a condom. A giant, industrial strength condom.

Which I’m sure I should mention, you should dispose of properly. Oh, and wash your hands after.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I miss my friend today. I'm not sure why. It feels like he still comes and goes in my head sort of whenever he wants.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Me....me....me.

I was tagged by Marie to tell you eight things about Sher you've always wanted to know, but were too selfish to ask. If you are presently preparing to appear on Jeopardy to compete in the Sher Tournament, feel free to brush up on me with my 100 Things Cliff Notes.

OK then. Here are eight random facts about the OCD Chick.

1. If you could peek at the books lying around my house right now, among them you'd find "Personal Power", by Anthony Robbins; "How to Practice the Way," by the Dalai Lama;; "The Message Bible", by God and "Living Well With Hypothyroidism", by Mary J. Shomon. The last truly fantastic book I read was "Glass Castles", by Jeannette Walls.

2. Other than reading and/or listening to music, two of my favorite pastimes are playing games (board and mind) and sitting in my back yard burning stuff in my fire pit thing. I LOVE burning stuff. So much do I enjoy lighting things on fire, if arson were a little less illegal, I'd be a professional.

3. I used to be a jogger. I am now whatever the exact opposite of a jogger is. As my son is a crazy good runner, he is going to get Mom back on her game. Starting this week, we will be going to the track every morning where he will run and I will pretend to be getting ready to run just any minute.

4. I make a "living" doing several different things. I am a Realtor, which is sometimes great and sometimes makes me want to hide in the closet sucking my thumb. I also write and sell articles and press releases to and for various business people here, there and yonder. But, my mostest favorite job allows me to come up with creative ways to get people to do what I want them to do, such as spend money somewhere when they really didn't know they wanted to in the first place. Sometimes I use words to do that, sometimes I use events or media to do it and sometimes I use my incredible voodoo power.

5. Below is an example of where some of my love goes. (No...this is not Mr. Man.)
The guy on the right gets a lot of it. The white rapper with his tongue hanging out gets a smidgeon. (If I'm in a good mood and if Jack Black and I have spent a little time together.)




6. I enjoy being asked questions like this, "If you could cure cancer by killing one innocent person, would you do it?"

7. I L-O-V-E a good conspiracy theory! Nothing better. I'm all about who really killed JFK, Loose Change has me all a tingle and finding out who copied my son's Bebo page kept me awake last night.

8. I hate the smell of deer urine.
Sure, boy deer dig it something awful but female OCD Chicks aren't lovin' it....unless it is attached to the guy in the hat here. (That's right, kids. The infamous Deputy Pretty often smells like deer urine. Not sure if it's because he is a hunter or because he confuses it with his Musk Oil.)


~*~*~*~*~
Stevie Ray - Pride & Joy. He was the best.









Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Even if I put some 30-Year-Old Guy Chow in my pocket?

Last night whilst watching a movie on the tube and simultaneously surfing the net, I saw a commercial for a new show that flabbergasted even me. I can’t remember the name of it, but I will be happy to relay to you this “reality” show’s theme.

It seems you take one 30-something guy, a gaggle of 20-something girls, a group of
40-something women and you release them into a pit and see which one the guy will run to.

On the off chance this show is at the top of your Must See TV list, allow me to save you some time.

He’s gonna pick a 20 something.

Period.

Always.

And she’s gonna weigh 97 pounds and have blonde hair.

I swear.

Trust me.

No suspense, no “golly, I wonder who Tad will choose”, no nothing. It’s the 20-something this week, it’ll be the 20-something next week and it’ll be the 20-something all weeks after.

Forever and ever until the end of time. Seriously.

Now should they decide to do a show on who a 70-something man might choose given the opportunity to enter into a relationship with a 20 year old girl or a 40 year old woman, it might be a little different.

NO IT WON’T! Are you seriously that gullible? Tell me you weren’t betting on the 40-something chick to come out on top of that battle just because he’s an old guy.

Have you learned nothing from my biting sarcasm? Here’s a rule that might help you score a little better on our next test. The male… no matter if he is 20 or 200, will always, always, always choose the 20-something.

Don’t blame the men, kids. They can’t help it. It’s nature. Men can father children right up to the minute someone in an apron starts embalming them. Women on the other hand have a limited shelf life on our baby making ability. When we’re done, we’re done…unless of course you are a creepy old lady with enough money to get yourself some lab babies implanted in your belly…after they clean out all the cob webs with a uterus dust buster.

God knew what he was doing when he decided to shut down our egg factory in our forties. He knew if he didn’t, we’d never have time to eat for popping out kids. Drawing upon my training and experience with the male of the species, I can tell you that they have the self control of a….

Ummmm…

What has no self control whatsoever when it comes to sex?

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…

OK, I give up. I can’t think of a single thing that has the equivalent low level of sex-self-control a human man has, so you fill in the blank.

All I’m saying is that if I hadn’t had my tubes tied in the 90’s and had left the issue of birth control up to a man’s ability to have a headache once in awhile, I would have had pretty close to twelve more kids by now. Maybe thirteen if I didn’t sleep.

I’m off subject now. Somehow I meandered my way from a crappy reality TV show that pits tight bodied 20-something girls who have genuine concern for Brittney and Lindsey against 40-something women who have grown daughters named Brittney and Lindsey, all the way around to the plight of uterine spider webs.

A 20-something would never do that.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If you're easily offended, best to move on. If not, enjoy a little La Vie Boheme!


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Here you go.

It's Memorial Day weekend and I am doing things that are really not things at all. To put it in plain English, I am lazy. Crazy lazy.

The Big Dog is with his Dad at the lake doing Memorial things that involve boats and jet skis and Mr. Man is being crippled. What else is a girl to do but as much of nothing as she can legally get away with? I have actually resorted to filling my computer with even more music from old CD's I forgot I even owned. I seriously have a music problem for which I should probably see someone professionally.

As I'm busy doing nothing on my computer, feel free to read Plastic Flowers & Bundt Cakes, my Memorial Day post from way back in 2005.

Or not.

What am I listening to?





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I'm so happy I just threw up a rainbow.

I've been in a demented cry baby/serial killer mood lately. One minute I feel as if I could blow snot bubbles and the next I'm whispering thinly veiled threats in my dog's ear if he doesn't agree to stop chewing with his mouth open.

I've decided that if I am to ever crawl off this pitty pot I have settled upon, I must force myself to think/say/write only happy things so that I might put out good vibes into the universe and get only happy things back.

You know. Stuff like butterflies and fairies and fresh babies and all that crap.

(Fresh babies are highly superior to stale ones. Nothing worse than a stale baby.)

Toward that end, here are the top five things that have actually made me happy today, so listen up universe and prepare to start sending me the good stuff you keep in the back.

1. The Big Dog had a great birthday and that makes me feel warm and fuzzy. He went to his Dad's a little bit ago for even more birthday hullabaloo which means I get to lie in bed at 7PM and write. I like lying in bed at 7PM.

2. Saying hullabaloo feels pretty fantabulous. It sounds like something Sammy Davis Jr. was trying to prevent when he and Peter Lawford were burying a prostitute The Chairman accidentally offed after a night of good natured drunken rabble-rousing.

3. Pictures of monkeys doing things that no one has ever seen them do in the wild fills me with joy. Let's face it. Monkeys who dwell in the jungle almost never wear pants and juggle.


(Photo courtesy of my stalker, Toad Suck Guy.)

4. Things that are shiny make me crazy happy. I can sit and stare at Mr. Man's head for hours.

5. Knowing a birthday cake is chillin' in my refrigerator truly causes delight to bust out all over my face. I hate cake, but God only invented the actual cakey part so chicks like me wouldn't have to feel bad about themselves for having to eat frosting right out of the can. Under the kitchen table. While softly sobbing.

Here's something else that puts fairy wings in my tummy. Drunk Stewie is the best.





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I don't like him when he's mad.

Thirteen years ago, my woman water broke. Thirteen years ago at 9:05 May 24, I threatened to kill one doctor, one husband and pretty much anything with a penis.

And then I popped out a tiny, green baby boy and I decided maybe I could forgive the penis carriers of the world... or at least this one.

My husband looked markedly suspicious when our son was born, as anyone might have been, because it certainly appeared I had been diddling the Incredible Hulk.

Hey, I know me and I wouldn't put it past me. All them lime colored muscles and what not.

My tiny Lou love child is no longer tiny though. At 5'9 1/2", 135 pounds and wearing a size 12 shoe, you would be right to assume the illegal Mexican steroids I was taking during breast feeding were effective.

Nothing is more important than being ripped. Except making sure your newborn is ripped, too.

Far too many babies in this country have flabby abs and it sickens me.

The Big Dog is not only freakishly large; he is quite the athlete and crazy smart. He loves running long distances extremely fast. Momma runs only if something scary is chasing me and even then, only if I can’t distract the chaser by flashing it.

Or marrying it.

Unlike me, Algebra is my son’s bitch. This means I haven’t helped him with his math homework since 4th grade. Things squared make my butt look big and pi is for throwing or eating or putting Ex-Lax in when you have grown tired of telling your husband to get more exercise.

And by the way, X(bqsm)+R(q)VII does not equal a number, I don’t care what anyone says.

Book smart though he may be, I can still lie to my kid any time I want and he falls for it, so long as I remember to back it up with manufactured facts, statistics and references as well as a Mother Superior look. The ability to tell a believable lie to your children is the hallmark of a good parent.

Like why forks have a particular number of tines and where the word tine came from.

Of course you know Albert Einstein invented the fork in 1973 after his longtime girlfriend Bonnie N. Clyde dumped him in disgust upon watching him eat a bowl of Chef Boyardee Ravioli with his fingers. Little known fact, kids: Tine was actually his hairless cat’s name. Albert was allergic to shedildeemite, a substance found in the coat of North American kitties.

I love playing Trivial Pursuit with my boy because I alone taught him the answers to so many questions. For all he knows, I tore down the Berlin Wall with my bare hands.

When the birthday prince awakes in the morning, he will be treated to chocolate chip pancakes in bed, a few little presents and then the gift that I’m hoping will make him say the five little words that I always love to hear.

“Your present beats my Dad’s.”

I'm gonna walk away slowly now down a lonesone road, so stop reading.

Seriously. Stop it.

~^~^~^~^~^~
A song for my son he will never listen to because he doesn't yet have a taste for perfect music.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Jever?

Jever wonder what would happen the next time a stranger asks, "How ya doing?" and you actually told them the truth?

There is an old guy with crazy eyes, a dirty white t-shirt and constant stubble who lives in our town (under a bridge I presume) and who I always see at Walmart strolling along pushing an empty cart.

Maybe he lives in Walmart.

As often as I'm there, it's conceivable some people think I live there.

Stupid people.

This guy is unkempt, to say the least (which I try never to do) and his hair always looks like he just got off a roller coaster. Despite his appearance, he is forever inexplicably happy. Like he just won the Publisher's Clearinghouse or spent the entire day at an amusement park.

Maybe he did just get off a roller coaster.

Every single day.

Even though we have no roller coasters in this little town.

Why am I living in a town without roller coasters? How will I ever be truly happy if I can't ride a roller coaster before I go to Walmart eight times a day?

My life sucks.

So each and every time I see this guy... and I mean every blessed time even after all these years, he always smiles like a monkey and asks me, "How ya doing?"

Today I deeply wanted to tell him.

"Here's the scoop, crazy eye guy who is way too happy for no apparent reason. My husband...first name Mister, last name Man, is a 6'2" cripple who, although I love him awful, I may have to kill brutally in the near future. I am working my happy assets off doing many things for many people trying to make all the ends meet and still they are not meeting as they should. My house is a disaster and for the OCD Chick, that is like having a brain tumor.

I hate my hair, my face, my boobs, my nose and my thumbs and I don't know why. I also hate other people's hair, faces, boobs, noses and thumbs... but I totally know why.

My son turns 13 tomorrow, my daughter 23 in August and I still haven't grown up or been able to explain the meaning of life to them other than to say Mommy and Daddy were fighting and you were born on the anniversary of that fight.

I can't sleep, I can't eat without the sensation of having eaten Ivory Soap laced with tacks and to top it all off, I cut the dog's hair to save money and now the other dog won't play with him."

Does it make me a bad girl because I want to make a nice, albeit insane, old man run crying from a store with Always Low Prices just to make myself feel better for a minute?

I think it does. But that's why you love me, isn't it?

~*~*~*~*~
Things would have worked out perfectly had I been Mrs. Journey. Here's the best Journey song ever, ever, ever. You're welcome.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Last seen looking fabulous.

Dear Readers,

Please print this as it may be used as evidence in the investigation of my disappearance.

Today my ex-wife-in-law and I are going to the Big City to peruse insanely expensive tanning beds for the crazy exciting new business venture we're working on.

Sounds pretty normal and not at all scary, right?

Yeah. You're wrong.

So she found this guy online who says he can hook us up with said insanely expensive beds for a little less than insane. "Where's your warehouse?" she asked.

"Ummm, I can tell you where it is, but I don't know the actual address," said the man whose last name is Jones or Smith or some other cheap hotel last name.

So we're off momentarily to meet up with this shady character who I'm guessing will have forgotten his keys and need a bolt cutter to gain entry into his business. She and I will either be raped and pillaged or wind up on COPS after helping him break and enter.

Light a candle for me (preferably one that smells like a cookie) and send us good non-raping vibes. If you haven't heard from me by 0600 hours tomorrow morning, please get together and hold a vigil. But don't use the picture on this blog when you're talking to Matt Lauer! And don't use my driver's license picture either!

Just go ahead and use this one.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I feel all dirty inside. But my back doesn't hurt.

I appreciate awkward situations more than most people. I tried to change early on in my life when various and assorted men didn’t appreciate my profound love of being wildly inappropriate, but resistance was futile. I yam what I yam and it takes a bigger man than me to make me feel uncomfortable.

Last week I met that man.

It all started when I jacked up my back upon lifting some rice cakes from the trunk of my car. Typically I would whine to Mr. Man until he rubbed the hurt away, but as he is currently a cripple, I found myself whining to a complete stranger.

A chiropractor.

As I generally have a pretty dim view of traditional Western medicine, you might assume that means I’m a big fan of the back-crackers. You would be crazy wrong. It is my considered opinion that chiropractors should be forced to wear wizard hats and mood rings and should never, in any situation, be referred to as doctor.

Unless you are a chiropractor, in which case I love them and want to be one when I grow up.

This particular practitioner of bone popping came highly recommended from someone who must secretly hate me. “He’s really good,” she said. It’s my own fault for not asking what exactly he was good at. For all I know she was referring to his mad tightrope walking skills.

So I walk in and immediately I’m freaking out because the OCD Chick in me noticed all his magazines were in a giant, messy blob on the table and it was first thing in the morning. That could only mean that he left the night before knowing full well his magazines were a disaster. What kind of person does that?

Evidently a chiropractor.

It was all down hill from there.

While filling out the papers his receptionist expertly explained to me by saying, “This un here is so he can treat you and this un here is so he can git paid by your insurance and this un here is about that new hippa,” I heard the unmistakable sounds of Peter Frampton coming from behind closed doors.

You’re thinking, Hey Sher…. Peter Frampton is all good. What’s the big woo?

I’ll tell you what the big woo is, Jack Leg. It wasn’t so much a Frampton Comes Alive CD as it was My Chiropractor Trying to Come Alive with his very own guitar. Yeah. I’m not even making that up. He was having a little jam session and playing so loud that had he been even a little good at it, I would have been inspired to flick my Bic and maybe even throw my panties on the counter.

When finally he put down his axe and came to usher me into his tiny pretend doctor room, I was anxious yet optimistic that despite the signs of unprofessional madness all around me, he would be capable of fixing what ailed me.

The fact that he grabbed me, whirled me around, tucked my shirt up under my bra and bent me over, all before we even said howdy, should have been an indication that perhaps I made a bad health care decision. I just figured it must be the international chiropractic hello much like improper groping is the way cops and dentists have always said hello to me.

“Climb up here and lie face down,” he said, obviously pleased he had chosen a profession that gave him the opportunity to say that to women on a daily basis. Like a good girl I complied, only to be thanked by having him pull my pants so far down it was clear he felt my back pain was coming from a freak vagina injury.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” I don’t want to kiss and tell, but that is a question I’ve been asked by every man with whom I’ve ever been intimate. All one of them. (Mr. Man likes it when we play the Pretend Sher Was a Virgin When We Met game.)

Always the delicate Southern petunia, I answered, “Sweet Jesus! Hell yes it hurts when you do that!”

So he did it some more.

“We’re going to put an ice pack on your back, but you can’t have anything between it and your skin,” he said as I tried to look fully at ease with my shirt around my ears and my pants around my knees.

“Won’t that give me frost bite?”

His answer, and I swear this is actually what he said was, “Maybe it will and maybe it won’t.”

Lying there listening to the sounds of his weird rapist breathing and inhaling the combination of Aspercreme and Patchouli, I wondered if I was actually being treated for back pain or being violated by a thirty-something who was losing his hair and could only get women by pretending he knew what he was doing.

Once my back was approximately the temperature of Walt Disney’s head, he moved in for the kill. He twisted me around in a position I’ve only been in one other time in my life and that involved Tequila, a much younger man and a series of pulleys.
He snuggled up so close to me I was certain that any minute the lights would dim, a disco ball would drop from the ceiling and Marvin Gaye would start singing, “If you feel like I feel, baby...then come on. Let’s get it on…”

He tucked my knees in his crotch, held onto my butt and pulled me so close and so hard that were my tubes not tied, I think it’s reasonable to assume I could have been impregnated with chiropractor sperm.

Suffice it to say that I did not return for my follow up appointment when he told me, “I’d really like to see you again this afternoon, but I’m going to be out of town. How about tomorrow?”

I think Blue Cross may have paid for the worst date of my life.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Sign Your Name Across My Heart. Remember this one? Oooo-eeeee. Gotta love those 80's boys who were so manly in such a girlie kind of way.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I want love. Just a different kind.

I am somewhat cynical when it comes to the whole happily ever after thing. I admit that. It’s not that I don’t believe in fairy tale endings because I totally do. Only difference is that in my fairy tales the evil witch kills off the princess and succeeds in getting the handsome armor-clad prince to drink her supernatural witch juice rendering him unable to think for himself or ever, ever leave her.

I love it when the bad girl wins and the good girl dies a painful death due to cyanide laced apple pie or some other equally tasty but absolutely deadly baked-good.

That’s why chick flicks make me want to pull my own hair out strand by strand. Unfortunately I occasionally find myself smack dab in the middle of one of them. I wind up watching the entire thing because much like many of my relationships, I figure if I stick with it, maybe it’ll eventually get good.

Or someone will die.

The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is a chick flick kind of girl. Some months ago she insisted I watch “The Notebook”. If you aren’t familiar, I demand you NetFlix it without delay if for no other reason than to prove right what I am about to say.

Here’s how this piece of estrogen-dipped film works on those of us with ovaries:

If you are in a happy relationship (in other words, if you are in a brand new relationship where your man has never forgotten to flush the toilet after a dinner out at Bubba’s Mexican Buffet or has begun to think the words “I brushed my teeth” are foreplay), this movie makes you love him even more. You imagine that your love is the greatest love ever and the person who wrote “The Notebook” must have somehow written it especially about you and your Prince Charming.

If you have been in a relationship for more than six minutes however, “The Notebook” gets you to thinking about the one that got away. What if your current partner wasn’t really The One for you? What if that guy you met in a bar in 1992 was actually your one great love and stupid you dumped him because you didn’t like the way he said “wash”.

That’s the thing about chick flicks. They aren’t a harmless waste of time. They are cinematic evil as they invariably cast a spell on their audience and quickly turn fairly sane women into blubbering idiots who take one look at the guys sitting next to them and immediately begin to compare and contrast.

Believe me they will. And when that evaluation gets underway, no man, no where, no how will measure up.

To my mind, chick flicks are to the institution of marriage what Sammy Hagar was to Van Halen. An entirely avoidable devastation.

However, in the interest of being entirely truthful, I must tell you there are two chick flicks which break all the rules and should be required viewing for all humans in the entire universe.

“Gone with the Wind”… because Scarlett proves once and for all bitchy Southern women are far superior to nice women named Melanie.

And “City of Angels”… because the ending is completely true to life. The minute you are truly happy, you are run over by a semi.
~*~*~*~*~
I've said it before and I'll say it again. This is one of the very best Elton John songs ever...and I pretty much love everything he's ever written.
(By the way, if you don't have the Foxy Tunes add on for Firefox, you need to get your head in the game! Don't have Firefox??? I can't even look at you right now.)



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Do you really think you can effectively stalk two women?

Dear Sher,

Good news, I have a girlfriend. Now a new problem has come up.

It all started when my friend (Fudd), a professional river guide, asked me to run his commissary boat for a three-day river float trip for four city dudes. The commissary boat carries the tents, sleeping bags, cooking equipment and personals so the dudes won't loose all their possessions while they are upside down in the river. The boat operator sets up camp and cooks too. Well, had I known these were city dudettes. I would have refused. Anyway, turns out one of these girls likes me! Who knows why, I was sorta grouchy with them. I think it might be my fish-cleaning skill she admires. She has been back to visit several times since the trip. She is coming for a week starting in June. I think she may be serious because on her most recent visit I took her to UFS and she bought a sleeveless flannel shirt. Great, right? Well..........

If she were a different religion, or another race, no problem, or a different generation, people now accept that.

The problem is; I am clearly dating outside my looks. This girl is several degrees up the hotness scale, and definitely out of my cute-gory. I myself have no problem with interfacial relationships, however, lately the remarks run to things like "is that your girlfriend?" "Man she's hot" No one has said anything directly, but they might as well just come out and say; what is a chick like that doing with a redneck like you. Come to think of it my Father did say that. All I could come up with in the way of a response was "look at Larry King's gorgeous wife". That old coot can't even stand up straight. Pretty lame response, but it was the best I could muster.

Obviously marriage is out of the question, I can't imagine what hotness-equality laws would be transgressed should that occur. Rehab is a possibility I suppose.

I am in desperate need of your advice. It is starting to affect my work. Just Monday, I accidentally ( I think) dropped a 2 foot diameter oak tree six feet behind the skidder that Eight-Ball was sitting on, shortly after he said something like "how did YOU ever score such a hottie". I know if I smash the skidder they'll fire me for sure, and the boss is a relative.

I thought this would be a great relationship, but the discrimination down to the Toad Suck Pool Hall is causing me stress and pain. Who knows what her girlfriends think, or say.

Help,
TSG


Dear TSG aka My Official Stalker,
You were wise to contact me for relationship advice. As I marry frequently for fun and profit I consider myself a total expert when it comes to men and women. I offer my divorce scrapbook as evidence.

First of all, how very Toad Suck Guy of you to meet a chick somewhere near a river. The obvious question is, are you sure she is not a he? I have a hard time believing four actual women with actual breasts would float down a river willingly. Was some shifty guy that looked like Kevin Bacon standing behind her looking all menacing?

Just because she had a chick voice and had fancy nails doesn't mean she wasn't really a confused police officer who likes big man hands and women with very short hair and very deep voices. (Sorry. I was drawing on one of my many personal experiences there with little regard for my reader. That's so me.)

Assuming you are right and she is in fact a girl, I'm a little worried about the kind of she that she is. Sure, men say they want a woman who can do all the things they like to do, like going out into nature for no good reason, but they really don't.

Think about it, TSG. If she is a fishing, camping, floating woman, how in the world are you ever going to get away from her by telling her you're going on a fishing trip with Cooter for the weekend?

Regarding her level of hotness in relation to where you think you rank, this is not a problem for two reasons.

Number 1: 99% of women prefer humor and intelligence over hotness when it comes to their mens. If you are homely, I recommend shoving things up your nose during dinner and saying words like "smattering" and "perpetuity" as often as you can. We only notice your pot belly and how bald you're getting when you're mean to us. Always be nice to us and you'll look good forever. We're crazy like that.

Number 2: Don't be stupid, stupid. We are only hot when we are in heat. The very minute we are positive we own your soul, the make up comes off and we walk around in your boxers with Vaseline all over our face. We're never as hot as you think we are... we're just good with Spackle and hair spray and we fully appreciate the value of standing next to truly unattractive women as often as we can. It's all about compare and contrast, Baby.

You can do this, TSG. I have faith in your ability to lie your way into a healthy relationship with this woman. Just remember these three phrases and you'll be all good.

"Of course I remember what you were wearing the first time I saw you."

"What woman? I was staring at that guy's shoes."

And the most important phrase in every relationship arsenal, "It wasn't me, Honey. You have video? Still wasn't me. Witnesses prepared to testify under oath? All I'm saying is it wasn't me."

Good luck, Bubba.
PS: Think I'm kidding about chicks being closet ugly? This is me without Maybelline.

Karma Chameleon?

As I write, I am convinced God is smiting me for some terrible wicked and somewhat shifty thing I did when I was twenty-five.

Or thirty-five.

Or five minutes ago.

Were I to try to express to you how rotten my day has been, you would surely accuse me of embellishing...which of course I almost never do.

Suffice it to say that my computer is acting all crazy so that I can't accomplish the work someone is paying me to do; my house looks like one of those Mid-Western hurricanes ravaged it; my cripple husband is in bed awaiting our drive to the City for his second back surgery tomorrow AND I jacked up my own freaking back only hours ago as I struggled to lift my rice cakes and diet Pepsi out of the trunk of my car.

I would actually cry loudly if I wasn't convinced I would surely choke to death on my own tears.

If the whole Law of Attraction thing has any validity whatsoever, I have to wonder how drunk I was at the moment I began attracting such drama and calamity into my life. Apparently Mr. Man was swigging out of the same bottle because he's dragging as much of this crapola in this house as am I.

If it wasn't bad enough, by the way, I just used the made-up word crapola right here in front of everybody and no one will ever respect me again.

I'd love to sit right here, my back pressed against the heating pad my son brought me, and write a fabulous end to this blithering gobble-dee-goop that is my post for the day. Unfortunately my gentle sobs are starting to frighten the dog and so I must get up and do what generations of Crazy on Her Face women have done before me when faced with unbelievable trouble and pain.

I gots to eat me a handful of pills.



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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I'm the Momma.

I’m a blogger who is a Mom, but I am not a Mommy blogger. Although my kids are shining examples of what every young person in the universe should aspire to be, I try not to beat my readers over the head with it. Not everyone can push perfection out their who-ha twice in a lifetime and I don’t want you to envy my baby maker so much that you begin to hate me.

I want you to hate me because I’m beautiful.

Having said that, I am now going to ignore everything I just said and talk excessively about my kids. It's Mother's Day. I'm a Mother. You do the math.

In a nutshell, my twenty-two year old daughter Kitten (spelled E-l-i-z-a-b-e-t-h) is the single most gorgeous female ever to walk the Earth (and smart and funny and an amazing singer). She is oodles of perfection packed into a tiny, little package and if your daughter is not her, I'm sorry for you.

She's been amazing since birth and each day she becomes even more so.

When Kitten was about three, she went through a Mary phase. Not a "call me Mary" kind of thing, but rather a wear a long, white curtain on her head and demand she be addressed as the Mother of Jesus kind of thing.

The ugly little baby whom she had previously named Tellulah Belle had both her name and her sex changed so that Mary would have something small to put in the shoebox/manger that sat in a place of honor in our living room surrounded by worshipping, stuffed animals.

By six, my precious daughter had graduated from playing pretend to becoming a full-fledged mobster. She would secretly sneak into my room to heist my belongings, take them to her room (aka "store") and force me to buy them back from her if I ever wanted to see them again.

She never took something I didn't care about either. Typically it would be one of my favorite shoes or my wedding ring or my make-up. Had I needed medication to survive back then, I'm pretty sure she'd be a wealthy woman today.

The Big Dog (not his legal name) is nearly thirteen and roughly nine feet tall. He towers over me, in fact. He is crazy smart and gets fabulous grades and loves Algebra. If I hadn't been wide awake when he was born because of all the screaming I was doing, I'd swear he wasn't mine.

He's your basic perfect son. Although he periodically attempts to be a smart mouth and speak to his Mother as if she's the dumbest woman to have ever lived, even that is rare. Most of the time he's quite simply a good boy and I can't believe how lucky I am.

Coming up on the end of his seventh grade career, he's truly coming into himself. This year, the Dog became a full-fledged track star. He's a long distance runner and when I watch him out there smoking past the competition at every meet, I am a long distance runner, too.

I have never once been able to sit down and watch him run because I have to help him. I pace, I run my hands through my hair, I scream and when he crosses that finish line, I do a little woo-hoo dance.

After every meet he always tells me he can hear me above everyone else in the crowd and that it keeps him going. I never tell him that watching him run will probably be the thing that finally kills me.

Knowing your speed may bring on your Mom's death could potentially cause you to slow down.

Or speed up, depending on how you're feeling about her.

With the big 13 only days away now, my son has begun to behave like a cheating husband. His little red phone is never more than 2.5 inches from his hand and the second it makes even a slight chirp or buzz, he's silencing it and looking at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I noticed.

Oh, I noticed.

The whole "girl" thing is awful for the mother of a son. No one is ever going to be good enough for my boy and unless I get myself some professional help before he winds up married someday, my daughter-in-law can pretty much count on my being an absolute terror.

As you might have guessed, I love my kids so, so much it makes my heart feel all fluttery and my eyes are watery.

On this Mother's Day, I need to give them a big old thank you. They make my job easy.



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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I think I'm pregnant.

I appreciate the emails begging me to fill the public in on my bowling for birthday celebration. Your concern that I would spend a night in a bowling alley with people named Floyd and Tiny Nipples McGraw moves me.

Of course I'll tell you 'cause telling is what I do.

Here are things that did not happen at my bowling birthday party:

1) Bowling.

That's right, y'all! The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou did not make me bowl!

She did however make me think I was going to bowl.

Inside her secret lair there was a long table decorated with a pink table cloth, because she swears pink is my favorite color even though it is so not... it is HER favorite color. On top of the pink table were bowling trophies.

Chick bowling trophies.

Little known fact: professional women bowlers who are skilled enough to receive trophies always wear cheer leading skirts because all the tiny, silver trophy girls were wearing them. I saw Deputy Pretty trying to find out whether they were wearing panties, but he never said one way or the other.

For more than an hour the people who were there to help me celebrate (and get free food) repeatedly told me we would be leaving for the bowling alley momentarily. In protest, I repeatedly pointed to my red, stiletto BCBG babies. They were unmoved.

Especially since The Evil BL presented me with a birthday gift of handcrafted, one of a kind bowling shoes.

They were covered in glued-on macaroni and spray painted pink.

These rotten people collectively convinced me I had to get in the car immediately or Jimbo the Bowling Alley reservations taker would be angered. I did as they forced me to do...eventually... but not before making a series of offers to perform exotic sexual favors if they would agree to call the whole thing off.

That no one took me up on it should truly make me feel like a troll, now that I think about it.

After Mr. Man got me safely in the car, every last one of those one-eyed jack legs bolted to the front porch of BL's lair, pointed and laughed. They were quite proud of themselves.

Little do they know I will spend my week conjuring up a voo-doo curse which will leave each of them unable to pee from the body part designated to manage that function. (Hint: You shouldn't stand near them when they have a cold.)

It wasn't all hateful and conniving though. The Red-Headed Evil Genius prepared a lovely meal of spaghetti, salad and some crazy dessert involving pretzels and cherries which was surprisingly good even though I hate cherries and only eat pretzels if someone dares me.

While that all might sound pretty sweet, you have to remember who was the preparer of the feast. In good old Evil BL style, guests were not allowed to have plates and utensils. We were each given a bag with items in it that were not created by God for eating spaghetti and warned if we didn't use them, she would hook battery cables from her SUV to our breasts.

Sure, it sounds like fun but it takes too long to stop your teeth from chattering and the next day you can't do a thing with your hair.

Mr. Man had to eat from a martini glass with a corn on the cob holder as a fork. Another manly man had to put his spaghetti in a sippie cup while another had to eat from a giant, plastic tub I can only assume typically holds the kidneys the Evil One steals from the homeless and sells on www.StolenBodyParts.com.

There were friends around to help me celebrate not bowling; some I knew and some I'd never seen before but liked immediately because I was drinking and I am a very friendly drinker.

As I said, Deputy Pretty was in the house...looking up the tiny, plastic skirts of trophy bowlers and Mr. Man was there because Jack Black couldn't drive me home. (Well not from a party full of cops, anyway.)

Also in attendance were Lt. DB, the most poetic man in law enforcement. He's a dear old friend who apparently turned into a flaming homosexual since we last spoke as he makes his young officers refer to him as "The Commander". (Wasn't that one of the Village People?)

There was a pregnant person there as well, which is why I think I may be knocked up. She looked contagious.

A man in uniform dropped by... just long enough to loudly tell my husband I looked better as a blond. Thankfully that was prior to Jack and I sharing special moments or I might have extended his asp right up his ass.

And not in that good way, either.

But the person that wins the coveted Favorite Guest at My Party Award was the beer and waffles guy. Every answer to every question all night was "beer and waffles" and kids, he even used the word "ostentatious" and knew which female Jewish singer with a big nose we were talking about when playing "Taboo". I now officially love him and plan on ordering a t-shirt with his face on it.

Come to think of it, maybe people should be calling him "The Commander".

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
If you don't watch Family Guy and American Dad religiously, I must break up with you. The only way you can salvage our love is to start right away. To get you started, go here. I mean it. I'm not even kidding.


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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What fresh birthday hell is this?

The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is sticking to her bowling guns. While I believe I have been more than clear with regard to how I feel about bowling, she insists that it’s going to be big birthday fun for me and in her own sweet Evil BL way, has basically told me to shut the hell up and deal with it.

I have tried everything I know to get out of actually walking in the door of a bowling alley, but they don’t call her The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou for nothing. She can be quite frightening, terribly intimidating and as she stands somewhere around 9 feet tall and has big sharp horns protruding from her gigantic head, she can physically back it up.

In her job as Evil Queen Communications Officer at the Popo Department, I’ve seen her break a full grown police officer’s spirit using nothing but a stern look and a head tilt. Seriously. They whimper away from her scoldings like small, wet puppies; their penises tucked firmly between their legs. The only reason one of them hasn’t actually pistol whipped her is because they know she can’t be killed.

So if this chick is so supremely wicked, why in the world is she my best friend in the big, wide world?

Funny you should ask.

When I first met the Evil One way back in 1999, I wasn’t looking for a best friend. I was between husbands and looking for the next one... or something fun to play with until he showed up.

Besides, my track record with female best friends had been sort of unimpressive at best. Even though I myself am a card carrying boobie owner, I’ve always found it hard to get close to other club members. I much prefer the ease of boy best friends.

But there was something different about my red-headed supervisor. Our first night of training involved her taking out a large, metal whipping stick and threatening to crack my knuckles with it for no good reason. As I was already freaking out that I might possibly be the worlds worst 9-1-1 dispatcher as well as constantly fearful as to when that cop who always wanted me to “ride with him” was going to kidnap me and hold me captive in his basement/sex slave rumpus room, I felt like I might have made a poor career move.

I contemplated whether to even go back to work. Using her malevolent powers however, the Evil BL must have read my mind. Without realizing the dire consequences of doing so, I ate one of her homemade voodoo cookies and that was pretty much it. She’s been walking around in my head ever since.

If it weren’t enough that she managed to gain control of my immortal soul with chocolate chips, there is also the matter of her knowing every single solitary thing about me. Just like Satan.

And Santa.

She’s got the 4-1-1 on the who, what, when and where and even though she swears she’ll never tell, I know for a fact the National Enquirer is speed dial number 8 on her cell. Don’t start thinking there is some long list of wrongdoings and questionable judgement on my part though. It’s not like that.

Yes it is. It’s exactly like that.

In my defense, when someone has Machiavellian control over your person, they certainly have a degree of responsibility as to your screw ups, do they not? Perhaps a well timed, “Hey Sher, you’re about one Tequila short of full blown stupidity,” or maybe even a little whisper reminding me that unlike Brittney Spears, everyone in the room is not interested in whether or not I am wearing underwear.

Or are they?

So the long and short of it is come Saturday night, I will be sitting in a bowling alley with bowling people talking about whatever it is the bowling folk talk about. I’m guessing it’ll involve a fascinating discussion about what was on the cover of True Story magazine or where one can find big discounts on Virginia Slims.

Don’t you worry about Sher, kids. I have a plan.

Even though I will be in the bowling alley, rest assured that I will be dressed completely inappropriately for actual bowling. The shoes will be nose-bleed high, the shirt will be too low for bending in any fashion, and if that doesn’t fend off the Evil BL’s push for me to partake in this fresh birthday hell, I will also be wearing a garment that should I make any sudden bowling moves, will answer the underwear question once and for all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This is the song that made me fall in love. The only reason I am not Sher Adkins right now is simply because we have not been face to face or else I would have used my wiley ways to trap him.


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 care. I'm a caring giver. And a nurturer. I'm a caring giver nurturer.

Occasionally I write as a public service. It makes me feel all PBS inside. I really like knowing the world is a better place because I told it what to do.

Today’s helpful hints from Sher the bitchy humor writer are directed at men. Before you go all crazy on me and call me a man hater or some other mean thing, please remember who you’re talking to here.

I love men. I marry them all the time. I can’t imagine a world without men. It would be a place I’d never want to live… mainly because it would be a land over run with spiders and flat tires.

Also remember that I am not one to make fun of people. Except for clowns. They smell funny.

So men, today we’re going to talk about what not to wear. As I realize you couldn’t care less about what not to wear, I will speak to you in your native tongue so as to better persuade you to listen.

We’re going to talk about what not to wear if you want sex more than once or twice in your lifetime and with someone who does not routinely wear a hair net and shave her chin.

1. If you own a pair of those man sandals that have Velcro straps across them, I want you to push away from your computer, fetch them, and throw them in the trash right now. Not the inside trash either where you might be tempted to later dig them back out when you’ve had time to think it over. Throw them in the dumpster outside. In fact, get in your car and rush without delay to deposit them in the nearest landfill. We’ll wait for you.

Since you’re making a trash trip anyway, you might as well go ahead and toss any and all shoes that utilize Velcro. If you struggle with the art form that is shoe tying, Google an online class or get yourself one of those monkeys trained to button shirts and tie shoes for the fingerless.

2. Unless you are in college or younger, striped polo shirts are questionable at best. I know you want to tell me how your polo shirt is different because you bought it at an American Eagle outlet store after seeing some guy at a kegger wearing one, but you are really going to need a better argument to change my mind. I’ll even go ahead and give you to the age of 25 to wear them, but once you’re old enough to develop any sort of beer gut, the jig is up.

3. I realize having your pants fall down to your ankles in public can be one of life’s most horrific events, but take a walk on the wild side and risk it once in awhile. That lovely black belt you have that holds up your jeans would be better used to tie up a loved one on a special occasion. No one wants to see it cinched around your waist when you’re wearing your faded Master Bait & Liquor t-shirt (tucked in, of course) and your Champion tennis shoes. Stop it.

4. Shorts. Where oh where do I begin? I love man legs as much as the next girl, but that does not mean I want to see you in a pair of Daisy Dukes. If your shorts are actually short enough to show your man-gina, it’s time to seriously question your sexuality and consider batting for the other team. (To be fair however, I’m guessing they won’t let you wear those things either.)

5. White tube socks are the best ever when wearing combat boots or doing some manly thing that requires dressing in camo, like hunting for bear or sitting in a deer stand getting drunk. Conversely, wearing them with your tennis shoes and jeans is beyond manly. It’s old-manly. I wanna see some leg hair, Baby.

6. And finally, please do the world a favor and ease up on the cheap cologne. I’ll be the first to admit that an ugly guy can cause me to stop dead in my tracks if he smells pretty ‘cause I’m a sucker for the good smelling males. But… and much like mine, this is a big but….I much prefer not to smell him before I see him. If you’re still wearing something with the word “Jovan” on the bottle, it’s time to go shopping. Remember: if you want the womens, you gots to smell all kinds of good. It’s the law.

7. Yes, I did say “and finally” on the number before this one, but the OCD Chick doesn’t like that number and can never end with it or else bad things will happen to good obsessive-compulsive people. Trust me. When I’m not dead tomorrow, you’ll thank me.

*********

I love this song so much, it's not even healthy.
Wrapped by George Strait



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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