You know you like it.

I'm feeling a tad angry today. Maybe its a mid-life crisis or maybe its too few before breakfast cocktails. Who really knows what causes a good woman to go bad. All I know is I have an unbelievable desire to put on black leather, get a skull tattoo and be mean to someone.

To satisfy at least one of those urges, I'll just do this instead.

Dear Sher,
It's me! Please open up!

Dear Person who gets the OCD Chick award for weirdest subject line ever,
No.

Dear Sher,
Happy Birthday, Baby. You're funny, funny, funny and pretty, pretty, pretty.

Dear Birthday wisher,
I'll let the Baby go this time 'cause you said I'm pretty. But, I much prefer Sweetheart. Don't you read this blog at all?

Dear Sher,
I want to make an honest woman out of you. I think it about time that we formalize our relationship of mutual admiration with an exchange of links. Of course if you're already in a relationship, I understand.

Dear Guy who is funnier than me so I hate him,
I've never wanted anything more in my life than to exchange links with someone like you. Please be aware that this ain't my first time at the rodeo though, so I demand we practice safe linking. I have no idea who else you've linked to after all.
(Readers, visit www.ominouscomma.com right now, but then you turn around and come right back here. Don't be sucked in by his fancy words and use of correct punctuation.)

Dear Sher,
As designated virtual stalker, I wanted to get you a nice virtual gift on your birthday.
Do you think it is a little ostentatious?
I hope your Husband hasn't already gotten you one of these. Enjoy! .........TSG


Dear Official WTCOMF stalker,
Don't kid yourself, Darlin'. Using the word "ostentatious" in an email to me is birthday present enough. (Guess what, kids? Toad Suck Guy has a blog now. Go there and demand he blog about his adoration of me frequently.)

Dear Sher,
Hey, I love your blog. I wanted to tell you that Deputy Pretty guy sounds interesting. I wish I had one of those. Where can a girl get her own?

Dear Chick trying to steal my pretty Deputy,
Ummm, sorry. He's a one of a kind, first edition and trust me when I tell you there are no copies. But if boys with badges pop your pistol, maybe you should consider dressing up and breaking the law. I find it grabs their attention.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I know you guys have likely seen this viral video, but sweet lord... if you haven't you will pee your pants. Watch it now.



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!

Quantico sounds like a pony name.

I thought I had a terrible form of super fast growing malignant melanoma on my chest earlier.

Then I realized it was in fact a form of super chocolaty York Peppermint Patty. No further treatment will be necessary.

I knew you’d want to be the first to hear the good news.

With the exception of finding superfluous candy on my boobie that was not cancerous, I’ve had an awful day. Everything I’ve touched has taken me three times as long to do than I planned and my usual brilliance and mad skills have been on the….. ummm….

Crap.

What’s the word? That one word that sounds like a big, hairy German guy?

Fritz! That’s it. My brilliance and mad skills have been on the fritz.

I should also add that I have been highly cantankerous as well. While Mr. Man and my son have not actually threatened me, I can tell they are about to their limit.

I heard them talking amongst themselves about how far I would actually follow a Peppermint Patty trail and whether my son could remain safely buckled while hanging out the passenger side dropping candy on the interstate at high rates of speed.

Amateurs. Any idiot knows I’m not going to eat chocolate I find on the ground.

Just my own body parts.

I have no idea what’s wrong with me, but gun to my head, I would say it has something to do with Rosie leaving The View. Nothing in the whole world could be as upsetting as Rosie leaving and Donald taking credit and Barbara looking forlorn.

Not war. Not school violence. Not state troopers being gunned down.

At least I can take comfort in the fact that it will be talked about every hour on the hour on every TV station for at least a million hours. I’m so excited to see what Nancy Grace has to say about it, I can hardly contain myself. Hopefully she’ll interview Rosie’s third grade teacher to find out whether she colored inside the lines and then segue into an interview with a forensic talk show scientist from Quantico about the warning signs we all missed.

Either way, I have to find a way to get my head in the game and get back to my old self. I guess there’s only one answer. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Tequila soaked, peppermint flavored, chocolate covered Valium.

~*~*~*~
Better than even chocolate. Listen and love it. Or else.




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!

Happy 53rd Birthday to Me.

I'm 53 today.

That was a lie and you know I can't lie to you when you look at me like that. I'm actually 43 today, but if I tell everyone I'm celebrating 53, they'll all say, "Wow! You look at least 10 years younger".

So I'm 53 today. Feel free to discuss my much younger looking self among yourselves.

It will be a regular day for me. No balloons will be blown, streamers strung or cakes lit on fire on my behalf. I may put some Engelbert Humperdinck on the hi-fi later and tap dance, but I can be found doing that just about any day of the week.

So far this morning, no one has remembered it's my birthday. In Mr. Man's defense, he's still a cripple because his back surgery didn't work out too well and so he can't even remember how to pick up his socks half the time.

The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is away at training for her law enforcement employment, so I won't see my best friend on this the day of my birth anniversary. She has however asked me to keep May 5th free on my busy social calendar so that she and I might celebrate my birthday.

The Evil BL still thinks she is going to force me to bowl for my birthday, so clearly she secretly hates me. I am standing firm on my "no wearing other people's gross shoes" policy, but as I am a good friend who is supportive of those I love, I will go to the bowling alley (the name really sums it up, doesn't it?) and cheer on my friend while I pretend to have a good time.

Of course, I will spend most of my evening drenching anyone and anything that comes near me in Germ-X, but in between all that I will fake birthday joy.

I'd better get going now. Although I can find no legitimate reason why the world should not enjoy a federal 4-24 holiday, work awaits.

My present to 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.

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!

Wal-Mart is the Devil.

Rather than counting days now, its only a matter of hours until I am officially one year older. Stupid hours.

I was in Wal-Mart a couple days ago, minding my own business, acting all un-forty-three and everything and totally buying things that a real old lady would never buy. There were no Depends in my cart, no Polident and not one single prune in any shape or form.

I wasn't dressed like an old lady, either. I wasn't wearing an "outfit" with cats or butterflies or cats playing with butterflies on it. No way my shorts and t-shirt were ever for sale on the Home Shopping Network.

I wasn't even carrying a purse. No big old zipper thing with ten outside pockets (all of them full of disposable rain bonnets and handi-wipes) was hanging on my arm. In fact the only thing I did have in my hands was my wallet and my phone. Everybody knows old ladies do not carry Razrs. (Unless they happen to have a Bic in their giant purse on the off chance they run into Monte Hall and he wants to make a deal.)

Crap. A little old lady reference just slipped out.

So anyway, armed with all that info could someone please, for the love of God, tell me why a 100 year old man winked at me in the checkout line, walked around my cart to stand within kissing distance of me and struck up a conversation with this opening line, "You probably weren't around during WWII, but when I was over there, we used to buy Coke syrup and put it in water. It was the closest thing to Coke we could get and even though it tasted awful, we'd drink it. You remember Coke syrup?"

You'll pardon my French when I say WHAT THE HELL???

Probably! I PROBABLY wasn't around in WWII? When did I go from "you definitely weren't around during the last World War", to "you look like there is a chance that maybe your sugar was once rationed".

Am I putting off some invisible vibe or high-pitched sound that attracts men who wear cologne that comes in a brown bottle shaped like an old car? Surely I must be sliding downhill if somebody's great-grandfather thinks I'm Florence Henderson hot.

Ugh.

It could be worse I guess. I could have been so thankful that a man (who isn't forced to do so by law and threat of having to spend at least three hours talking about our relationship) was flirting with me, that I tilted my head, batted my eyes and giggled.

Yeah I did. I so did.

~*~*~*
It's hard to know when its OK to laugh again, isn't it? Life goes on, as they say, but differently to be sure. My thoughts, heart and sincerest sympathy remains with the family, friends and survivors of the Va. Tech tragedy.

kd lang: Hallelujah. Perfection.






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!

Va. Tech

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!

Do me right and nobody gets hurt.

Write this down in a very visible place. Perhaps on the forehead of someone you love or are otherwise forced to look at every day.

4-24.

That, my friends, is my birthday and if you are one of the American affluent who own a calendar, you can see that it is fast approaching.

Last year I spent my birthday in the hospital with my daughter Kitten because a pretend dentist decided to play the hot new game, “Third World Tooth Removal” without her permission. (See the awful pics here.)

This year I’m hoping she will not do anything to her teeth other than brush them because a) I’m a great Mom who doesn’t want her daughter to be in pain and b) spending your birthday in a hospital while someone that is not you gets IV drugs is not as much fun as you might think.

This year will be oh so different.

They say the best things in life are free. Well, I don’t want any of that free crap for my birthday. I want stuff that costs lots of dollars and causes people I love to go to extraordinary lengths to get it for me.

Nothing says loving like going to a lot of trouble.

In an effort to help, 'cause I'm all about helping my fellow man, here are a couple shopping hints.

A short list of unacceptable gifts:

1. Flowers. I am not a chick who enjoys flowers, so unless and until I am in an urn in a funeral home, I do not want them.

2. Random perfume. I only wear Joop, so a big old bottle of something from the Wal-Mart ten dollars or less collection should not be purchased on my behalf.

3. Teeth whitening products. This one is mainly for my Mother as I still have tons of the stuff left from one of my previous birthdays.

Here is a short list of acceptable gifts:

1. A monkey. Not one of those weird, bargain monkeys with the crazy butts either. I want a monkey that I can dress in tiny pants and force to hug me whenever I want.

2. White socks. I like new, white socks. I only wear then in the house, but I love them awful. In my opinion, white socks are disposable as they only feel special and new the first time. (Like marriage.) Therefore, I will need barrels full of them.

3. New fire batons. Mine are quite worn as I light them on fire frequently in an effort to win friends and influence people. Even as I write, I am mentally preparing for a twirling session momentarily.

You have your shopping lists now people, so hop to it. Time’s a wasting. And speaking of wasting time, here are some stories from birthdays past. Read and learn.

http://ocd-chick.blogspot.com/2006/04/4-24-64hike.html

http://ocd-chick.blogspot.com/2006/03/im-ok-youre-ok.html

http://ocd-chick.blogspot.com/2005/04/is-that-birthday-cake-in-your-pocket.html


PS: Apparently my stalker thinks this is what I want for my birthday:

Dear Sher,

As designated stalker and # 27 on your potential husband list, I thought you might like an update. Right?

I wanted to show you how I've cleaned up the place (oh, I forgot you hadn't seen it previously) since being placed on the potential husband list. Lookin good huh?



Please take special note of the new mail box with the name Mrs. Sher Toad Suck. It has been located in a place of honor. You can see there is a memorial cross in the background, where Elbow was killed when he flipped his ATV attempting to jump the mailboxes. I vividly recall his last words, and they still bring a tear to my eye. "Hold my beer and watch this!" Touching ain't it.

Even though tactfully worded I was able to ascertain your opinion of bowling. So (I'm a little nervous here) what's your take on shooting pool? I kind of enjoy that. I haven't started drinking yet, but I'm sure with your help I soon will.

What are the official stalker responsibilities? I've never been a stalker before, and may require some advice. Do you suppose I could find a stalker for myself? Female preferably....no absolutely, definitely.
Please let me know the length of the term of service for your "Official Stalker". I get busy with the cattle and hogs this time of year, and may require an occasional substitute.

Another positive note, I recently drove over 200 miles and spent 55 bucks at "Dr. Abdul's $50 Discount Denture Den" for store bought teeth. I even spent $5.00 extra for customizing. The Dr. left a little gap in the middle for the BeechNut juice. I can now launch over 12 feet. I think the teeth look good, but I don't think the dogs trust me. The cats don't seem to care.

~*~*~
Let's chortle together. You first.

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!

You bring out the worst in me. I like that about you.

This is your own fault, really.

You know when you sit down to send me an email I will reply to you in a nice, perfectly normal and not at all crazy way. You also know I might then take that very same email and post it here where I will draw attention to you in a potentially unflattering way and say things that might make you think I am bloated and crampy.

Dear Sher,
I have only recently found your blog and I'm busy trying to read all of your old posts. Regarding today's post on bowling...not only are you forced to wear shoes that are hideous and previously worn by God knows whom....you are also forced to put your fingers into holes that other people have put their fingers in to also. These would be fingers that have been put in places that you don't EVEN want to think about.

Bowling is just disgusting. And yes, bowling alleys do smell like Monkey Ass~

Dear Chick who just put a horrible thought in my obsessive-compulsive head,
Thanks for that. Now that’s all I can think about.

Dear Sher,
LOVE LOVE LOVE your blog...look at all those capital letters!!!! And exclamation points!!! I LOVE it so much I want to comment, but I am either A) dumb and can't figure out where to do so or B) you don't have a comment option...

Help?

Dear BEST READER EVER!!!!
I love, love, love capital letters and exclamation points!!! In fact, the only thing I love more are superfluous words and aching body parts. Next time try to say something like, “Dear Sher, I adore your cogitations. They make my heart leap with joy and my loins ache with envy.”

BTW, to comment, go to the very bottom of the post (beneath the Yahoo feed button) and in very tiny letters you will see the word “comments”. Click, sign in (it’s free… don’t freak out) and say something nice.

Dear Sher,
…your picture (on the blog) has been replaced by a toad.

Dear Astute Reader,
I’m sorry. I thought my readers might like to see my first ex-husband.

Dear Sher,
I find it hard to believe that a dead mouse could land in your lap without some sort of two-minute warning. But, the world is full of strange things. Being obsessed with forensics I would have had to determine the cause and precise time of death, and rule out foul play.

Dear CSI Mouseville,
Don’t bother trying to rule out foul play. The Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is all about foul play. That’s why she’s my best friend.

Dear Sher,
Hello, Wow... a lot of things to consider in this page on the mule rides down the grand canyon!! I'm writing because I just heard that not too long ago..one of the mules did have a heart attack and him with his rider fell over the edge of course killing both. Hmmmmm....wonder why that didnt headline the news??!!!

Dear Hmmmmm,
I knew it! Clearly I am a psychic. Or a mule whisperer. Or drunk.

Dear Sher,
Just wanted to mention that in your little kidnapping scheme you might want to stop by NASA and pickup one of those spiffy diapers.

On another note, I went to hear Susan Powter speak last night in Reno. I am starting to wonder if she is ripping off some of your rants? You might want to investigate..........

Dear Lisa Nowak,
I appreciate the kidnapping tip, but this ain’t my first time at the criminal rodeo. I was using adult kidnapping garments long before you made it cool.

Oh I will investigate alright. Susan Powter is going down. She may be psychotic and weirdly thin, but I am an obsessive-compulsive woman who is about to turn 43 and still hasn’t figured out the secret of life. I have a rage she won’t even see coming until I have popped the top on a big fizzy can of whoop ass.

Dear Sher,
Have the words "blunt force trauma" ever been associated with the departure of any of your ex-husbands?

Dear Toad Suck Guy,
Yes.

Dear Sher,
I recently discovered your site and I am a big fan of your work! I wondered if you had ever thought about writing greetings cards.

Dear Fan of Me,
In fact I have written several, but none have yet been published. What do you think of this one?

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Don’t even think about cheating on me or I will cut off your family jewels and hang them from the tree in the front yard so that all the neighbors will know you are a jewel-less, pathetic excuse for a cheating man.

Too flowery?
How about this one?

Happy Birthday to a great co-worker from the whole gang…
You really need to lose a few pounds and brush your teeth once in awhile. Oh, and a little less Avon Scent of Old Lady Parfum might not hurt either.

~*~*~*~
OK. I hate myself for loving this song, but I can't even help it. Don't tell anybody.
Hinder: Better Than 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.

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!

I can't make my toes do that Fred Flintstone thing.

My best friend, the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou, has threatened to make me bowl.

You heard me right. Bowling. In a bowling alley. With bowlers.

That “sport” whereby a seemingly normal person drives to a place that smells like a monkey’s ass; pays someone for the opportunity to wear clown shoes worn by hundreds of people who were no doubt the cause of the lingering monkey ass smell and then spends hours on end lifting something heavy and throwing it down a narrow lane to try and knock some stuff down.

No offense to those of you who were dropped on your head as a baby and as a result willingly take part in this activity, but what human in their right mind would engage in such a pursuit when they could just as easily stay home, boil some cabbage while wearing a stranger’s shoes and hit themselves in the head with a hammer?

First of all, the OCD Chick does not allow herself to become involved in anything that could be considered athletic by even the loosest definition of the word. I am not one of those girls who can do all the things boys do.

I do not jump… unless it is to pretend I am an astronaut enjoying weightlessness.

I do not bend at the waist… unless I have spied a shiny and potentially expensive object lying on the floor and there is no man around to fetch it for me.

I do not run…unless something large and hairy is chasing me. And even then, I slow down a little to be sure it’s not some guy who wants me to marry him, in which case I keep running, but in the direction of an altar.

Secondly, even if I were struck by lightening and miraculously lived through it, (albeit with a noticeable limp, a constant stutter, and a permanent dent in my head area), I can’t imagine I would be so desperate for companionship that I would pack a big, old ball in a tiny suitcase on a Saturday night and head over to the bowling alley where Toad Suck Guy and I would swill beers, smoke Camels and talk about what the National Enquirer uncovered regarding the link between Princess Di’s death and Karl Rove.

Note to angry readers who bowl: Toad Suck Guy is the official Wiping the Crazy off My Face stalker and as such is obliged to beat you up if you send me mean bowling email.

And finally, I do not hate bowling only because I abhor all things athletic and smelly. I also hate bowling because the last time I tried to do it, (there was male cuteness involved) I accidentally threw the ball backwards in the direction of the cashier thereby causing quite a commotion. A hubbub even.

Have you any idea how hard it is to sneak away from a full blown hubbub when dressed in red, white and blue shoes four sizes too big? They make the tip-toeing away in a stealthy manner virtually impossible.

Nope. No bowling for this girl, Evil BL. No way, no how, not gonna do it, I don’t care how great a friend you are or how many of my slightly criminal and definitely secretive secrets you know.

Unless...This doesn’t involve Fire Marshall Perfection, the most beautiful firefighter in the whole, big world, does it? Is he a bowler? Will he be at the bowling alley lifting and throwing heavy things around?

‘Cause you know, I could totally learn to pretend to love it. I’m bringing my own footwear, though. Do they make a red stiletto bowling shoe???



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!

If you've dreamed of owning plastic, today is your lucky day.

In honor of National Crazy On Your Face Spring Cleaning Week, I have been hard at work. Things have been thrown, trashed and tossed, and I'm not just talking about Mr. Man.

In the process of accomplishing said house cleaning, I found a bunch of stuff I forgot I had and some stuff I couldn't even identify. That's precisely why experts say you should never watch the Home Shopping Channel while under the influence of grown up beverages or leafy, green vegetation.

For example, does anyone know what in the name of all that is plastic this thing is?



It's about four inches long and in fact not a safety pin for a giant baby diaper, as I first thought. I've shown it to everyone I know and they have no idea.

By everyone I know, of course I mean nobody but Mr. Man.

So what the heck is it? If you know, AND you tell me, AND you have the power to make me believe you, I may or may not actually send it to you via US mail. Depends on my mood and whether I believe you to be a terrorist who might use it to blow something up. (Or Bill O'Reilly. I hate Bill O'Reilly.)

FYI, ACME travel penis measuring device has been taken.


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!

Quiet down, class. I'm about to deliver a tongue lashing.

I hope you’ve been paying attention, because today we’re having a pop quiz. You will circle the correct answers (with a #2 pencil, please) and at the end, you’ll receive your grade. There are no essay questions, so you will not have the opportunity to BS me by using a bunch of superfluous, ten dollar words…even though you know how much I love them.

Our topic for this test is “Things Women Ask Men”.


1. “Do you still love me even though I’m not as young and pretty as I once was?”

a) Complete silence. If you are very, very still, maybe she’ll forget what she just asked you and devour another victim.
b) Yes. I still love you.
c) Are you kidding? You are more beautiful now than you were the first time I saw you and I worship the ground you hover above.

2. “See that woman over there in the shorts that show half her coochie and the low cut shirt that says, “Spank me”? Do you like it when women dress that way?”

a) Not only do I not like it, I just threw up a little in my mouth. By the way, when did I eat sauerkraut?
b) I’m sorry, Honey. I didn’t hear you. I was staring at the hot chick.
c) What woman?

3. “You always tell me you loved me from the moment you saw me. If that’s true, what was I wearing the first time we met?”

a) Seriously, when did I eat sauerkraut? I just threw up again.
b) You were wearing that one outfit with the thing around the top and the legs and… you remember, right? Remember? It had the leg holes and the arm holes and everything?
c) I can’t remember the outfit you were wearing because you were so beautiful, I couldn’t think straight.

4. “I’m not feeling well, so I think I’m going to lie down a few minutes. Could you put the laundry in the dryer?”

a) What am I supposed to do for supper?
b) Poor baby. Do you want me to bring you some tea?
c) We have a dryer?

5. “I don’t want anything for my birthday, OK? Especially not a party or presents or anything.”

a) I don’t blame you. Who celebrates birthdays at our age anyway?
b) Do you really mean it this time, or am I going to get my ass handed to me again this year for doing what you tell me to do?
c) You may not think your birthday is a big deal, but how could I not celebrate the day my pretty baby was born? I’m sorry, but I love you too much to ignore it.

And now, your answers.

Question 1: The correct answer is C. Anything else and you can forget sex for at least a week.

Question 2: The correct answer is either A or C, although the smart man will always go with C. Answering with B is the same as saying you do not want sex for at least seven days.

Question 3: C is the only way to go. If you answered A, you have food poisoning and should seek the help of a medical professional. B equals sexless week ahead.

Question 4: If you answered something that was not B, you may as well sleep on the couch for somewhere between 6 and 8 days.

Question 5: C, C, C, C, C. Did you get that? The answer is C. An answer of A or B may as well be followed by, “And I don’t want to touch you until next week.”

PS: Special thanks to our sponsor for this pop quiz, Mr. Man.
“Mr. Man: Proudly saying the wrong thing since 1999.”

Your music video for today: This guy is totally on my coveted next husband list. Sure, he's a little scary, but he's perky.



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!

Anal probing and angels. (That's a great country song title.)

Today marks the beginning of spring cleaning week here at the Crazy on My Face house. Every useless thing must go. All closets, drawers and hidey holes will be free from clutter and anyone who gets in the way of this obsessive-compulsive cleaning machine will be shot.

Maybe not shot, but definitely given a super mean, squinty-eyed, evil glare.

I’m cleaning out my life; literally and figuratively. Everything that does not have significant meaning or value is out the door never to return again. Problem is I have a habit of attaching value to even the most useless things (and sometimes people).

If I told you how many plastic Glad containers I have in my cabinets, you would point and stare in a superior way at the picture on my blog. Suffice it to say there are way too many, especially since not all of them have lids and as the result of spaghetti salvage, many of them are dull orange.

I haven’t thrown them out because in the event of alien invasion I figured they might in fact become currency. I wanted to be sure I could buy my way out of the anal probing the rest of you will be forced to endure.

Open my “junk drawer” and you’ll find approximately nine thousand ink pens. There are pens that have red ink, blue ink, and black ink. Most of them are the ever popular no ink, however. I hate to throw them out because those are the ones I take messages and pay bills with.

My bathroom has a cabinet that should be labeled “Place Where Sher Keeps Things Just In Case She Is Ever Homeless”. Shampoo bottles with one inch of shampoo in the bottom, tubes of toothpaste that I would actually have to cut open in order to extract some toothpaste and of course, countless tiny samples of toiletries that are handy to have when one lives under a bridge.

But by far my most embarrassing clutter has to be my angel collection. I’m mortified to even tell you such a thing exists in my house, much less has lived with me for more years than my son has been alive.

Roughly seventy-eight years ago, I once mentioned there was an angel picture I liked very much. It was a copy of one I’d loved as a child. Before I knew what was happening, angels pretty much flew right into my life. Angel pictures, angel figurines, angels holding pieces of ribbon for no reason whatsoever. Angels kept coming & kept coming because everybody knows Sher loves her some angels.

I couldn’t throw them out because that would be mean, plus the potential for eternal damnation freaked me out a little. Even though the Southern Baptist preachers of my childhood were quite thorough when it came to pointing out all the things that buy you a one way ticket to Eternal Boogie Man Land, I’ve worried throwing angels in the garbage might be such an obvious deal-breaking sin, they figured no one even needed to be told.

As a result of some big changes in my life recently, I’m feeling much braver than ever before, so I’m going to set them all free. The plastic containers, the pens, the angel who lost one of her wings in a freak dusting accident and spends every day holding a watering can that doesn’t actually water anything; they are all going to wind up either in the hands of a garage sale queen who has quarters and absolutely no taste, or a dumpster.

It’s closing time here in the House of Crazy. They gots to go somewhere, but they can’t stay here.

Have a little candy, Candy Man.

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!