Consider this a public service because the OCD Chick cares.

I overheard something the other day that let me know there are still a lot of women floating around out there who do not understand the “Sex Rules”. Granted the large majority of them are under thirty, but it remains a problem among some older women as well.

To simplify this for you, following is a contract containing the Sex Rules that I suggest you print and carry in your purse next to your single girl condoms. When presented with an opportunity to do the do, protect yourself and your partner by getting both his signature and yours before you even consider getting into his 1983 van.

As a savvy and intelligent woman, I understand and acknowledge the following to be true:

1. No matter how sincere your eyes are or how often you repeat it, I understand that I do not look just like Jessica Biel.

2. I realize that in order for you to do your best work, you must believe that you are the best I’ve ever had and in fact so good that I’ll never be able to look at any other man the same way. Not a problem.

3. If at any time you cry or even look like you’re going to, I recognize that it does not mean you have had an emotional break through because of your deep and story book feelings for me. I’m guessing it has something to do with your Mom catching you with a copy of Playboy when you were 14 or the time that one night stand you picked up at Buddy’s Bar pointed, laughed and left.

4. If you want to see me again, please ask me three days from now as I realize you are about to speak a language even you don’t understand and over which you have no reasonable control. Anything you say during our brief and intimate time together will not be held against you or mentioned again. Toward that end, I further understand any marriage proposal that comes out of your mouth, no matter how vehemently you swear you really do mean it, does not mean I can immediately call my sisters and plan a trip to the Tulle & Bead Warehouse.

5. I have been fully educated on “Male Short Term Memory Loss” and its causes and effects. Therefore when you don’t call, I get that it’s because you can’t remember my number or in the most severe cases of MSTML, my name.

As a horny and or drunk male whose brain is currently swimming in testosterone, you understand and acknowledge the following to be true:

1. During the next five to seven minutes, I may make any combination of the following absolutely true statements:
a. You are the best I’ve ever had.
b. I’ve never seen anything like that before.
c. Sweet Jesus!

2. I realize you have been taught that my on button will be immediately tripped if you tell me your current/past girlfriend/wife does not understand you. In an effort to expedite this process let’s say I believe you, but please know that I’m quite certain I don’t understand you either. That does not diminish the reality however that you are the best I’ve ever had and I’ve never seen anything like that before.

3. Although I usually appreciate more than 35 seconds of foreplay, that rule doesn’t apply to you as simply looking at you is all the foreplay I need. Sweet Jesus!

4. You look exactly like a cross between Orlando Bloom and Leonardo Decaprio.

5. I do not love you, but I do love football.

6. Please call me four minutes after I leave here. If someone answers and says you have the wrong number it’s just my crazy room mate. Just keep calling until you wear her down.


______________________________
Woman signature and date

______________________________
Male signature and date

______________________________
Notary or bartender stamp





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I don't think I want untrained eyes looking at me anyway.

I have no taste. There. I said it. I feel as clean as if I’d used something with the words “feminine" and "rain fresh” in it.

A large part of the year I can manage to fake having just enough class so that decent people will be seen speaking to me. I never blow my nose in restaurants, I wear at least one bra when in close proximity of impressionable children and if I have gotten drunk enough to be one half of a one night stand, I always promptly send a thank you note.

See what I mean? No taste. No couth. I shouldn’t be making jokes about having a one night stand. I’m a married woman, for gosh sake. I should be talking about rainbows and tea sets and how much I love the way my wedding band is round.

As I said, a large part of the year I walk around cloaked in pretend classiness so that to the untrained eye, or someone who lives in a single wide whose landscaping plan includes tires with flowers in them, I might actually look like an OK gal.

Until December.

Something happens to me in the twelfth month that compels me to begin decorating my small space on Earth with things that twinkle, glow, spin, and/or shimmer. If I can find something that does all those things PLUS makes a Christmas noise, I have a little seizure and must be revived by a candy cane.

Tacky? Perhaps. Necessary? Entirely.

This year I have been working way more than any good person should, so Mr. Man has been left in charge of the exterior illumination. Thankfully he and I share a genuine affection for embarrassing displays of holiday joy. He has spent many hours making sure my house can be seen from space. I figure if I’m going to celebrate Jesus’ birthday with twinkle lights, I should make sure He can see it.

I have to admit that even though I get a big thrill out of growing our electric bill, I do feel a little down in the dumper after seeing television commercials during this season. The spots they run this time of year seem to exist simply to point out that I am a loser who needs more money, more friends and more lights.

First of all, it’s always snowing on TV. Not any of that wet, nasty slush that’s been driven over by too many cars so that it’s turned black from the exhaust. It’s that pure white snow on which only Lexus SUV’s and horse drawn sleighs carrying romantic men and their insanely skinny wives are allowed to travel.

On the same street where it’s snowing perfect flakes cut out by angels who drop them from Heaven, there are only two-story houses with large yards and perfectly hung white lights across the front. On the door is a giant Christmas wreath flown in from the Martha Stewart Imported Swedish Wreath Collection and through the windows you can see the fireplace crackling and about twenty happy people drinking wassail.

(You drink that stuff, right? It's not some sort of ointment is it?)

On the snow covered front porch, ALWAYS, are well dressed, well groomed friends with their hands full of gifts just about to knock.

Sometimes they’re bringing Ferrero Rocher in a gold box, sometimes they’re bringing a bottle of wine and sometimes, if the hostess is very, very lucky, they are bringing a plush snowman from Hallmark that sings a fun Christmas song while its carrot nose wiggles.

That funny burning in the back of your throat is jealousy. Just do what I do and chew it back.

Never once in my life have I had a Christmas like that one. First of all, I’d have to move because my house doesn’t have a second floor and even if I could convince guests that the storage space over the garage is really our rumpus room, the dead mice and dusty copies of National Geographic’s might put a damper on gathering around the piano to sing carols.

Also, I don’t have a piano.

My Christmas wish this year is that I could have a commercial Christmas. I want my home made sugar cookies to look like I bought them in a bakery instead of like I was trying to make 8 dozen white blobs of holiday goo.

I want to walk outside to find my entire block has been covered by fresh, white snow that will stay perfect and white for at least the month of December. If I could get a nice man to move in next to me who smokes a pipe and has a son named Timmy who would shovel my sidewalk for a dollar and some hot chocolate, that would be super-dooper.

And more than anything else, I want some commercial friends who wear proper overcoats, have a nice supply of Ferrero Rocher and plush snowmen and want nothing more than to come to holiday gatherings in my attic.

In their Lexus SUV’s.

(Hear that Santa?)


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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Blogger tip jars: not that there's anything wrong with that.

Oh you silly kids with your boring blog tip jars. What am I going to do with you?

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for cyber begging. In fact, I think the world's problems could be fixed if all the people who have too much money gave it away to all the people who don't have nearly enough.

I'm also OK with blog readers tossing some dough in a tip jar now and again. Sure, the internet is all about free content, but it's also true that we blog writers are all about eating. If your favorite blog writer has taken a few days off maybe you should ask yourself if he or she has starved to death and is lying unconscious under their laptop.

I blame the blog writers themselves for not getting huge donations in their blog tip jars. They don't give readers a compelling reason to give them money. A latte? Whatever. Just asking for cash? Come on now.

That's why I produced the Franklin Mint series of Blog Beggars gifs. Feel free to take as many as you like and add them to your blog. I would expect as soon as you implement one of these, you'll be rolling in the dough, so don't forget where you got it. Some link back love would be peachy.





















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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Toast takes time. Good toast anyway.

Dear Sher,

You don't know me but your blog is a Google Whack. I searched "Gergantiunation Toad" and your blog was the Whack! Google Whacking is a game that you play using Google. You enter two completely random words and if the page has those two certain words on it and you get a result of 1 - 1 out of 1 you've found yourself a Google Whack! It's very difficult though, yours is one of 3 that I've ever got :-D

Dear Guy who uses words like Gergantiunation,

I can die now. I don't want to, but I could if I wanted. Did you hear that universe? I DO NOT WANT TO DIE!

Dear Sher,

darlin....you know I love you!!!!

Dear Conway Twitty,

Of course you do. Don't be ridiculous. I am entirely lovable and everybody knows it.

Dear Sher,

I love your blog! Thanks for making me feel like I'm not crazy.

Dear Crazy,

But you are. Anyone who feels like they aren't, is. Not my rules.

Dear Sher,

I feel like we're sisters or something because we're so much alike.

Dear Chick who has been married a zillion times, has OCD and a nose that is too small for her face,

Can I borrow your red leather pants? I know you have some.

Dear Sher,

Where are you?

Dear CSI Scranton,

Don't worry. I'm still around. I'm just spending all my time stalking Michael Buble and eating toast. I have a very full life.

Dear Sher,

I know TSG is on your get married list, but how do I get on there?

Dear Guy I now have to marry someday because he asked,

Here is the one and only rule for getting me to marry you: Ask. I never say no to a marriage proposal. You can be extremely old, incredibly ugly, broke, mean, dim-witted and recently declared criminally insane by the state of Wisconsin and I will still marry you. The only catch is that I will probably not stay married to you for very long. I become bored in about the same amount of time it takes for the wedding cake to get stale.

PS: What's my new last name gonna be anyway?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Gives a new meaning to Extension Cord.

I don’t know if it’s everybody or just me, but I worry about death a lot. When you’ve been obsessive-compulsive as far back as you could count to three (over and over and over again), you never know if your thoughts are different than those of all the normal people surrounding you.

I worry that I’m going to die which when you think of it is really nothing to worry about because I am. It’s not like worrying about it is going to keep me from being dead at some point. Unless these scientists stop wasting time on global warming and start focusing on curing death, I guess I’ve got no choice in the matter.

It’s sorta like my North Carolina Daddy says, “I want to go to Heaven but if theys a getting a bus load up to go today, I reckon I’d rather wait on the next one.”

Speaking of Daddy and dying, he called a couple days ago to tell me somebody back home did. I can always tell in the first sixty seconds of our conversation whether somebody’s dead. It isn’t that he sounds sad or anything. It’s that he leads with, “you remember old Robert Joseph from down around Caroleen?”

“You mean Bobby Joe? The one who used to open Coke bottles with his teeth?”

“Yep. Well he’s dead.” No sense in beating around the bush.

This time the man who passed had been a friend of my Father’s for longer than I’ve been alive and I hated to hear it. He wasn’t but fifty-five. Dropped dead at work. Pop said they put him on life support long enough so his sons could make it home to say good-bye and then they pulled the plug.

“Have you got a living will, Daddy?” All the magazine articles say this would have been the perfect time to ask a question like that one. It was supposed to open up a dialogue about a sensitive issue.

“Yeah I got a living will. I plan to keep on living. That’s my will.”

“But what if something would happen to you and we had to decide whether to pull the plug?” I like to be prepared.

“I don’t reckon I wanna give anybody that much control. What if they had a bad day? What if they was to say ‘Old Ralph wouldn’t wanna live like this’?

“Besides,” he continued, “your Uncle Billy was in a coma for a long time. Months and months he was out. And then he just woke up one day. What if we’d a pulled the plug on him?”

“Pop, Billy sews extra pockets on his pants. Big pockets, little pockets, pockets on top of pockets. I’m not sure I’d wanna be living if I felt like the highest and best use of my time was to add pockets to pants that are already by any reasonable person’s standard, fully pocketed.”

“Let me tell you something, before I forget it.” When Daddy ends any sentence with ‘before I forget it’, you’re about to get told.

“Ole Billy’s up there a chasing them women all over that nursing home so I reckon he’s having a pretty good time as far as he sees it.”

I was beginning to get the message. Daddy wants to be sure that not only do we NOT pull his plug, he wants a back up generator. I promised him I’d make sure we get him plugged into a surge protector if he’d promise not to let Mr. Man pull my plug some day.

“If you hear Mr. Man telling anyone that I would not have want my family to see me like that, it’s a dang lie. I want as many plugs, tubes, batteries and hoses as is necessary to keep my chest pumping up and down forever and ever. In fact, I want the plug put in an out of the way place so he can’t “accidentally” trip over it and yank if from the wall.”

I’m gonna say this column will be evidence of a living will for both my Daddy and myself. If y’all happen to notice Mr. Man on CNN fighting to have me unplugged, please print this and mail it immediately to Anderson Cooper. I plan on being plugged in until they come up with a cure…or until Elvis comes back. Whichever comes first.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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The husband did it. Always.

For the past many weeks, I have done little more than work. I go to work early, I come home late and that includes weekends. I feel like my brain is fried and not in a good chemically induced way.

Although my schedule has left me little time to stay up to date on current events, I have kept a close eye on the whole Drew and Stacy Peterson case. As you may have heard, my best friend The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou and I are acclaimed crime investigators. Many, many crimes of varying sorts and severity have been solved by the two of us over a couple drinks. A staggering 100% of the cases in which we have become involved have been successfully solved, which means a whole 2% of our findings have been correct.

I’m going to color you impressed.

For those of you who live in a cave and only come out to read Wiping the Crazy off My Face once a month, Drew Peterson is, excuse me, WAS, a police officer who some years ago managed to hypnotize a sixteen year old girl, Staci, into thinking that although he was thirty years her senior, he was not a creepy pedophile.

As the wife of a cop, a friend of cops and a big fan of cops, I can say with some authority that most of them are not icky old men who spend their shifts picking up teenage girls. In the interest of truth however, I should also tell you that often enough, a man who is entirely ugly and utterly goofy can put on a badge and seem interesting for just long enough to capture the attention of a female. I’m guessing that’s exactly what happened here.

Although solving a crime is a lot of hard work and can sometime take up to twenty-five minutes, I am going to let you in on the process the Evil BL and I go through so that you can take a look at all the facts and come to your own conclusions about THE KILLER’S guilt or innocence.

Fact one: It was with the afore-mentioned magical powers of the badge that old man Drew enticed little girl Stacy.

He’s guilty.

Fact two: Drew Peterson has been married a bunch of times. As a woman who enjoys getting married for fun and profit, I cannot in good conscience convict someone of something sinister on the basis of their love of the I Do. If getting married every time you change the batteries in your smoke detectors makes you a killer, I may as well get a prison tattoo and pack my bags.

He’s not guilty.

Fact three: One of his ex-wives is dead and after exhuming her body, a coroner has said she died in a suspicious way. A coroner using the word suspicious can only mean one thing.

He’s guilty.

Fact four: Peterson says his missing wife is not really dead, she’s just hiding out with a guy somewhere. I know if I were a young woman who woke up one day and realized I was married to Captain Old Testicles, it’s reasonable to assume I would hide out somewhere with a guy whose testicles were considerably younger.

He’s not guilty.

Fact five: During his first interview with Matt Lauer, he did not cry. If ever Mr. Man is being interviewed by the gorgeous Today Show host about me and he is not blowing snot bubbles and screaming my name in agony, he killed me.

He’s guilty.

Fact six: During his second interview with Matt Lauer, he brought his attorney and barely said a word. If I go missing and Mr. Man so much as takes an attorney to McDonald’s, he killed me. Alert the FBI, Interpol and Sam’s Club.

He’s guilty.

Fact seven: I don’t like Drew Peterson. I don’t like the cut of his jib. He is unattractive and he probably smells bad. He wears ugly ties and his mustache looks like something from a 70’s Sears and Roebuck catalog model. While I don’t believe in judging a book by its cover, I do believe in convicting people of homicide based on how they look and act on television. It’s the American way.

After thorough investigation, you can clearly see the guilties have it. Lock him and his old balls up and hide the key somewhere on the muscle bound person of his sexually frustrated jail cell-mate Marco.

And your vote?




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I'm full of thanks. Somebody give me a Rolaids.

1. I am thankful I did not get my first husband’s name tattooed on my thigh. Or my second husband’s. Or any husbands.

2. I am thankful I do not have big boobs because if I did, I would spend all my time figuring out new ways to develop my evil boobie power and I wouldn’t get anything else done. I know for sure I’d use them to get free stuff like jewelry and tires, but I’ll bet there’s a lot more they could do if I spent way too much time thinking about it.

3. I am thankful for monkeys. I am always thankful for monkeys.

4. I am thankful I am a gifted fire baton twirler. The skill of lighting things on fire, spinning them through my fingers and passing them back and forth under my legs has made me who I am today: a woman with no leg hair.

5. I am thankful that I know Rachel Ray is the devil. My thankfulness would be greatly increased however if I could beat her up. Before she used her evil boobie power to gain control of all media, I had Mr. Man and the Big Dog convinced that Cooking Sherry was something women named Sherri are supposed to drink while cooking. Kitchen sobriety sucks, Rachel.

6. I am thankful nobody knows my middle name is Lynn.

7. I am thankful I am not rich because if I were, I wouldn’t speak to any of my friends again and I’m sure I’d miss them. Of course I’d have my new, rich friends to help ease my sorrow, but I’d feel a deep sadness every time I passed a bowling alley or a can of Pork n’ Beans. (Disclaimer: I am not implying my friends hang out in bowling alleys and eat canned beans….but they do.)

8. I am thankful I have seen both coasts, four foreign countries, the Rocky Mountains and an Elvis impersonator whose sequined jump suit was six inches too short and whose white tennis shoes were carefully secured with Velcro.

9. I am thankful for puppies and rainbows and yarn and sweet crap like that.

10. I am thankful I did not have a book published this year. Having to do a forty-seven state book tour, the Today Show and Oprah would have really put a dent in my binge drinking.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I wish I had written this.





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Why don't I know anybody named Roger Wilco?

I'm stoned. Wait a minute. I didn't mean to say stoned. I meant to say I'm stoned.

I woke up unwell this morning and in a great deal of pain. I won't go into the details here, but I thought perhaps I might die right away. I am still not convinced that I won't wake up dead in the morning. I hope not though because I don't have any make-up on.

In an effort to keep me from screaming out in pain, or talking, or being awake, Mr. Man gave me drugs. Legal drugs I think, but still drugs. I have been loopie ever since and even as I write, I still have pain...but I could care less.

A big shout out to Big Pharm for all the good work you do.

I've slept a lot today and that's quite unusual for me. In between long naps during which I dream about having arm surgery to make them shorter, I've been sitting around the house petting an imaginary ferret. The good news is I am at least coherent enough to realize my furry friend isn't real. The better news is I'm wasted enough to continue to pet him.

Such a pretty kitty.

My thinking is a little askew and despite my altered state, I know it. For instance, never before in my life have I felt I learned an important lesson about relationships during an episode of Gunsmoke. When I saw the way Festus looked at Lilly Munster, despite her ashen skin and all the crazy schemes she and her friend Ethel cooked up, I knew I was forever changed.

A big shout out to TV Land for all the good work you do.

Have you ever noticed what a weird word "do" is? Do.

Do, do do.

Do rhymes with moo which rhymes with you and blickety-blue. Perhaps I should give the exciting and fast paced world of poem writing a try as it seems I have a natural talent. I can't believe I never noticed that before. It's like I was a poet and yet I did not know it.

There I go again. I guess you either have it or you don't and it is crystal clear to me now that I have a lot of it.

I'd love to hang around and rhyme more words for your poem enjoyment, but I am beginning to feel more pain and so sadly, I must take another dose of my completely legal but totally awesome medication. Besides, the ferret has to go potty and if I don't let him out now, he'll keep me awake all night.

Sher out.


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Expect to see Hillary Clinton with one in her hand.

"Mom, you look younger today," said my 13 year old, freakishly tall son as we sat at the table.

I kind of loved those words actually. So much so in fact, I was going to shush the whole house so I could sit for a moment and ponder them. I looked younger, after all. Younger that what, I didn't care. I didn't even care that his statement could only mean I looked older yesterday. All that mattered in the world was that my boy thought I looked younger.

Until he finished his sentence. "Are you doing something different because your face looks less wrinkley than it usually does?"

Then all that mattered in the world was getting a ladder from the garage, climbing up to the top with a blunt object and hitting him on top of his head.

It isn't just my male child that makes the stupidest, most insensitive remarks and then is genuinely surprised when I strike him. It is all males, mine or otherwise. Men are hurtful creatures by nature, even when they are genuinely trying not to be.

I've often wondered over my lifetime what the real function of the male penis is, even though several people have assured me that this science was settled quite some time ago. These same people also assured me that it is offensive to leave my scientific doodled penis drawings all over the place.

Could it be that the way to the sensitive part of a man is through his penis? Is it conceivable that a male's ability to be kind and say something completely nice and then shut the hell up is controlled by a little microchip in his Vera Wang?

I guess this means only one thing, ladies. As bad as I hate to do it, we're all gonna have to band together, suck it up and Lorena Bobbit all the males in our lives. If we have the microchip, we control the world!!!

Insert evil laugh here, but not too loud. I have a cough.

Men will tell us we're pretty, they'll beg us to tell them more about our teenage years and they'll never pretend a stray buzzard stole the beautiful Valentine's card it took him weeks to pick out right as we was licking the envelope.

Now's the time! Chicks unite! I'll count down from 5 and then we'll all sneak into the rooms of our sleeping testosterone holders and do what must be done. Tomorrow you can tell me how it went. Ready? 5.....4.......I'm a little nervous....3.....what if he wakes up and sees me....2.....what the hell I'll just tell him I need new sketch ideas.....GO!


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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P is for Plastic and Prince Bait and Plane Ticket.

Today my boss handed me a brand spanking new, super shiny credit card with my name right on the front. I felt like Steve Martin in The Jerk when he got his name in the phone book.

"So what do I do with it?" I asked.

She replied with, "Are you even a girl?"

And then I hit her.

No, I didn't hit her. Physically anyway. I hit her mentally. Really hard. She cried. It was awesome.

Now that I've had a couple hours to stew on it, I've come up with the Top Ten Things I Am Going to Do With My New Company Credit Card. How you like me now, Boss Lady?

10. This weekend I saw some black purses with pink feathers and rhinestones in the shape of a crown on them. They were the work of none other than Paris Hilton and as they featured crowns on them, I'm thinking they must be what the Royals wear. (Oueens and Kings, not the team.) I plan to purchase one or ninety and carry them everywhere I go because I feel certain Paris wouldn't steer me wrong. If I'm ever going to pick up the Prince of Arachnia in Wal-mart, I need some Prince bait. I'm thinking feathery purses are to Princes what stinkbait is to catfish.

9. Two words: Potbelly Pig. I'm no pig farmer (sadly), but I would say those things produce a lot of bacon and I do so enjoy bacon.

8. A Bedazzler.

7. Stuff to Bedazzle.

6. Some junk for hobo's so God doesn't get mad at me. I don't know for sure what they enjoy, but gun to my head, I think it has something to do with open fires and beans. To be safe I'll probably pick up like a case of charcoal briquettes, several bags of pork n' beans and a gross of fingerless gloves.

5. A hot air balloon ride. Not for me though because I'm terrified of both heights and hot air. But I do think Mr. Man would appreciate it.

4. Life insurance on Mr. Man. How much does it cost to insure someone for eight million dollars? What the heck. The company is paying for it.

3. A plane ticket for Michael Buble to come visit me as I work to get over Mr. Man's untimely, totally unforeseen and absolutely not planned hot air balloon accident.

2. Let's call it a large tip for Javier, the hot air balloon driver.

1. A helper monkey like the ones I saw in a book. Maybe even a whole gaggle of helper monkeys. They can clean for me, do laundry for me, and when I'm at work, they can feed Michael Buble his Buble Chow through the bars of his cage.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Oh don't even act like you didn't know I was looking for a reason to make you listen to Michale Buble again. I love him terrible.






Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Glass fingers.

When I was growing up I was frequently reminded that, “God ain’t no Sears & Roebuck catalog”. I understood from an early age that wishing was wrong and wanting was a sign of weak moral character.

“Be happy with what you got.”

“Bloom where you are planted.”

“Money is the root of all evil.”

I knew that I wasn’t allowed to want anything good for myself so I did what I think so many of us often do: I settled for mediocrity without even realizing that was what I was doing. For me, suffering and doing without meant that I was somehow doing right and in trying to do right in this misguided way, I found no joy.

As I sat in a salon a day or two ago waiting for the lady who does my nails, I was feeling ashamed of myself for spending the money on something so frivolous when I knew good and well there are other things, better things, that bit of money could accomplish. Getting my nails done is an indulgence I have only recently begun to allow myself and the entire reason I started this practice in the first place was to make an effort to break these old records that have been playing in my head for more than forty years.

I decided a few months ago that if I am ever to achieve any of the dreams I have secretly kept, I will have to find a way to make myself believe that it’s OK. That I’m not going to take anything away from anyone else if I want more than what I have.

Wallowing around in my guilt as I waited and wondering whether I could come up with an excuse that would pass for truth as to why I had to leave before my appointment, I noticed an elderly couple come in the front door.

She was frail to the point of looking breakable and her tiny body was bent toward the ground. I could tell by what she was wearing and how her snowy hair was done just so that she was a woman who had always cared about her appearance.

At her side was her husband, tall and strong looking despite his years. He held onto her as she shuffled and they found a seat right across from where I sat pretending to read a magazine rather than plotting my escape from what I was feeling was reprehensible decadence.

“Hey there, Miss,” the old man called to one of the girls who worked there. “Kin I ask you a question right quick? How much would it cost me to git my wife’s fangers fixed?”

He held up her tiny hand as if it were a glass slipper.

“See there? Her fangers hurt her and she can’t do ‘em no more. She always liked to have ‘em all painted and fixed up, but now they’re cracked and she gits embarrassed of ‘em.” As he spoke, he was rubbing her hand as if it was the most valuable thing he’d ever held. I imagine if I’d asked him, he would have told me it was.

“I been a telling ‘er we need to git somebody to fix ‘em for ‘er but she’s always worried it cost too much money. I told her today I didn’t keer what it cost, we wuz gonna make it so she didn’t have to be embarrassed no more. I don’t like to see her upset over nuthin.”

Her eyes had been on the floor while he spoke, but on hearing this, she smiled what I thought was an awfully big smile for such a tiny person and looked up to meet her husband’s gaze. He was clearly her hero and although I was trying not to stare, I couldn’t help myself.

The tech carefully looked over the delicate fingers and told the couple what it would cost. “It’s a little more if we were going to polish them, but I’m sure you don’t want that anyway.”

He wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh yes. She needs to have ‘em painted up. It don’t make no differnse how much more it is. She’s worth ever penny.”

It hit me, as they say, like a ton of bricks. I would imagine when this woman was young she had been taught many of the same things about life and about herself as I had been. She knew the disgrace of hope and the sin of wishes and so she had lived a life without ever having given the desires of her heart, or herself, any value. Still, as she was approaching the end of her life, she was holding onto the notion that she didn’t deserve good things. I could only guess the number of years wasted suffering under this self imposed law.

But he knew her value. And I believe when she looked into his eyes, she could know it, too… even if only for a few seconds at a time. That’s why she smiled. That’s why he was her hero. While it has never been OK for her to want something good for herself, she could occasionally allow him to give it to her.

Are most women this way? We hope that while we can’t utter what we want or need aloud, somebody will see inside us and know it. Imagine the time we waste waiting for our mind reader. Imagine the hurt we inflict upon our spirits by feeling so unworthy, so valueless.

So like me.




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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Polly Positive is Pretty in Purple.

I am wearing one of those purple Complaint Free World bracelets this week in an effort to you know… stop complaining. The idea is to switch wrists every time you catch yourself complaining thereby becoming a better person and hopefully throwing some good karma in your direction.

In other news, my wrists are sore.

Growing up in Southern Baptist Land, I was always aware of the ever looming Devil just waiting to jump out at me from behind the shower curtain. I knew he was coming to snatch me because little girls who tell lies, hit their brothers and/or refuse to eat their lima beans are pretty much the reason the Devil gets up in the morning. Forget things like genocide and serial killers. Nothing says eternal damnation like a mouthy seven year old with a stubborn streak.

That’s why even today as a grown woman I am still trying to do whatever I can think of to keep me out of “Down There”. (That’s Baptist for Hell.)

Thus the wrist band.

I figure if I stop complaining and start being insanely nice to everyone, everywhere, all the time, I can divert the Score Keeper’s attention and maybe get a room somewhere with a climate a little more favorable for my skin type.

Pay close attention to that word “insanely” as that’s how I handle everything from grocery shopping to hair spraying to boiled cabbage production. It’s sort of my thing.

Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time. From before I even had my make-up on until late in the evening, I was smack dab in the middle of verbal business battles. If ever in the history of bad days there was a time to NOT have a piece of rubber around your arm reminding you not to bitch, yesterday was the day.

Because the top of my head is dangerously close to blowing right off, I’m going to temporarily remove the Hell avoidance device known as this wrist band and let loose for a couple minutes. Please help me out by doing something sinful while you read the following so that the Score Keeper’s attention is diverted from me until I become complaint free once again. My dry skin thanks you.

1. Hey Mr. I’m Driving 27 MPH For 20 Miles on a No Passing Stretch of Road: I want to park my car and run on foot right up to your window, tap on the glass and punch you right between the eyes. I don’t care that you are 108 years old. Unless you want your last moments on this earth to be behind the wheel of your truck at the hands of an angry woman wearing a purple get out of hell bracelet, put the pedal to the medal.

2. Hey Lady who thinks she can be mean to me because of my job. You got away with it this time, but the next time you speak to me as though I just pulled your cat’s whiskers, I will. I will come over there and pull your cat’s whiskers really, really hard.

3. Smelly Guy who did that smelly thing right in front of me WHILE YOU WERE TALKING TO ME: I hate you. I don’t hate you the way I hate that woman’s cat, I hate you the way I hate lima beans. Just as I was willing to risk Down There in my stand against lima bean consumption, I am willing to risk it by hating you. (PS: I’m sending you the bill for having my office painted.)

4. Twenty-something who thinks you are cute in your little shorty-shorts in October wearing your Cops Love Me T-Shirt. Listen here you little hoochie, get your happy ass back home and put on some clothes before you go running around in public. Cops may love you (bad cops…cops who are on the take… cops who get birthday cards from guys named Lefty & Chubby Paul), but I do not love you. Not one little bitty bit.

5. DJ who played the first Christmas song of the year on the radio yesterday even though it was Halloween: I actually like you. I’m just mad because it wasn’t Hark Harold’s Angels Sing. (Little Christmas trivia here – Hark Harold and Charlie are brothers and used to work together until Charlie got too big for his britches and hooked up with Farrah Fawcett. She was their Yoko.)

OK, I’m done. Rubber band back on. All systems are go and all complaining has ended. You may now safely stop sinning. Unless you like sinning in which case, pack moisturizer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I miss Liza. Where the heck is she anyway?








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

Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.

Blogroll Me!