Dixie Wisdom.

“This is the rest of your life. What are you going to do with it?”

That’s what Miss Dixie always said. Although I have countless things to remember about her, I’ll remember that the most.

My neighbor, my friend, my teacher, my surrogate grandmother, Miss Dixie, died today.

Some weeks ago I went into her house to check on her and found her lying in bed, panting. She was hot with fever and barely able to speak. I wanted to call an ambulance and she wanted to wait “a few more minutes”. In the end, my common sense won out and Miss Dixie agreed to go. Looking back at all she has endured since that afternoon, I wonder if my common sense didn’t interfere in her travel plans.

I cried today when only a few minutes after she passed, a family member came to my door. They were selfish tears, as tears often are. I knew Miss Dixie went exactly when she wanted and only after having completed a life that was absolutely overflowing in any way a life can be.

It’s my sincere belief that everyone, good and bad alike, who comes into our lives, does so in order for learning to take place. We are all teachers, all students and we are all in this thing together for the ultimate good. Sometimes it’s easier for me to hold onto that than other times. This week has provided some particularly painful lessons as I’ve been forced to face the unpleasant reality that people and things are not always as they seem.

But reflecting on all Miss Dixie taught me before she left this world for the next reminds me that not every life lesson must be painful and that thought gives me hope for better things.

What a wonderful legacy to leave behind. I would love to think that when I’m gone, someone might say I once gave them hope. I can think of nothing better.

I was blessed to have had a lot of time these last weeks to spend at Miss Dixie’s bed side. I was there to hold her hand, give her sips of water and brush the hair away from her face. Sometimes I just cried quietly while she slept. It was hard not to. She had lived an amazing life, this woman. Seeing her in that bed, attended to by people who had no idea who was inside that frail, old woman’s body, broke my heart in a million pieces.

So much so that very often I found myself telling everyone from the EMT’s to the nurses to the cleaning lady that this was someone special and had they known her before, they would understand why I spent so much time at her side.

There had been extensive travel to every place she’d ever even thought she might like to see…several of them many times. She appreciated art and loved Monet in such an infectious way; I found myself loving him, too. She liked her music loud and her coffee strong and told me so many wonderful stories of life with her beloved, late husband Carl; I could retell them as if I’d actually lived them. She understood down to her bones that life is about love and about happiness and she simply found the pursuit of anything else an unqualified waste of time.

Compromise was not an option for her when it came to being happy and she didn’t want it to be an option for me either.

Because I knew the final chapter of Miss Dixie’s life was being written, I left nothing unsaid. I told her what a difference she had made in my life, how much I loved her, how unbelievably lucky I was to have had her right next door and how I would never, ever forget the story she told of Carl coming to her one day after realizing that he was living someone else’s idea of life.

He was down in the dumps, out of choices and out of money and feeling as if the world had swallowed him up. The promise he’d made her once that she would live a life of fun with him seemed hollow.

She smiled and asked her husband the question that would change both their lives in a powerful way, “This is the rest of your life, Honey. What are you going to do with it?”

He answered. She encouraged. Their lives blossomed into something so rich and beautiful; it sustained her from the day of his passing until this morning.

I love you, Miss Dixie. And the next time I see you, I’m going to tell you what I did with it.

Life is a Highway ~ She loved loud country music, so crank it up!

Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Dead mouse or popcorn? You decide.

My best friend, the Evil red-headed Berta Lou, confessed to me that earlier this week, she watched a soap opera with a dead mouse in her lap.

She denies knowing the mouse was there for awhile, but says once she realized it; she leapt from her chair, held her arms over her head and screamed in a high pitched warble, the way people with boobs are supposed to.

The investigative reporter in me (I had a big lunch), says something is not right here. Two and two do not equal dead mouse.

First of all, the Evil BL and I have been friends for pretty close to seventy-eight years. In all that time she has never in any way indicated she was a soap watcher.

She hasn’t once made mention of her heart break over Adam leaving Tiffany for her retarded, but pretty, half-sister Natalie, only to be killed by a rabid rhino on their honeymoon ski trip in the Swiss Alps.

Nor has she ever spoke of her elation after finding out Adam wasn’t really killed, but was taken in and nursed back to health by a kindly Swiss army knife maker who turned out to in fact be his long, lost brother, (and true heir to the family fortune) Edwardo.

And second of all, what kind of mind altering drugs must my best friend be sniffing if she can sit for more than 0.0 seconds with anything dead near her… much less on her?

Maybe the better question is, how enthralling must those soap opera things be if a rodent can actually lie deceased on top of you and it does not immediately register that something is terribly wrong

The Evil BL blames what will now forever be known as “That One Time Berta Watched TV With a Dead Mouse” on her stealthy dog and on her lack of a good night’s sleep.

I blame it on MTV.

The OCD Chick has a real problem with germs and people who love them so it should come as no surprise that I’ve never before hung out with someone who lets dead mice sit on their lap. I would even go so far as to say one of my big criteria when cruising the bars for a best friend is that they not hang out with mice… most especially mice that have little x’s over their eyes and all their little mouse toes in the air.

I still love her, ‘cause you know that’s how I am. But as far as ever again sitting in her house with my head in her lap and watching TV, I’m gonna say no way…never again. Not without a lap prophylactic anyway.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Hey Sher, That’s Not Funny.

As often as I joke about having obsessive-compulsive disorder, the truth is that until a person with the illness finally dwells in a place where they understand exactly what it is, accepts that it is a part of what makes them who they are, and forces themselves to stop trying to hide it, OCD is miserable business.

Fortunately for this OCD Chick, I have lived in such a place for some time now.

Not that it was easy. On the contrary, Obsessive-compulsive disorder was once my sworn enemy and we battled, this nasty brain monster and I, for years and years and years. Most of the time, the monster won and left me lying on the floor, unable to adequately defend myself or the people I loved.

Because I pay attention to such things, I know that a percentage of the visitors who read my blog (and my website) arrive here from some of the various “OCD websites” you can find on the net.

I know from experience that they are likely searching for something familiar, something to remind themselves they aren’t alone with their crazy. Maybe they need a little hope, or the benefit of someone else’s emotional knocks or even a moment to take a breath and laugh at an illness that they don’t find funny at all.

I try to provide the laugh, but I have been cautious of anything more serious. Having dealt with OCD my entire life, I’ve been taught to be selective about whom I include in my reality. I have a nasty habit of believing the best in people and sometimes they have a nasty habit of proving I shouldn’t have.

Today I realized that from time to time it’s OK, if not necessary, for me to write about this thing that lives in my brain. Having lived nearly 43 years now with obsessive-compulsive disorder, it’s really ridiculous as a writer not to occasionally feed the elephant in the room a hand full of nuts.

So, from now on there will be a post here or there about the reality of OCD. My hope is that my readers who live this life will find some comfort and even some hope of their own. For those who do not have OCD, maybe they’ll learn something new. It could be a big bonus when they finally make it on Jeopardy.

“I’ll take Someone Sneezes on You for $500, Alex.”

(FYI, the answer is “What is kill them with something sharp and then boil yourself in Lysol, Alex?”)

I’ve learned how it works, my obsessive-compulsive disorder, and in the same way a diabetic is fully aware the price she’ll pay for a piece of cake or foregoing her insulin, I know the price tag stress carries for me. It’s not one I’m willing to pay.

There has been something in my life for quite awhile now that I knew was costing me far more than I had the psychological ability to pay. I kept at it though, the entire time knowing full well what I was doing to myself and always wondering when I’d finally have to foot the bill.

For an obsessive-compulsive, stress can be as toxic as a bleach martini.

In my case, unhealthy stress levels show up in how much I care whether the shampoo bottle is facing east. One day you take a shower and put the bottle down with no thought, the same way a “normal” person would. The next, you spend five minutes trying to position it so that it is exactly where it “feels right” so that no one you love or care about will die in a car wreck.

That’s the reality of OCD and that’s the price of doing something you find so stressful that you cry five nights a week… but keep doing it anyway so that everyone else likes you because they think you’re just like them.

Which is what you’ve always wanted. To be just like them.

Which you are not. ~~~~~

*Tell me your OCD stories or ask your OCD questions. But wash your hands first. Questions are dirty.*

Macy Gray's best song ever... and the best song ever for this post. Oh click it, already.

Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Justin, Justin, Justin. Ratchet it back a little, Sweetheart.

Justin Timberlake is sending me secret messages through my iPod.

I realize that may sound a little too Russell Crowe in “A Beautiful Mind”, but it’s true. Sometimes he does it through my TV and radio as well, but mostly my iPod. I think it’s easier for him because it goes directly in my ears. Sort of a direct shot right into my brain.

I first noticed it when he hosted Saturday Night Live some time ago. He was funny and cute in that adolescent boy kind of way; certainly nothing that would attract the attention of someone old enough to be his extremely attractive and exceptionally young looking older sister.

But then something went a tad weird. He sang that one song that talks about “girl” this and “girl” that and some other romantic words I recognized from my dating days and I suddenly realized he was looking right at me.

I mean it. Right at me.

It was like if I leaned over the coffee table to get a handful of corn chips and a swig of Michelob; his eyes were on me the whole time.

I looked to see if maybe someone else was hiding behind my sofa for no good reason, but the only thing back there was Tanner, the amazing four pound Yorkie. He hadn’t had a bath in going on two weeks, so I’m relatively confident Justin wasn’t giving him the come hither eye as I had in fact bathed that very same evening.

The next day, when Justin came on my car radio, it was glaringly obvious he was singing directly to me. He started telling me he was my slave and that he felt I really needed to get my sexy on.

I concurred and appreciated the reminder.

I ran to iTunes the minute I got home to see if maybe there were any more messages in an effort to verify what I was sure I was hearing. The thing is I have a fear of walking around with crazy all over my face and not knowing it. That’s why I often double check my potentially insane theories and/or thoughts for accuracy and complete lack of crazy.

Sure as sugar, there it was again. Every single solitary Justin Timberlake song had a message in it explicitly for me, the OCD Chick.

“If I told you, you were beautiful; would you date me on the regular?”

Is he kidding? I’ve married men because they told me I didn’t have ugly shins.

“Ain’t gotta do nothin’ crazy”.

There is no ignoring that one. He gets me. Justin Timberlake totally gets me.

The only conceivable conclusion is that Justin is coming for me very soon. Sure, we might get some jealous stares when we’re walking on the beach, in the countryside or lying in the grass (which actually I never do because I hate touching nature), but that’s OK.

We’ve all read that forty is the new thirty, which of course means that thirty is the new twenty and twenty is the new fetus. The thing is, having my gallbladder removed has resulted in a weight loss that I’m certain is what attracted JT to me in the first place. Perpetual nausea and endless diarrhea has made this middle-aged OCD Chick completely irresistible to ex-boy band singers and old guys with very few teeth.

Oh, and prisoners of any sort. Men in long term captivity desire me something awful.

Signed,
Sher Timberlake

What Goes Around ~ Prepare to get freaked out by his blatant adoration of me.


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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The Power of My Pepsi.

I am not a gusher. I refuse to gush even when gushing is absolutely called for and everyone around me is oozing gush like no other. That’s why you need to accept what I’m about to tell you as the absolute indisputable truth, just like you did that whole lunar landing thing.

Diet Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream is the single best thing ever invented in the history of the world and I am including all the big ones, like life-saving vaccines, the wheel and divorce.

It is so good…scratch good… it is so marvelous…crap, scratch marvelous, too. (Think Sher. What word is big enough to describe the drink that has changed your life?)

Diet Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream is Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. In fact, it would be more accurately described as freaking Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!!!!!

The very first drink you take is sort of like, “OK. There’s the Diet Pepsi. There’s the hint of sweet,” and then at the very moment you feel like bitch slapping PepsiCo for yanking your chain about the whole caramel thing, BAM! Bashful little caramel bursts forth and gives you a big smack on the tongue.

It’s like drinking a mischievous child.

I don’t even know what that means, “drinking a mischievous child”. Who says stuff like that?

People who drink Diet Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream, that’s who. That’s the power of the Pepsi. It has turned this perfectly normal obsessive-compulsive woman into a gushing two-liter addict who would sooner give up something that belongs to my husband than ever live one minute without my new reason for living.

And although I have not as yet completed my scientific studies regarding the accuracy of the following statement, I’m as convinced of it as Howard K. Stern is about the existence of the Methadone Fairy.

Diet Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream will make your boobs bigger if you’re a woman, you’re penis bigger if you’re not, and if you drink enough of it every day AND you truly believe, there is a distinct possibility that you will manifest the power to fly.

Unless you drank so much that your boobs got really, really big. Then the weight of them would probably send you plummeting to Earth no matter how hard you flap your arms.

~*~*~*~*~
Listen to Joss Stone's New CD on AOL. She's amazing.


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Dear Men Who Still Can’t Recognize a Dateline NBC Sting.

First of all, you are all ugly.

You are ugly in a way that is almost painful. So great is your level of ugliness, the site of you makes me feel exactly the way I did when a friend told me the story of a leech that was discovered to be living in the nose of some guy after his waiter (the guy’s, not the leech’s) saw it pop its slimy head out and then retreat back inside.

There is nothing attractive about a leech living in a guy’s nose and there is nothing attractive about you. Given the choice between framing and displaying a picture of a nose dwelling leech and one of you, I’d sooner live with a leech portrait over my sofa.

Not only are you extraordinarily unpleasant to look at, I couldn’t help but notice that you are among the most dim-witted of all things that walk on two legs and have thumbs.

You have online chats with children who tell you they are only 13, to which you typically say something intellectual like, “You’re not one of those Dateline decoys, are you?”

Are you freaking kidding me? Of course they are one of those Dateline decoys; you pack of mentally feeble butt monkeys.

I realize I have little expertise when it comes to the mind of a criminal who preys upon children, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here. Perhaps it would simply be a good standard of child molester practice to go ahead and assume any and every child you stalk online is a Dateline decoy.

Just because they spell poorly or use the internet slang “lol” way more than any actual adult ever would does not mean they are really children.

So you don’t forget, grab your crayon and jot this down on the back of the credit card statement that details your disgusting porn addiction: EVERY CHILD YOU MEET ONLINE IS A DATELINE DECOY, you ignorant, hump-backed, scum-sucking, bunch of psychos.

Furthermore, no one, and I do mean no one in the entire universe, wants to see photos of your penises. Stop that.

Apparently you’ve gotten a hold of some misinformation when it comes to what females find sexy, so I’m going to enlighten you. While we ladies love our men, we aren’t all that captivated with their little men. Nope. The female of the species would much rather see a picture of a nice looking fireman holding a puppy or a guy doing the dishes rather than an up close shot of what you all evidently think is uniquely impressive, but in truth really offers nothing new since about… I don’t know… the dawn of man.

It’s a penis. If you’re a guy, everyone knows you have one. If you’re a child molester, everyone knows it should be cut off.

To summarize the issue of sending penis pictures to any female, under age or not, here’s a good rule of thumb. Unless you have had it Bedazzled, it’s pretty much the same thing we’ve all seen before. Keep it where it belongs: in your pants or in a jar filled with formaldehyde.

And finally, here’s some special advice to aid you in that climactic moment where you get caught. (And even though I get that you aren’t clever enough to understand that you will get caught, you’re so gonna get caught.)

Don’t say you were only at the house: a) to mentor the child b) to explain the dangers of cyber hooking up c) to talk to them about Jesus.

You’re there, you’re busted, take it like a man. A nasty, smelly, slug slime of a man, but anatomically a man nonetheless.

Hit the ground, assume the position and kiss your job, your friends and your freedom good-bye.

Can you say, “Yes, Bubba. I’ll get the soap”?

Something to get the reader's mind off Dateline and it's stars: Dwight Yoakam - Love him awful. Especially when he's singing about a NC girl, and this chick HAS to be an NC girl.


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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Dave Barry & W. Bruce Cameron and the toilet full of chili.

Although I’m thinking maybe its not the best idea I’ve ever had to admit a crime I’m about to commit on the internet where any number of law abiding citizens and law enforcement type people can read it, I’ll do what I always do when that little voice inside my brain tries to shut me down.

I’ll give it pie & Tequila until it falls asleep and then I’ll do whatever I want.

I’ve decided that in an effort to create a spectacular buzz around my writing, I’m going to kidnap Dave Barry and Bruce Cameron.

If you don’t know who Dave Barry & W. Bruce Cameron are, I’m glad because if you did, you would know what funny really is, which means you wouldn’t show up here as often as you do.

Wikipedia defines Dave Barry as a Pulitzer Prize winning humorist who wrote a nationally syndicated column for the The Miami Herald from 1983 to 2005 and W. Bruce Cameron as an internationally known humor columnist who authored 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter.

I define Dave Barry and W. Bruce Cameron as the innocent targets of my brilliant and admittedly criminal plot.

Follow my logic here.

People who kidnap other people get attention. People who kidnap famous people get lots and lots of attention. Their pictures are plastered on every news source in the whole world, TV psychologists discuss the possibility that their mother may have dropped them on their head, and of course Nancy Grace doesn’t take her Midol and does a five part series on whether or not they should rot in hell.

If I kidnap two of the most famous humor writers of our time, I will definitely be the talk of the country.

Hours and hours will be spent by the media rehashing what reason a woman wearing a clown wig and red high heels would have to kidnap a couple writers with only two things in common: they are both brilliantly funny and they both still have their fourth grade hair styles.

That was mean. In my defense, I am a kidnapper. What did you expect?

As to the “how” of my malevolent plan, the details are not really cemented yet. I think the hardest part of a successful kidnapping is the lure. There has to be something compelling that would cause Dave Barry and W. Bruce Cameron to walk away from whatever they are doing and get in my car.

I know for sure Dave has a thing for exploding stuff, like cows and toilets, because he made a career out of talking about them. I also know Bruce once wrote a super famous column about chili. Perhaps an exploding toilet filled with chili would do the trick.

I know it would get my attention.

What about a trap like the ones manly men set in the wilderness to trap bears and lions and mountain trolls? I don’t want anything that might injure them by ferociously snapping their legs, but rather something involving a plate of snacks and a net.

Wonder what successful writers eat? Personally I enjoy banana pudding, but as I presently do not legally qualify as a successful writer, I’d better do some more research on that. What do you wanna bet it’s something frilly like cucumber sandwiches or Sloppy Joes with the crust cut off?

I’ve got it! Remember how Bugs Bunny used to throw on a dress and slap on some lipstick and giant eyelashes to lure the Tasmanian Devil? I’ll bet if I were to promise Mr. Man he would get some chocolate covered cherries out of the deal, I could get him to Bunny up to help capture my targets.

I’m off to shop for pudding and chili. As for you, keep your eye on CNN and keep your mouth shut. We never had this conversation.


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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Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online

Doopity-doo, I've got another riddle for you.

I feel like a big ole loser with a capital Loo.

If you’re a regular reader you know that recently Mr. Man and I have been getting surgery for fun. Some people play cards, some drink. We enjoy having guys cut things out of us.

It’s not our fault. Blue Cross is one hell of an enabler. It’s like having a Gold Card, only instead of a swanky hotel room with bountiful room service, we order up medical care.

Our time together is spent now with Mr. Man limping around the house and never bending at the waist and me eating my Vanilla Wafers and then describing to him in graphic and spectacular detail what happens to them once they hit my stomach.

Brangelina wishes they were this hot.

But I’ve noticed a striking disparity between how Mr. Man is handling his unavoidable slow down as opposed to how I am handling mine. It leads me to wonder whether it’s just a difference in my husband and me, or whether it’s a difference in men and women in general.

His room (the space where he is convalescing) is quite plainly disgusting. It’s littered with DVD’s, chocolate stars, empty pop bottles and underwear. It looks like something Gene Simmons would have done to a hotel room in 1975 and smells like it might possibly be the very same room.

He loves it, though. It’s his own personal cave where he is free to indulge his baser male desires and heal in his own way, in his own time.

And that’s perfect with me. So long as he gets his filth on in a room that I don’t have to enter, it’s all good.

What you don’t see him doing is standing in front of a mirror examining every wrinkle and every lump and every imperfection and crying because if he were any kind of man, his lengthy medical troubles would have at least resulted in substantial weight loss so his cheek bones would stand out.

Nor does he compare himself to every other person who’s ever had back surgery in the history of the world and decided they were better than him and he’s a big piece of cacadoodie because he still feels so bad.

If he is lying in his bed at night telling himself everyone hates him because he isn’t well yet, he’s not said anything to me. He never seems to feel guilty about lying down when he feels like he needs to, if he wants something indulgent he asks for it, and I’m almost positive he is not questioning whether if he died, anyone would even bring a casserole with cheese in the middle and Ritz crackers on top.

But I am.

I’m knee deep in wanting to run far, far away and live with the Oompa-Loompa’s because I know I’ll look better than them, no matter how crappy I feel. I also know that they, above everyone else, would understand and love me right now as their odd skin color suggests they are a chronically unhealthy people who are accustomed to uninterrupted nausea and bloating.

Although come to think of it, they were also terribly judgmental, weren’t they? Always just around the corner breaking into song about some kid’s flaws and doing a little superior dance.

Purple bitches.

So is it just me, or does every woman who is going through a rough patch of some kind feel unloved, unworthy and unacceptable? When they have had a year full of ups and downs and maybes and feeling bad, would most women feel the way I do, or would they put on their pumps, suck it up and puke in their office trash can?

Do men have it right? And if they do have it right, do we tell them, or do we make them think they’re wrong anyway and finagle an apology out of them because we know how to do it?

For the answers to these and other questions, stay tuned next time for the continuing saga of As the Crazy Turns.


Listen to this:

Love Amos Lee and love, love, love this song. Perfection. Arms of a Woman.



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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Scarlet billows start to spread.

If I go on a cruise, I want it to be on a ship with no more than one level, all the furniture must be the blow up kind like you can buy in the toy section of Wal-Mart and preferably where no one (but me) weighs more than a Super Model.

Instead of massive (and obviously heavy) buffets, I want everyone to be served only
Jell-o, Cool Whip and tiny paper cups filled with Tang.

And absolutely nothing else.

Well, maybe some 3 Musketeers bars ‘because I’ve seen them float on TV.

I also want tiny, skinny, cruise guards with big inflatable guns whose job it will be to anally probe every person onboard in search of Weapons of Mass Cruise Destruction. Things like bombs and toxic chemicals and pointy things that can poke holes in a boat.

In addition to having each orifice of every guest thoroughly searched, I would like them forcibly weighed. Anyone found to weigh enough to sink a ship will have ten minutes to purge down to an acceptable cruise weight or will be shoved overboard.

As an aid, sex videos starring Keith Richards & Rush Limbaugh will be featured in the Mary Kate & Ashley Purging Solarium.

No matter what anyone else does, I’ll wear a lovely green life vest every minute of every day, a set of water wings, and I’ll keep an empty 2 liter pop bottle under my arm for added security. Of course, I will also wear jewelry made out of material that is repulsive to sharks and squid. I’m not entirely sure what that material would be at the moment, but I would guess it would be something that doesn’t taste like blood.

Or tuna.

Additionally, my room will have to be made entirely of things that float. There will be no need for a bed as I will sleep in a fully inflated life boat with a Styrofoam lifesaver as my pillow. Actually, I won’t even need a place to lie down as I will be sitting right behind the captain every night making sure he doesn’t hit an iceberg.

For the duration of my vacation, I will be adamant a ban of jumping up and down by anyone for any reason is put into place. In fact, I think I’ll bring a whistle to help enforce that measure.

There will be no heavy walking allowed and in the name of all that is obsessive, no one will ever lean over or even get near the edge. I will also insist that no more than ten people at a time stand on one side of the ship so that it does not flip over.

So long as these rules are strictly adhered to, I may be able at some point to grant my kid’s wish and go on a cruise. Hopefully one that offers an onboard short term mental health facility complete with complimentary pills.

I may not know a lot of things, like how to roller skate or get a book published, but I do know you simply cannot put something as big and heavy as a cruise ship on top of the water and expect it not to sink.

It makes about as much sense as airplanes getting and staying in the air and tall buildings not falling down when people on the top floors buy heavy furniture or run too much water in the tub.

Today's song had to be by My Michael: Mack the Knife.

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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Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online

First cousins typically get married in bowling alleys, right?

Mr. Man is a goober.

Sure, I love him and sure, he has a sweet dime collection I’m hoping to inherit when he dies, but that does not change the ugly truth. Even though his spine surgery took place at a hospital nicer than any hotel he has ever taken me to, and even though he came through the surgery beautifully, he was the single worst patient in the whole world.

He wanted out of the hospital the very minute he awakened from anesthesia and felt compelled to tell me so pretty close to 209 times. Each time he said it by the way, his tone implied he was in prison and I was the burly guard that stood between him and freedom. “Get this stuff off me,” he said, pointing to the white panty hose that pumped every few seconds in prevention of life threatening blood clots… and sleep.

Although I tried in a big way to free my man from his shackles so that he might limp to the bathroom to go potty, they wouldn’t budge. Which pissed him off, frankly. And his being pissed off got me pissed off and before I knew it, there was a big old pissing contest going on and he still hadn’t even made it to the toilet.

I rang for a nurse. They go to school for many years to learn how to take things off patients, after all. In a flash, a cutie in scrubs arrived to save the day and just when she did, an honest to goodness miracle happened right before my eyes.

“Did you need something, Honey?” she asked the Man.

Suddenly Mr. Man, the king of grumpiness and discontent, turned into Mr. Man, Hugh Hefner’s twin brother. He practically cooed when he said, “No, no. I’m great.” Lucky for me there is something inherently unappealing about a man whose behind is hanging out of an ugly green gown.

Even my suave husband couldn’t pull off an effective flirt when dressed like a white trash old lady who was on her way to a wedding at the bowling alley.

“Please go find an East German nurse with big, man hands who has recently been dumped by her boy toy,” I said to Nurse Centerfold. “And ask her if she would enjoy forcibly shoving a catheter into my husband’s weenis. In fact, I don’t even care if she’s a nurse. Just locate a large, angry woman, give her a tube and send her in.”

I am happy to report however, that Mr. Man is home from the hospital and on the mend. He is allowed to sit up forty-five minutes at a time, which is fabulous because forty-five minutes is not that long.

Just kidding. You know I love him and enjoy every single second of his company. Really.

How am I doing? Why, thank you for asking.

I’m crappy. My tummy is sick with every bite of food I eat and sick when there are no bites of food. The law of physics says I should weigh nine pounds and yet I do not. (I have no idea what physics is, but other than gravity, it’s sort of the only law I’m aware of, plus it makes me sound smart.)

On a positive note, I have a stalker now, so I’m pretty psyched about that. I’ve always wanted one, but it’s terribly awkward to ask someone you know to do it. The best you can do is hope that one day someone will take the initiative to do it without having to be asked. Thankfully such a person has appeared in my inbox.

Wanna be vicariously stalked? Read on...

From the Toad Suck Guy:

Greetings Sher,

This has been an exciting week. My life has changed because of you, or it may have been the $100.00 I sent the TV preacher for the results-guaranteed anointed prayer cloth. No, it must be you, because the preacher says he needs another $100.00, and I didn't win the lottery.

When I first emailed you it was going to be a one time deal. But now that I have gained status (albeit #32) on the much sought after potential husband list, I feel obligated to write to you one more time, thanking you. This is beyond my wildest dreams. I won't contact you again until you write inform me that I have ascended into the top ten. Or you come to Toad Suck Daze. I haven't decided which is more likely. Hmmmm

Since receiving notification of my position on your list almost one week ago, I have been wondering if I've moved up? I have been watching CNN to see if anyone resembling you had been charged with a spectacular felony.

Once the waves of euphoria subsided (I had to take some Dramamine). I went to purchase trigger locks and a small safe in which to store sharp objects while I am sleeping. I then sought to devise a plan to accelerate (short of most, certainly not all, illegal acts) my movement up your list.

But first one tiny question. I have the guns and knives covered, but have the words "blunt force trauma" ever been associated with the departure of any of your ex-husbands? No? Good, this may be better than I anticipated.

I have decided that as soon as the Chevy is paid off I'm getting a Ford. For inspiration I even bought a little model of a Ford truck. Had it up on the TV right next to the rabbit-ears, but it is rusting-out, and the oil leaking out of it ran down the TV screen. In anticipation however, I'm fixing up the old Rollahome (a prestigious name in vintage mobile homes) hauled off the 2 year accumulation of trash, (girlfriend excluded) new bales of straw, fresh newspaper on the pantry shelves, couple of new velvet Elvis paintings, (paid top dollar for them too, right out of the parking lot behind the Piggly-Wiggly), possum scented candles, you know, homey stuff that girl's like, and (are you sitting) I bought Uncle Newt's collection of over 350 salt & pepper shaker sets. The bidding down to the auction house Friday between me and Rafe Jones was hot, but I won. Got a standing ovation. I Only had 50 bucks and it was either the collection or a color TV but I think the old black & white is good enough. Only get 1 station anyway, PBS. I started building shelves to hold the collection today. I am using lumber Cooter got free down at the rendering plant. Be right back, I gotta make myself a note to buy more scented candles. Painted the trailer too, but at Unclaimed Freight Salvage they didn't have enough of one color to do the whole thing, so the front is blue and the back is green, it kinda has to grow on you. On a more positive note, when the new ones arrive, I have dibs on all the old carpet samples for my living room. You do like multi-color shag don't you?

Knowing women are always impressed by gourmet cooking I will prepare a meal. I even bought some canned goods with no dents in 'em and with labels on them (what the heck is a garbanzo)? At UFS (I buy almost everything there) they charge a little more for food when the date isn't expired and you can tell what is in the can, but I can tell you are classy, and impressing you is worth the extra expense. As for the main course, I will "run it down" later. I'm a pretty good cook, and have been helping out at Billy-Bobs Cafe and Auto Body Shop. The locals say my meals have brought new meaning to the phrase "Fresh Off The Grille".

That being said, and though I can scarce contain my feelings of joy, I find your reluctance to introduce me to a female friend a bit selfish. You did mention the husband queue moves quickly, but I feel If you knew a little about my track record, you would know that by the time my number comes up, at least seven or eight women will have come and gone. One girl recently left me after an insignificant quarrel over something I'm sure all couples have disagreed on at one time or another, the best method of stretching and drying Muskrat skins.

When my last girlfriend discovered I was corresponding over the Internet with a girl, that I met through the personals in the "Arkansas Fur Trappers Gazette", and found out the lady had offered to send me money for a bus ticket to meet her; well she demanded her email address, and I thought surely there would be a fuss, but I later discovered girlfriend had offered to go half on the ticket, and pack me a lunch! This girl was cute, but a little mean. Hunted with a crossbow, liked it because it was quiet. She was a little too fond of field dressing game to be considered normal (actually none of my girlfriends were normal). Boy, she could fillet a fish in about 45 seconds. I thought it was great until it occurred to me that to fillet a boyfriend would take her only slightly longer. She carried a knife in her boot. Come to think, you don't have a sister that lived in Arkansas do you? She finally ran-off with my best friend, taking my favorite coon-hound. I sure miss that hound. His name was Count. Neighbors all said my dogs were no-account. Guess I showed them he was
a-Count. Don't miss the guy at all....never met him! I met her at a biker rally (another whole story) should have known better, mostly big, burly, mean, hairy, bearded, tattooed, sweaty, beer drinkers, and the men were even worse!

I wanted to mention that there is ample space for a couple more mobile homes and lots of dead vehicles, with room to spare for the boats, ATV's, and broken appliances. Yer kin will be welcome!

Please keep me apprised of my status, I was hoping this additional information would move me up a little in the queue. I feel the trailer renovation (just think of that carpeting) alone should place me in the mid twenties.

AgriBiz

PS: Almost forgot, two on top two on the bottom, but none of 'em line up.

Note from Sher: #29 now. You're welcome.



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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Funny. I always wear my hog boots in the bedroom

I have only two rules that I live by. Wait.. no... I have only three rules that I live by. Crap, I was right the first time. There are definitely only two.

They are as follows:

1. Try never to post twice in the same day no matter how much apple scented Glass Plus I drank before turning on my computer.

2. Never, ever under any circumstances post anything that makes someone else appear funnier than me. (Unless they are funnier looking than me, in which case I am totally OK with it.)

Sometimes rules, much like marriage vows and diets, should be broken.

This arrived in my inbox one day ago:

Dear Sher,
Perhaps you would enjoy a visit to the annual "Toad Suck Daze" festival.

This extravaganza is held in, where else but, Toad Suck, Arkansas (where else).

Yes there is such a place.

Click here: 2006 Toad Suck Daze

As if I weren't excited enough to find out that Toad Suck Daze exists, imagine my delight when this evening as I'm about to go to bed, I find yet another email from Toad Suck Guy waiting for me.

Dear Sher,
If you decide to attend the Toad Suck Daze (and it's inconceivable to me how you could pass on this).

I was wondering if it might be possible to invite a single female friend to come along. Don't be afraid to lie to her. Preferably one that you wouldn't mind if never spoke to you again, and owns a bass-boat and motor. If you know such a person, I would like to have a photo of the boat and motor before meeting her. I would also consider a female with a newer model ATV. Don't take this personally now, but someone unlike yourself, as I keep guns and knives in the house, and have an inordinate fear of waking up dead some morning.

(So what? Just because I sometimes threaten to commit a small homicide now and then I'm not good enough to be asked to Toad Suck Daze? That stung a little.)

I am considered a pretty-good catch here in Arkansas as I have four teeth, here's the best part, all in front! (I can see why he's a catch. I am left to wonder however whether they are all in a row.)

I have some hair (Bonus!) but I keep my John Deere (foil lined of course) cap on most of the time. I am not overweight, and don't drink, but for the right girl I am certain I could learn. Come to think; someone like yourself might work OK for me learning to drink though.

(There it is again. He takes me right to the brink of getting my hopes up thinking I might "work" for him, and then says it's only because I am the kind of woman who turns a stand-up guy into a drunk. That one made my back hurt. I may never recover.)

I never wear my hog-boots in the bedroom. (Sad. Perhaps you should try it.)
My favorite designer label is Carhart.
(I own one of those! One of the ex-husbands bought it for me after our divorce because I said I admired his. See??? If ex-husbands still like me enough to purchase unattractive outerwear for me, that's gotta say something.)

I can't resist boasting here, only 6 more payments on my 1985 Chevy truck. Might need some help with the payoff.
(I'm a Ford girl. This may present a problem.)

I have a nice 1968 8' wide trailer on 90 acres. If you could roll out the hills and hollers it would be over 300 acres and (sorry, boasting again) four trucks and a car up on blocks in the front yard. I just put new carpeting in the bathroom, and it looked so nice, I ran it all the way to the house!
(That'll be great for those late night strolls.)

The porch is beautiful, and will easily support the weight of 8 hounds, 3 old refrigerators, and a upholstered sofa at the same time.
(He's a land owner with a cozy cottage fixer upper. I'm a Realtor. Can't he see this is a match made in Heaven?)

The lucky princess would have this wonderful domicile pretty-much all to herself during hunting and fishing season. I would just come by occasionally to drop off dead critters for cleaning. Depending on how cute she is, maybe even a pre-cut supply of stove wood, you get my drift here?

(Was that some sort of hillbilly innuendo there? I almost think it was!)

I have color coordinated his and her chainsaws.

Job you may ask? Well.....sadly ....my job petered out. I had a good steady job toting 100 lb sacks of sugar through the woods, but some vandals came and busted all the barrels and jars, and stole the boiler. Is nothing sacred any longer?

(This I get as I am a Southern girl whose grandparents lived across the way from a moonshiner. I feel his pain.)

There are lots more details, but I don't wish to waste your time, or get my hopes up. This is a very small town, and it is obvious to everyone, even strangers, that I have no wife or girlfriend. They can tell by observing my truck, the BeechNut tobacco stains run down only the driver's side.
(BeechNut was my Granddaddy's chew. Now I am obsessed for real. I need to get this man to forget my friend and beg ME to come live happily ever after with him in the Land of old mobile homes, lazy dogs and grazing animals that need to be butchered.)

I've never written an email to a stranger before, but you seem understanding. That, and conditions here are desperate.
(I am understanding. Everybody says so. And pretty. Insanely pretty.)

Seriously now, hope you are feeling better. Keep it up, I enjoy the laughs.

AgriBiz

Dear AgriBiz,
Sure, when you bring the OCD Chick into your life you are risking some of the madness rubbing off onto you. One minute you're fine and happy and the next, I have you helping me line up all the magazines at Wal-Mart in order of how often the number seven appears throughout the publication. And yes, there is always the possibility that you will wake up one morning to find I have shot you in the head. But the times between what I like to call the wild swings of the pendulum of crazy can be pretty freaking fantastic. I'd hate for you to miss that.

Your request for a friend has been denied. Instead I'm putting you on my husband waiting list where you will occupy the number 32 spot. Don't worry. The line moves quicker than you'd think. You'll thank me for it, and once it's ended... as they always do, you will love me so much, you'll be oddly compelled to buy me a coat.

You are a lucky, lucky man.
Signed,
Mrs. Crazy on Her AgriBiz





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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Regret makes me burp.

The cavalry is coming today in the form of a tiny, silver haired woman named Mother. Thank you God because I think I'm very close to my wit's end.

To be sure, anybody know what the end of a wit looks like? I may already be there and don't even recognize it.

I still feel like doodie and tomorrow is back surgery for Mr. Man. Of course, I will be at his side no matter how I'm feeling. (Along with my baggie of Cheerios and my thermos of Ensure.) Mine will be the first face he sees when he comes out of recovery. I will sit by his bedside all night, kiss his forehead a hundred times and while he is under the influence of intravenous pain medications, I will ask him if he thinks I'm pretty.

If he says yes, I will bat my eyes and pretend his compliment came out of left field. If he says anything other than yes... and very quickly, I might add... I will bat my eyes and angrily pinch his hose.

I might even pinch his IV tube.

Someone said to me yesterday, "I don't think your body was even close to fully recovered from thyroid surgery before you had your gallbladder out and that's why you're having such a rough time bouncing back. You should try and rest more."

Big old duh. Can you say high TSH? Can you aluminum? (Good, cause I can't.)

They continued with, "I don't think you should have any more surgery for awhile."

As if my surgeries have been elective, like a boob job or rhinoplasty. "Hey Doc! I'm bored. Why don't we start taking my organs out one by one?"

I'm gonna go ahead and file that last little tidbit under S for stupid things to say to Sher. Dammit, too. I was hoping to have Surgeon cut out my liver in celebration of my April birthday.

You'll forgive me if I'm grumpy. My world has been taking a one-two punch for a while now and I sorta am grumpy.

And pretty. Don't forget pretty.

I am the kind of person who believes there are no accidents. I believe people, places and things are either as they should be or are trying to be as they should be. For a long time I've felt like the Universe has been nudging and whispering, trying to get me to make the most out of this life I have, rather than always buckling up for safety and letting everyone around me drive.

Good lord, I'm deep.

And pretty. So, so pretty.

Lately though the Universe is screaming at me. To be fair, it screams in my direction on a pretty regular basis about one thing or another. Sometimes I listen and do what I need to so that I don't have to live with a stomach full of regret. More often, I plug my ears and recite the Pledge of Allegiance until it stops.

I think with all the drama and organ removal in my house recently, I'm pretty close to listening. (Whose a pretty girl?) I'm afraid if I don't get my world moving in the right direction, Surgeon is gonna tell me my heart has to go or the Vet will wanna remove the dogs' lungs.

I'm off now to put on some lipstick so my Mother will not walk in the door and tell me I'd feel better if I'd put on a little make-up. Please send Mr. Man good spinal vibes and as for me, your continued thoughts and words of encouragement will be appreciated.

Oh, and a couple completely unexpected and totally unsolicited 'you are pretty's' would be all right, too. I'll act like I never saw it coming.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.



Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com

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I'm hoping Larry Seidlan will preside.

Am I a bad girl if I want to consume alcohol and lick toads right now?

Before you judge, keep in mind that my husband is unwell with a herniated disk and I am still living off Ensure & Honey Nut Cheerios... because apparently not having a gallbladder isn't the dream I thought it would be.

So, if I want to sweetly and softly place a pillow over Mr. Man's head for some length of time, does that mean I will never get to meet those five people in Heaven Mitch Albom was so excited about?

Don't get me wrong. I love him. (Mr. Man, not Mitch Albom. Not that I don't like Mitch Albom. I really do. We just haven't spent enough time together for me to love him. Usually takes about five minutes and a couple beers.) I love my husband awful and terrible and I could not live one twenty-four hour period of time without him.

Having said that, I may want to kill him a little.

I know I get married for fun and profit more than most people, but there are two very good reasons for my nasty marital addiction.

Number one reason: I am a Southern girl who was taught that saying no is impolite.

Number two reason: I need a man in my life at all times to fulfill each of the manly duties spelled out in the book of Genesis. If memory serves, it states men were invented to reach high things, kill creepy crawlies and fix things that fall apart... wives included. (I'm paraphrasing.)

It's Mr. Man's recent lack of fulfillment of that number two there that has triggered this maniacal version of myself. It's his fault I am falling apart a little and therefore left to handle my mental destruction with either an illegal habit or a small homicide. (Nothing messy. I have enough to do.)

Today, despite the fact that I have a sick tummy and have taken to burping like a college boy whose been out drinking all night, I had to do man things! Trash needed to go out, heavy things needed to be lifted, and I smelled something funny in the back room that truly should have been investigated. (Funny as in bad, not funny as in I left a clown under the bed and forgot about it. I know the difference.)

I had to do freaking man chores! How is that right? I have to do the woman things in this house, no matter how icky I feel or how loud I am burping. But let Mr. Man herniate something that he thinks is supposed to remain un-herniated and suddenly he can't climb a ladder or properly dispose of a boiled chicken carcass. (I was doing a little black magic this morning and a homemade chicken carcass has superior dark magic qualities to a store bought one.)

I was a trooper though. A regular feminist. I fought back the tears, chewed back my stomach contents, and screamed, "Soooooooooonnnnnnnnn!" Hey, it's about time my twelve-year-old learned more about the Old Testament.

PS: Will I get high if I lick any toad, or does it have to be a toad that uses illegal drugs on a regular basis?


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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Don't you wish your girlfriend was healthy like me?

My life is extraordinarily magnificent right now. So magnificent in fact, I think you should stop wherever you are and allow envy to wash right over you. (And then go wash your hands ‘cause envy is full of germs.)

Everyone I know thought I would bounce right back after my gallbladder surgery just like Tigger.

Tigger. You know. The bouncy tiger from Winnie the Pooh? Jeez. Do I have to explain everything? I guess while I’m explaining I should also explain that everyone I know is French for nobody but me.

Because you stranger people and I have such a tight blogger-reader connection, I feel like I need to be blunt in a way to which you may be unaccustomed, so brace yourself for my brutal honesty. I may even say bad words.

I feel like crap. I do, kids. I really feel like complete fecal matter. My tummy is sick, my left ovary hurts, and I can’t eat anything and I mean anything, without suffering the sensation of having consumed a heaping bowl of fresh bricks floating in liquid soap.

Dammit.

I never thought I’d say this, but I think I miss my gallbladder. Sure it was diseased and gross, but at least I knew what to expect with it. (Come to think of it, that precisely describes my relationship with my first ex-husband.)

Since Surgeon cut it out, I feel like my body is mad at me, with my stomach being the maddest. In view of the fact that in the last few months I’ve voted my thyroid and my gallbladder off the island, its clear to me she’s worried about whether or not she’s gonna be the next to go.

If she doesn’t straighten up, she might be.

Oh, and let’s not forget the whole Mr. Man ordeal. Remember how he had the nerve to get a herniated disk right before my surgery? Well Tuesday is his surgery date in the Big City. That’s right. More surgery is in store for the Crazy on Her Face family. More time off work. More house getting messier and messier. More, more, more.

I’m crazy excited. Crazy anyway.

We’re going to get through all this, though and when it’s over, we’ll be the single healthiest husband and wife in the whole, big world. People will come from far away to stand near to us, leave gifts at our feet and soak up our wicked healthiness. We’ll be just like that grilled cheese sandwich that looked like the Virgin Mary.

Keep reading, blogger readers. I plan on documenting this medical journey like I have never documented before. Think of me often, send me good vibes and in the name of all that is good and decent, if you have a yummy cocktail recipe that uses vanilla Ensure, send it to me immediately.


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.



Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online