Therapists for $100.

I have writer's block. I am blocked like I've never before been blocked and it appears there is nothing I can do but snuggle up with my blockedness and wait for it to pass.

I blame work. I've had to write so many things this past week that I firmly believe I may have actually used all the words I have in stock. There are no more words. At least no funny ones.

It isn't for lack of funny stuff that I can no longer write, that's for sure. Trust me when I tell you a lot of funny crap has happened to me lately and since I am blocked and can't write about it, I guess you really will have to trust me.

One funny thing that happened involved some guy who I thought was going to rape me. See what I mean? That does not sound at all funny when I write it here, and yet it was entirely funny.

He had three or four teeth that were all overlapped into what appeared to be one giant woodchuck tooth. It was yellow. His giant woodchuck tooth, I mean. His hair was slicked to one side with what I assume from the smell wafting off his head was old shortening and he wore a wife beater that was probably once white but the sweat produced from numerous actual wife beatings had turned gray.

This man, this sweaty little man with beady eyes and Velcro tennis shoes, wanted me desperately. I know that sounds like I'm all conceited and everything, but it's true nonetheless. He was giving me the constant "Hey Baby" eye and he tried to woo me with a display of his manliness by putting his foot up on the front bumper of his 1985 Ford four door as we talked.

I was indeed wooed. I think perhaps it was the glimpse of white leg atop his white knee socks that his too short pants uncovered. Yummy.

(Still not funny. Stupid blockage.)

Long story short, he was all up in my personal space and I thought for sure he was going to rape me so I packed up my crazy and left. When I called Deputy Pretty to report my near rape, he said he would "do some checking" which is cop code for "I'm just saying words now so you will go away". He didn't even offer to extend his asp and beat my almost raper senseless.

So I called the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou who it so happens is a 9-1-1 dispatcher. She sent no police cars screaming my way. No burly trigger happy boys in blue were dispatched to my aid. Nope. The best she could do was tell me, "don't marry him". Good advice to be sure, but not what I was hoping for.

Of course, when finally I told Mr. Man, I was absolutely certain that he would kill my sort of wanna be woodchuck rapist and for his crime, spend many years in maximum security where I would visit him every third Sunday and smuggle in his favorite M&M's hidden in a secret baggie. (Not a rectal baggie though. Nobody is worth a rectal baggie.)

Instead of murderous rage however, all I got from the Mister was, "You were not almost raped. You are being dramatic."

To recap, three of the people I love most think I am entirely un-rape-able.

Wait a minute. That's really not funny, is it? See what I mean? Blocked. I'm blocked so bad it's gonna take a huge mental prune danish to unblock me.

What am I going to do? Where do I go? What will become of me?

Woe is me. Woe, I tell you. Flat out serious woe.


Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Ominous Comma. Scary Period. Beady-eyed Exclamation Point.

I'm exhausted. I'm so ragged tired I can't even articulate my level of pooped-out-ed-ness.

As much as I'd love to write something, all I am capable of at the moment is to point you in the direction of someone who is truly funny and who sucked up by referring to me as a dignitary even though I may have compared him to a cannibal murderer.

I meant it in the nicest way, though.

Y'all go over there and check out his blog. Go on now. Get outta here.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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No actual caterpillars were harmed in the making of this column.

When I was in my 20’s, I weighed four pounds. If I ate something huge, like a whole apple, I still only weighed four pounds but I had a noticeable pooch…sort of like one of those snakes that can swallow a whole pig. You could actually follow the lump as it moved through my digestive system.

Even though I sounded like I came from North Carolina, I looked like I had been rescued from Ethiopia. (By a man who was way too old for me and just every bit as loving as a pig-swallowing snake.)

When I got pregnant with my daughter, I weighed a whopping 103 pounds and was absolutely convinced I was the world’s fattest pregnant woman. That probably had something to do with constantly being told I was the world’s fattest pregnant woman.

Little known fact: pig-swallowing snakes can talk.

Now into my forties, I am convinced I am the fattest non-pregnant woman alive. I often dream of the day I get a phone call that I’ve won a liposuction contest that I forgot I entered at the mall. I’d love to go into the hospital looking like me and come out looking as if I don’t eat something post haste, I’m going to pass smooth out. Just once I’d like to have someone tell me I look hungry.

At this age though losing weight is teetering a fine line. Lose just one pound too much and your skin looks all loose and crinkly. Nothing creeps me out more than somebody’s loose and crinkly skin flapping in the breeze.

Things that flap should always be covered when in public. That’s why I demand Mr. Man wear underwear.

It isn’t just my weight that bothers me. It’s my old lady face. It once looked like a piece of smooth porcelain. Now it’s more like a piece of unpolished marble. As a particularly nasty allergy season has settled upon the Midwest, my beauty has only been enhanced by my flaming red & scabby nose and my insanely puffy, blood shot eyes.

I look as if I’ve been in an actual fist fight with someone who is much better at it than I am. (Which could be anybody because I hit like a girl.)

The other morning in an effort to distract the eye of the beholder away from my enormous Rudolph nose, I actually put on false eyelashes. First of all, I may not have many good things going for me, but I do actually have my own eyelashes so I didn’t really need tiny eye wigs.

And second of all, women who have to wear extremely strong glasses to see their own face have no business trying to put glue on something they will stick on their eyes. I can’t even see to tie my own shoes without glasses any more. Before I was finished, I had plastered long, black eyelashes all over my face. I looked like I seriously needed to be waxed by a very aggressive Russian woman.

I’m happy to report however that when I finally got them on my actual eyes, they did serve as the distraction I’d wanted.

No one noticed my nose, but some mentioned perhaps my eyes were so red because I had a serious allergic reaction brought on by wearing caterpillars on my eyeballs. Oh and one lady offered me her tweezers because apparently I’d missed a stray glued on hair that was blowing in the breeze just above my lip.

If when God created women he decided in his ultimate wisdom that when we enter mid-life we should look more and more like somebody’s Grandmother with each passing day, then I suppose I could suck it up and live with it. But, I really think it should have been at least equal among the sexes.

I mean come on. Men typically grow more handsome as they get older. The salt and pepper hair, the distinguished lines in their faces, the additional digits in their checking account balance. It’s not fair!

You never hear a man softly crying in the bathroom every morning as he applies spackle and KILZ to his face before going to work. You never see a man saying no to cheesecake because he knows what cheesecake looks like on his ass. And I am absolutely certain that the reason Lee doesn’t make press on beards is because no man would be caught dead super- gluing fake hair to his face.

Or would they? Dibs on the press on beard patent.


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

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I wish one of those green butterflies would visit.

My entire life I’ve struggled with sleep. I think it’s because I’m such a control freak that I can’t stand the idea of being unconscious for hours at a time. Sleep is a ridiculous idea anyway when you think about it. Our time on this planet is so short, who wants to waste a single minute of it?

Sometimes it’s the pressing issues of our time that keep me awake. There’s global warming, the war in Iraq, homeland security, and Brittney Spears.

Oh Brittney. Brittney, Brittney, Brittney.

I’m not even about to get into why this chick is insane. I don’t care to know the root of her insanity, although if I had to hazard a guess I’d go with Too Much Damn Money and Not Enough Right Raisin’ for $100.

What keeps me awake nights is why the collective we are captivated by her madness. It’s too easy to say she is a blonde car wreck. I think it has more to do with our desire to look at anything but what’s really going on around us. When we are in the middle of a war that a recent poll by the Associated Press says 57% of us think was a mistake to begin with, Brittney’s brand of crazy tastes like a sweet diversion.

Wow. That was deep. I’d better say something funny quick before this thing goes in the ditch.

What do you call two banana peels?

A pair of slippers.

Whew, that was close but I think we can all agree I pulled it off.

In addition to the fair-haired distraction, I am also kept awake by worry over people I love. Since I love a lot of people, there are lots of reasons to never sleep again.

I worry my daughter Kitten is happy enough, has enough of everything she wants and that she knows every second of every day how proud her Mother is of her.

I worry that Mr. Man will forget to love me even though I threaten…I mean remind him every day of his life.

I worry Deputy Pretty will eventually run out of twenty-something brainless beauties to “date” and will be forced to move away to the North Pole…which is probably home to the only women left on Earth he hasn’t tagged.

I can’t believe I just said tagged. Does that even mean what I think it means or did I accuse DP of playing a really fun 3rd grade game? I’m such a dork. That worries me.

I worry that the Big Dog will break something important when he’s playing football like his neck or his penis or my heart.

Like last week at his middle school season opener.

You know how I’m a crazy good football player, right? Well, it seems genetics are both wondrous and mysterious because as it happens, my son the Big Dog is also a crazy good football player.

I have only myself to thank.

The minute the pads went on the Big Dog was transformed from mild-mannered boy into aggressive bone-breaking demon spawn. It was beautiful. Again and again his name came over the loud speakers and although they gave him the credit for whatever grand thing he’d done, it sounded to me like they were saying, “Woo-hoo for Sher!”

The opposing team, I’ll call them the Big City Losers, were all roughly nine feet tall and had chest hair. A couple of them were smoking filter-less cigarettes on the side line and others were writing child support checks to some of the cheerleaders.

As the Big City Losers approached their headquarters, or “goal”, one of them foolishly attempted to throw the ball to another one. My son, my boy, my superstar in cleats, snatched the ball right out of the air and began to run away with it.

Five of those white click marks on the ground went by. Another five. And when he was just about to run past another five click marks, three of the Big City Losers had the audacity to grab him, throw him to the ground and then pile on top of him.

I reached for the gun Mr. Man always keeps stuck in the back of his pants. As I was about to go all Charlie’s Angels on their asses I realized my baby wasn’t getting up. He lay there and lay there and lay there.

I stopped breathing. I wanted to hop over all things in my way and run to him but his Father on my left and his Step-Father on my right forbade me. When coaches motioned for the EMS crew, I gently encouraged his Dad to get down there right away. Very, very gently with only minimal curse words and shooting gestures.

Long story short, we got to spend hours in a Big City hospital with the same name as an ice cream topping. (Who calls a hospital Carmel any way?) He’s OK, thank God, but the what-ifs have kept me awake ever since.

“Do you want to be paralyzed from the neck down or do you want to play football?” I asked the boy at supper the next night.

“Are those my only choices?” he asked.

I’m never sleeping again.

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

My new most favorite song in the big wide world.







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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Wing tips and clean underwear. Awesome.

Sometimes people love me. I don't know why. I'm not exactly always lovable. Truth be told I'm not exactly always even tolerable.

I've been told by more than one man that I am a "hand full" and I'm reasonably sure they did not mean that in a nice way.

Despite all that, once every decade or so I've been fortunate enough to have a man or two fall in crazy love with me. Sometimes they have recently suffered a head injury, sometimes they have tremendous mommy issues and are looking to work through them by having me do their laundry and yell at them to put the seat down and of course sometimes, they are simply so drunk they can't taste the roofie in their beer.

Sadly the older and more married I become, the fewer the number of men who are spontaneously falling at my feet... unless it's directly related to sudden hip breakage. Even though I know a husband in the hand is worth two in the bush, I'm still an insecure girl at heart and I admit I frequently feel old and ugly.

Once in a while I have what I'm saying is a very honest human need to reassure myself by trying to turn a man's head. (That made me sound like I'm a ninety-five year old grandma who thinks men can't resist me when I roll my stockings down around my ankles and put my teeth in.)

A week or so ago a guy I've never met came into my office for a reason I never really figured out. I think he was selling encyclopedias or babies or something. He was in his thirties I would guess and was dressed professionally. Slacks, tie, clean underwear, wing tips.

I like wing tips.

Anyway, he was pretty and I was feeling sort of exceptionally ugly and old that day, so I did what all good Southern girls do when we want to capture a man's attention. I cranked up the accent to somewhere between Scarlett O'Hara and Sling Blade and batted my eyes so hard a little wind picked up and blew his hair back.

It immediately worked. (The eye batting, not the roofie.)He puffed up his chest and we shared a very intimate moment.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Working."

"Whatcha working on?"

"Stuff."

"Where you doing stuff? You doing stuff back there (gesturing to my office), or you doing stuff up here (reception area)?"

Sure he was handsome, but it was his intellect that captivated me.

"Back there." By now I was literally twirling my hair like a ten-year-old girl and giggling so hard it occurred to me I might pee if I didn't tone it down a little.

"Awesome."

As I stood there looking deep into the eyes of a complete stranger who had just used the word awesome in an effort to woo me, I wondered what the odds were that he had awakened this morning feeling bloated and was on the prowl for someone to make him feel pretty for a minute.

Do men do that, too? You think they stand in front of the mirror pulling their face back behind their ears so they can see how they'd look if they had a face lift?

Is it possible they sometimes push their boobs together and ask their wife if they'd look better if they had them done? Could it be that men are more like women than women have ever thought they might be?

Maybe this chance encounter with this random guy wasn't so much chance as it was meant to teach me that even though I sometimes feel unloved and ugly, everyone feels that way from time to time and it will pass. I've always believed that everyone who crosses our path is put there to teach us something and so maybe this man was teaching me that it doesn't matter so much what I look like on the outside so long as I am a good person on the inside.

Nah. He was just a perv used baby salesman looking for a good time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lord help me, I do love him awful.




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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Unstalkable?

Dear Sher,

Just so you'll know I'm still around, I wanted to send you the link to this tender ballad! What can I say. This guy could be from Arkansas. I used half a box of Kleenex myself, listening to it. Hope this will move me up the PHL. (potential husband list)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egCeIwjIuZM

Dear TSG,

Thank heavens you are still stalking me. I was starting to feel a little unstalkable. That song was very romantical, by the way. Not enough to bump you up the PHL, but enough to keep me from bumping you down.

Dear Sher,

I laugh so loud and so hard when i read your blog I damn near pee. Good gog you should have a book. Do'nt give up.

Dear Chick who thinks gog is good and so am I,

The best compliment I ever get is that I've made someone pee. Would it kill you guys to maybe tell me I have a pretty smile once in awhile?

Dear Sher,

Your funny. just bumped into you.

Dear Short and sweet,

Ouch.

Dear Sher,

Where are you from in North Carolina?

Dear Person who gets a cookie for paying attention,

If I tell you where I'm from then that would put you one step closer to knowing my true identity and I can't risk that you might find my secret bat lair.

Ellenboro. The name of the town is Ellenboro.

Dear Sher,

I was reading that story you wrote about the vampire at the wedding and I have to tell you I've always had a thing for vampires also. You're great.

Dear Copier,

I also like werewolves. What's your stand on werewolves?


Dear Sher,

Hey, I was just checking out your blog, which is great. Since you seem to have an interest in OCD (as do a lot of people these days), I figured you might get drawn into this story, which appears in the new October issue of Details magazine(the one with Brad Pitt on the cover). I traveled to Texas a few weeks back to attend the Obsessive Compulsive Foundation's annual conference, so the piece is about both the event and the disorder.

cheers,

Jeff
Editor-at-Large
DETAILS

Dear Large editor,

I seem to have an interest in it because I have it. When first I read it, your story made me cry. I'm in there. I live in that...every single freaking day. It's my life. I'm Smith, I'm Jeff, I'm Rick, I'm Cameron, I'm George and Dan. Thank you for your story and for emailing me. It's always a relief when I'm reminded I'm not splashing about out here all alone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I'm too old to love this song right? Don't care. Love it terrible.

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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Buy one, get one free.

My son, the 13 year old Big Dog, had a little medical procedure yesterday that left him feeling all kinds of crappy and me feeling like a worthless Mom who couldn’t do a dead blasted thing to make him feel all better.

Apparently it also made me feel like a side kick in an old western as I am now using phrases like “dead blasted” to describe things.

I should tell you that I’m one of those women who babies sick people. When you are fortunate enough to fall ill in my house, you are totally going to be spoiled. Food comes right to your bed, any and all remotes are placed within reach and if you mention even the smallest thing in passing that you might possibly want, I am out the door and in the store before you can say butterscotch pudding.

You wish you were coughing up blood under my roof right now, don’t you?

Even though The Dog is nearing 6’ tall, weighs far more than I do and I have to buy his shoes at Big Ass Clown Feet, he is still my baby boy. While he had his procedure done without his Momma holding his hand and never cried a tear, I sat in the waiting room and did cry a tear.

When we got home and the giant boy was all settled in, I was in the living room with the TV turned down low so I could hear him if he so much as whispered my name. I had barely sat down when he called for me.

Before I go any further, you should know that in addition to being a caring nurturer, I am a graceful gazelle. Actually it would probably be more accurate to say I am a graceful gazelle that falls down all the time. I fall out of chairs, I fall down stairs, and I fall up stairs. If falling can be accomplished in any situation, rest assured I will get it done. It makes people like Mr. Man and Deputy Pretty laugh hysterically.

Nothing says funny like a grown woman writhing in pain on the floor with a compound fracture.

Upon hearing my son issue the “come here” command yesterday, I sprung from the sofa and broke into a full on run, forgetting for a moment that I neither spring nor run. I had barely rounded the corner when my mind reminded my body of that very fact.

I hit the floor, arms and legs in crazy, bent positions and did what I’ve found always works best when an injury of some sort has occurred.

I screamed and cried and begged God for the sweet relief only death could bring. It hurt like a bitch. A biker bitch. A biker bitch with a mullet, no front teeth and a tattoo across her bicep that read, “Your skull would look pretty on my key chain”.

My screaming triggered the wedding vow chip I had secretly implanted into Mr. Man’s armpit and he came running to render aid. Since his back surgery and subsequent weight gain I think perhaps running wouldn’t be as good a word as maybe lumbering.

By this time, I was hollering something about a bright light and walking in a beautiful garden, so my husband felt the need to kick it into lumbering overdrive. In the scuffle, he forgot that we live in a house with two tiny Yorkies who have a natural ability to somehow always be exactly where your feet are. It’s like they gain super Yorkie powers from our shoes.

One of the tiny males fell as an unavoidable casualty. His little self got hit with a bedroom door and he ran yelping to hide under the sofa where only moments before, I had been sitting calmly unaware of the tragedy that was waiting.

To recap, we now have a hurting 13 year old boy yelling for his Mom, a Mom lying on the floor yelling for Jesus to take her home, a Mr. Man yelling at the Mom to stop yelling or he is going to assist Jesus in helping her get to Heaven, and a dog yelling in dog language that he thinks it’s highly likely his pelvis has been crushed.

It was all very “This is the House That Jack Built”.

When finally I managed to get back the breath that had been knocked out of me and Mr. Man took off my shoes so that I could walk unencumbered by things that Southern girls aren’t that used to anyway, I half limped and half crawled to my son’s bed side.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart? Momma’s here.”

“Can I have a drink of water?”

And that ladies and gentlemen is exactly why condoms should come free with the purchase of every six pack of Michelob.

~*~*~*~*~*~
Love it, love it, love it.




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

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

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