Monkeys and gum. What more could I ask for in '08?

I never, ever, ever…no matter what…go out on New Year’s Eve. Even if I really want to. Which I never do. OCD keeps me at home where I belong.

I also never drink on New Year’s, although I hear that’s a pretty popular way to wait for the big moment. I don’t wear funny hats, I don’t throw confetti at midnight and I don’t kiss any strangers when the ball falls. (Actually I thoroughly like the sound of that and think we should adopt the tradition for every other American holiday to include National Corn Appreciation Day.)

The OCD Chick celebrates the death of one year and the birth of another by taking time to reflect. Reevaluate. Recalculate. Rewind. Rerun. Remember. And lots of other words that start with re.

Resolutions. There’s another word that starts with re. I list them each year and each year I set the bar even lower so that I might actually maintain my resolute-ed-ness. I feel different this year though. More hopeful somehow. I think it’s all the vitamins I’m taking.

This year rather than resolutions I think I’ll go ahead and just make a list of actual predictions for myself. A list, if you will, of the amazing accomplishments I will most certainly accomplish in 2008…or as I like to call it: the year of The Sher.

Here now are the seven (best number ever) things I’m positively, absolutely sure will happen in the year 2008 for me. Just me. I have no idea what’s going to happen to you.

1. I will become insanely rich. People say money isn’t everything, but once I’m indescribably wealthy, I will have all those people shot. With golden, diamond encrusted bullets.

2. I will at long last own a monkey. A real monkey. He will have beautiful dark eyes and thick dark hair and I will dress him in tiny pants and a cowboy shirt with fringe and teach him to inappropriately hug everyone who comes to my house. He’ll be like a hairy, mentally retarded, little person and I will love him deeply.

3. I will buy a gorgeous cabana boy named Tad. He will have beautiful dark eyes and thick dark hair and I will dress him in tiny pants and a cowboy shirt with fringe and teach him to inappropriately hug everyone who comes to my house. But mostly me. Always me.

4. I will hire a gorgeous full time chef with dark hair and dark eyes but not a girl chef because I don’t want Tad getting any ideas. Truthfully hiring a chef really should be at the top of my list as I am a terrible cook and my family is starving. My ex-wife-in-law is a phenomenal cook. She often says smart cook things like, “this soup needs a roux”. What an adorable cartoon marsupial known to frolic in the Hundred Acre Wood can possibly add to soup, I have no idea. Then again, we’ve established I’m a terrible cook.

5. Now that I’m thinking about it, I predict I’ll tell my ex-wife-in-law that I’m taking a group photo with a bunch of people who think money isn’t everything and that I really want her to be in it. Anybody that would boil a friend of Winnie the Pooh is not right. Not right at all.

6. I’ll have all the gum I ever dreamed of. Lots and lots of gum.

7. The biggest thing that will happen to me in 2008 though is even more exciting than all the money, monkeys and gum combined. I will be on Oprah!!! I’d like to tell you I’ll be interviewed by The Oprah so that we might discuss at length my incredible writing talent, but I’m guessing it’ll probably have more to do with all those people I had killed.

Happy New Year!



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Dream a little Chuck Norris dream.

I am sick. Not sick as in “oh gross…that’s sick”, but sick as in my skin hurts and multi-colored fluids are leaking from my face at an alarming rate.

Actually I guess “oh gross…that’s sick” was pretty much spot on.

I was in bed the entire day yesterday and although I am better enough today to turn my computer on, I am still in bed and in a general state of ill health. Mr. Man has taken my phone away and is guarding the door to my sick sanctuary like a gargoyle. The Vicks Vaporub humidifier is humming, a half used box of Kleenex is within arm’s reach and I’m popping Theraflu pills like Pez. It’s like a camphor, snot-covered rain forest in here.

While I’ve been bed bound, I’ve been having sick dreams. Not sick as in “oh gross…that’s sick”, but sick as in the kinds of dreams you have while cat-napping between coughing up phlegm.

I love having dreams. They’re like little guilt free movies in my head that I’m in no way responsible for. While my dreams usually manage to include monkeys in red hats or men in no hats, my sick dreams seem to be incorporating things I’m seeing briefly on TV while drifting off.

Yesterday Chuck Norris and I were carving an ice sculpture with chain saws when Paula Dean burst in to tell us Uncle Jed just saved a bunch of money on his car insurance. Just as Chuck was about to celebrate the news by giving me a diamond journey necklace, Mitt Romney showed up and ruined everything by forcing us to watch his campaign ads.

I woke up just as Anderson Cooper was about to make sweet love to Marge Simpson at Macy’s.

By far, the great majority of my dreams often involve sex. I don’t think I’m any different than anyone else other than I actually admit to being human. I think people are afraid to let on that they are romping around in their heads at night doing things they can’t do in their awake life. Not me. In fact, if you’re a friend of mine and I’ve had a dream about you during which you were in any stage of undress, you are definitely getting a very detailed phone call.

The weirdest dreams are those in which someone I have never really noticed before shows up and sweeps me off my feet in a very Harlequin kind of way. They can be completely dull and balding in the real world, but once they’ve carried me to the top of a dreamy snow-covered mountain, I never look at them the same way again.

One day I’m at a mind-numbing parent-teacher conference telling them I’m happy to hear my son is doing well in History class and then post dream affair, I’m baking them Civil War shaped cookies and asking them if they want to touch my hardtack.

They never know why.

Sometimes I out my friends while I’m asleep. They may be skirt chasing, suave, women-loving, hunks while I’m conscious, but at night they often confess to me they are gayer than Tim Gunn. We cry together, I give them reassuring hugs and then I buy them a beret.

I never tell those guys I’m having out of the closet dreams about them for fear they will need to do something grand to prove their straightness…like shooting me. Instead I immediately call the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou and we laugh at their expense because laughter at someone else’s expense really is the best medicine.

Speaking of the Evil One, I have dreams about her too but they are never any fun. When she shows up in my subconscious it’s usually to tell me I am doing something I’m not supposed to.

She buzzes in like a moral red-headed mosquito and says things like, “You really shouldn’t put Vodka on your Cocoa Pebbles”, or “I don’t think a married woman should be getting her inseam measured by a firefighter/cop/superhero”. I always try to shoo her away before she ruins it for everyone and reduces me to dreaming about scrubbing the bath tub.

I’d love to stick around right now and produce more Theraflu induced writings, but I’m sleepy again and Chuck and his ice sculpting chain saw await.


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Michael Buble's latest chart topper: Me So Horny.

If you've read Wiping the Crazy off My Face for more than five minutes, you know three things about me.

1. I get married a lot because it's impolite to say no and then I get divorced a lot because I marry people whose middle names I do not know.
2. I'm an international spy. Trench coat, dark glasses, fake mustache...the whole deal.
3. I am in mad, obsessive, unnatural, deep, scary love with Michael Buble.

Oh, and I'm a world class fire baton twirler. So that's like four things. I'm throwing in that extra bonus thing absolutely free.

Tonight while trying to decide whether to watch TV or knit mittens for homeless people, I saw my Michael sitting across the table from Glenn Beck and decided homeless people can take turns using their socks as mittens.

Besides, I don't know how to knit so I was actually just going to cut out some hand shapes from old towels and staple them together.

First of all, with regard to Glenn Beck, let me say that although I realize I may spend eternity in Hell because of it, I kinda like him. Often something flies out his mouth that makes me think the only explanation is that he's on the cutting edge of brilliance... or has suffered a brain injury. And then other times the things he says make me want to flick him right on the nose while sternly chastising him.

He'd probably like that 'cause he looks like the type that might appreciate a stern nose flick from a Southern woman.

Tonight though, my like of Glenn Beck was at least momentarily upgraded to big, huge, love. It's the kind of love I reserve for anyone who may have possibly breathed the same air as the Michael.

Oh Michael.

Michael, Michael, Michael.

For those of you not familiar with Michael Buble, WHY THE HELL ARE YOU HANGING AROUND HERE? You're messing with my Michael chi.

If you must continue reading, please chant Michael, Michael, Michael quietly while reading. It would also help if you could sprinkle some fairy dust over your computer.

Or fish food if you're out of fairy dust.

If for some reason you don't know my Michael, close your eyes and imagine Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Harry Connick Jr. and Elvis all rolled up into one sweet hunk of thirty-three year old yummy goodness. His voice is flawless, his face is perfection and his hair is perfectly hairy.

All these things make him the perfect future ex-husband for me. In fact, until tonight, I couldn't imagine any way he could possibly be more perfectly perfect. (Or that I would use the word perfect so many times when not describing my own eyebrows.)

And then he did it. In his white shirt with rolled up sleeves and careless thin black tie, he bit his bottom lip and sang, "Me so horny," to Glenn Beck. "Me love you long time."

I wept openly as I could easily imagine him singing those same beautiful words to me on our wedding day.

Of course he also said some other stuff that made a vein in my head swell up and throb. Something about a girlfriend and twenty-four and blah, blah, blah.

Listen, he can keep a girlfriend if he wants. That can be dealt with. I have a lovely cage in the garage. Won't be hard to get her inside, either. I could throw an Easy Bake oven and a couple issues of What is Nick Lachey Doing This Week magazine and she'd walk right in. Probably curl right up and go to sleep.

I am nothing if not an accommodating wife.





Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Ten Things You'd Better NOT Do at Christmas.

Christmas is the very bestest day in the whole year. The bestest.

However, this past week I've heard some things here, there and yonder that lead me to believe I need to offer some helpful holiday hints to those of you who are apparently festive-challenged and are therefore threatening to ruin it for the kid in all of us.

Ten Things You'd Better NOT Do at Christmas:

10. I heard a woman say that each year she individually wraps batteries to look like pretty rolls of candy and drops them in the kids' stockings. If there is a Christmas hell, she's going there. Don't do that.

9. Children under the age of fifty do not want pajamas for Christmas. Even pajamas that have penguins sledding with Santa on the front. Don't do that.

8. Lemon drops are not a Christmas candy and should never be put in a stocking, holiday dish or anywhere else a child might confuse it for real Christmas candy. Neither are cough drops...even the kind that taste like candy. Don't do that.

7. Shiny pennies, dimes, or quarters are not gifts. Ever. Don't do that.

6. Toys from the Dollar Store are not just as good as the "real thing" no matter how much money you are saving or how loudly you say it while having lunch with your friends. All children know this. Don't do that.

5. Just because those boxers are stuffed in a pretend beer can does not mean the brain of the guy opening them is somehow tricked by the Coors logo into thinking he is popping the top on a real beer can. It's still underwear. Don't do that.

4. If you currently have a fruitcake with a bow on it that is meant as a gift for someone in your life, I will assume you are trying to get them out of your life. Don't do that.

3. Teddy bears dressed in Christmas outfits are the devil. No child has ever put one in their Dear Santa letter. Don't do that.

2. Vests, sweatshirts, jackets, hats, T-shirts and any other piece of apparel that is emblazoned with a Christmas theme is not OK. Who wants a gift they can use for all of one day? Don't do that.

1. If more than anything in life little Johnny wants a race track that comes in one-thousand easy to assemble pieces and little Susie wants a doll house that you know you are going to have to spend eighteen straight hours putting together, don't buy them Twister because it's more logical and they can't lose the pieces. Logic has no place Christmas morning and kids shouldn't have to deal with logic anyway until at least puberty. Don't do that.

My Christmas wish for all of you is that on Christmas Eve, when you go to bed and snuggle under the covers, that wonderful feeling of hope you had when you were six washes over you and makes it hard to sleep.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and much love,

Sher

Enjoy the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. My very, very favorite.




Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Wonder what the street value is on corn?

Dear Santa,

As I have not heard from you since we broke up, I thought I'd be the grown up here and contact you.

You're welcome.

This year I'm going to make it very easy on you with regard to my Christmas wish list. Feel free to forget things like jewelry, shoes and ponies. I've got plenty of all those things already. Hell, I've been through so many lucrative divorces, I've even got ponies wearing shoes and jewelry. (I keep them locked in the bathroom when I'm at work so they don't tinkle on the carpet.)

Nope. I don't need any fancy presents to open on the 25th. What I want isn't anything you can buy in a store.

More than anything else this Christmas, Dear Santa, I'd like to find a big pile of those magical corn snacks you feed your reindeer in my stocking.

The other night while I was watching your authorized biography "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" on the Family Channel, I started thinking how weird it is you don't hand out magic corn each year. I mean seriously, SC. You gotta know kids would go crazy for vegetables that make you fly.

Of course you know the vegetable lobby in this country is almost as powerful as the NRA. If you got kids to thinking eating corn might even possibly result in flying, corn futures would go through the roof.

(I have no idea if I correctly used the word "futures" there, but it sounded right and that's really all the matters.)

But I digress. Whether or not you make flying corn available to the general gift receiving public, I deeply desire some for my very own personal use. You'll remember I'm terrified of heights, but I figure if I only fly inside the house and never while drinking, I'll be OK.

Frankly the idea of floating over my sofa for no good reason sort of tickles me.

At least once before I die, I'd like to be able to fly to my refrigerator, back to my bedroom and maybe on a clear day, take aerial photos of my washing machine.

My son would be like, "Hey, where's Mom?" and I could be all, "Here I am. I'm just chillin' up here by the ceiling".

Look Santa, I don't especially want to bring up any of our history here, but we both know you owe me. Don't forget that I know stuff about you. Potentially embarrassing stuff. Stuff that involves Brittney Spears, two drunk elves and Danny Partridge in a pear tree.

Just drop a Ziploc full of spiced up corn under my tree and nobody ever has to know.

Until next year.

Merry Christmas to you, over and out, good night and good luck,
Sher



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The Legend of Wal-Mart Jimmy.

“Jimmy, you’re needed in the meat department. Jimmy, you are needed in the meat department.”

I was finishing up some Christmas shopping Saturday when I heard the lady’s voice over the loud speaker. Normally those incessant Wal-Mart interruptions sort of go in one ear and out the other, but this one was different. Something about the extraordinary urgency in her voice caught my attention.

It was very clear that the meat department really needed Jimmy and she really felt as though he needed to know it.

Maybe Jimmy had been having a tough time lately. Maybe he had spent so many years lost in the sameness of getting up every morning, putting on his white butcher apron and driving to Wal-Mart that he’d somehow forgotten why it was he fell in love with chopping up dead animals in the first place.

It appeared to me that Jimmy was having an identity crisis and Wal-Mart Announcement Lady knew it.

Some months ago they’d both had to work late one night, him typing up those small, white meat labels and her doing microphone checks. He made some comment about liking the way she said, “Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers,” and she responded by telling him the speed with which he wrapped family packs of chicken legs was astonishing. As he walked her to her car that evening, they each realized a life long friendship had been born.

But lately things had been different with Jimmy. In the interest of saving consumers .0001 penny per every fourteen pounds of chicken, Wal-Mart had purchased a bulk chicken leg wrapping machine made in Taiwan.

Of course anybody knows things made in Taiwan are faster than human hands and over time Jimmy came to the emasculating conclusion that he had been out done by a machine. His joy in his job began to fade and on this particular Saturday, it had all come to a head.

He had thrown down his red-stained apron and burst through the white, swinging doors of the meat department determined to find a place where he was still relevant; a place where he had value.

Would it be cosmetics? Housewares? The regularity aisle? Jimmy didn’t know. He just knew he needed a change and he needed it now.

Wal-Mart Announcement Lady was frantic. Where had Jimmy gone? What was going to become of him? He was meant to butcher animals and she knew it. The passionate way he used to talk about the differences in a rump roast and an arm roast while they were making love was powerful for her. Somehow she had to make him see he was born to butcher.

After dutifully calling attention to the 2 for 1 sale on plastic unisex shoes, she realized what had to be done. Under the guise of checking the pronunciation of the word, “loin” so that she might accurately proclaim a sale on pork, Wal-Mart Announcement Lady slyly made her way to the Taiwanese Super Max Leg Wrapper 7000 and quickly dropped something from her blue shirt in the machine.

In seconds, her American flag pin made from safety pins and red, white and blue beads had permanently halted what nine-hundred underpaid Taiwanese children had taken a full ten minutes to make.

Her first loud speaker call to Jimmy had gone unanswered. “Jimmy, you’re needed in the meat department. Jimmy, you are needed in meat department.” It wasn’t that he didn’t hear her. He always heard the voice of the love of his life. This time though, as he demonstrated to an elderly woman how to prevent Wicked Red lip balm from getting on her teeth, he chose to ignore her call.

He was moving on and there was nothing she could say that would make him change his mind.

Undaunted, she tried again. “Jimmy, return to the meat department right away, please. Jimmy to the meat department.” This announcement carried even more urgency than before. I was sure the chicken legs were stacking up back there and if someone couldn’t convince Jimmy to return to the place that had so undervalued him, big trouble was on the horizon.

Oblivious to the drama that unwrapped poultry was causing on the other side of the store, Jimmy tried to find some joy in arranging boxes of laxatives in a festive Christmas tree shape. “Who needs meat?” he said to himself. “I’m a laxative stacker now and I love it.”

But try as he might, he knew the short lived excitement his new career promised could never hold a candle to the bliss of meat packing. The smell of the cellophane, the freezing temperatures, the feel of a crisp, white apron first thing in the morning. His heart sank and a lump filled his throat. What had he done?

Just as he was about to place the last box at the very top of the tree that would keep his friends and neighbors regular during the holidays, he heard it.

“Jimmy! The meat department is waiting,” Wal-Mart Announcement Lady gave one last, anguished cry to her lover. “Jimmy! Return to the meat department.”

As tears filled his eyes, Jimmy dropped the Ex-Lax right where he stood and ran as quickly as he could back to the place where he knew he had always belonged. I looked for him to run past where I stood between the balloons and the bags of bubble wrap, but I never saw him. For a moment, I wondered if he made it. Was he OK? Were chicken legs once again being wrapped with love and a sense of purpose for low, low prices?

“Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers. For the next ten minutes, receive an extra 10% discount off our already low prices on tiny, green army men by the gallon. And as always, thank you for shopping at your hometown Wal-Mart.”

No Wal-Mart Announcement Lady. Thank you.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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Mavis, you old bear skinner you.

Do you think weird people know they’re weird? Is weird relative? And if weird is relative, am I related?

There is a guy I see every day now at work who I think is possibly stalking me...but not in that good way. He’s tall and skinny, he clearly does not own a razor or a comb and as far as I can tell, he owns a grand total of one shirt.

A red, white and blue one. Evidently he’s a patriotic weird guy.

“Hi, Sher,” he says. It freaks me out when he says my name because I can’t figure out how he knows it. It’s not like I wear a name tag that says, “Call me Sher ‘cause that’s my name”.

“Hi, You,” I say. I know his name now too and it’s not You, but I am making a point of not using his name here in case he’s good enough at stalking to have found my website. The idea of him sitting at his computer looking at my picture and touching all my commas makes me shiver…but not in that good way.

I think he’s weird because he never appears to change clothes and because he has that crazy twinkle in his eye like Ted Bundy used to have, Satan rest his soul.

I’m nice to him partially because my job requires it, but mostly because I want him to remember how nice I was when he kidnaps me and throws me in the back of his Gremlin. I figure every time I smile at him I’m stocking up free bathroom passes on our way to the Appalachians.

In addition to his magically knowing my name and always being dressed for an impromptu Flag Day celebration, I think it’s weird that he has a vast and impressive vocabulary. Certainly it’s true that I have always been enamored of men who have a big one (vocabulary, you slut). But with this guy, it’s as though his brain was surgically taken from an incredibly handsome and insanely smart firefighter/male model after a tragic firefighter/male model hair gel incident and placed in some random hobo’s body. It doesn’t fit.

God knows I love smart hobos as much as the next girl, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to cross state lines against my will with one.

So is Captain America really weird or I am weird because I think he’s weird? If I stood him in a room next to a woman with hairy legs, one eyebrow and acid-washed Mom jeans, would she think he was weird or would she fall madly in love with him and happily commence to producing a great number of his hairy legged, highly intelligent offspring?

Maybe this is actually a wonderful learning opportunity for me. He could be the universe presenting a chance for me to grow as a person and to learn to accept people for who they are rather than judge them by some arbitrary and ridiculous standard of what I think weird is. Perhaps he won’t sneak up behind me one early morning while I’m paying too much attention to how big my ear lobes look in the reflection of the doors to my building and tell me if anyone asks, my name is Mavis and I like to skin bears.

If one day I suddenly stop writing and no one knows where I went, please someone come look for me in them there hills. I’ll be the girl in the pretty burlap potato sack beating something red, white and blue on a rock.

But not in that good way.

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

One of my favorites of all time!








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Read between my lines and discover an obsessive-compulsive wonderland.

Dear Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou, Bald Mean Looking Ex-Marine Cop Who Isn't Really Mean and Pocket Sized Incredibly Handsome But Totally Knows It Cop,

I regret to inform you that your collective services as friends of the OCD Chick will no longer be needed. (I have not been receiving the massive amounts of attention I require on a regular basis and so now must publicly force you to love me whether you want to or not.)

I assure you that it is not without much consideration and personal struggle (tequila) that I have made this choice, so it is my sincere hope that you respect and accept it and move on with your lives. (Get together over coffee and come up with a grand gesture that will prove your insane love for me. Something involving a sacrifice would be nice.)

Because each of you has been behaving as if there is anything on Earth more important than me, (There isn't. I checked), I have been left painfully and utterly alone. (Mr. Man goes to bed early.)

Without your guidance (drunken dares) and genuine desire to see me succeed(see my boobies), I have recently made some shall we say, unfortunate life choices. (I may or may not have hit on a guy with giant glasses and an unknown black substance underneath his fingernails that I pray to God was grease.)

It is because of my deep love (unnatural in every way) and profound respect (unhealthy obsession) for each of you that I have found my life without you to be meaningless (boring) and without purpose. (I'm not even gonna kid you. That last line was straight bull shit.)

Since you've been gone (bitch ripped me off), I have struggled (fell down a lot because you know how clumsy I am) to fill the gaping hole (from having my gall bladder removed) that once held my abiding love for you. (If I were a guy and you were a three headed girl and we were in a bar, you'd totally be going home with me after a line like that.)

Day after day, hour after hour (like five or ten minutes), I spent wrapped in the misery of missing you. (And/or hitting on ugly men for reasons still not clear to even me.) It is only because of my faith (in cocktails) that I was able to reach the point of being able to finally let you go. (I never let anyone go. You know that.)

I wish each of you well (as in I hope you fall in one if you don't pay way more attention to me) and pray that you'll always think of me fondly. (That was fondly. Not fondling. Completely different meanings.)

As for me (me, me, me... it is of course always about me), I am looking to the future (so many husbands, so little time) with great anticipation (like the ketchup and the song), an open heart (which can be drafty) and the firm (like my ass) belief that I will someday (probably tomorrow) find friendship (people who like me even after they've known me more than a minute) and love (inappropriate touching) again.

My Warmest Regards (to Broadway),
Sher (Queen, Ruler, Omnipresent, Omniotherbigstuff, etc, etc.)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Only slightly less than dramatic than me is this song. Loving it awful.





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You know I only hit you 'cause I love you, Baby.

I really want to beat somebody up. You know... hit someone repeatedly until they crawl away crying.

And I don't mind telling you I don't feel one bit bad about it either. Well maybe a little bad, but not bad enough to prevent me from striking someone for little or no reason.

I just wish I knew why.

Christmas is coming, which actually makes me happy. I am a big fan of shiny things and of having dead trees in the house and thankfully my religion demands that I do both once a year.

Cross Christmas off the list of things that are upsetting me to the point of violence.

There are roughly 500 pounds of grain fed Angus in my freezers, which also brings me a certain amount of happiness. Something about knowing I can have a T-Bone for breakfast with a hamburger back gives me a feeling of great superiority over those without massive amounts of beef.

Obviously it isn't a lack of Vitamin Red Meat that has turned me wicked mean then.

As I sit here typing, I notice no cramps, bloating or cravings involving salt, chocolate and/or the souls of Victoria Secret models.

Strike through My Time of the Month.

I have more than $100 in my checking account, but less than One Billion. I figure that's a good space to be in actually. Less than a hundred means I can't buy frozen coffee drinks whenever I want but more than One Billion means some fat guy from the Enquirer will make his living going through my trash.

Not money then.

I'm watching a color television set right now at this very minute. No reason to be pissed about that. I know people that have lived their entire lives never having realized Oprah is black or Lucy was a red head.

No I don't.

I guess I really have no idea why I want to wail away on the next person who walks through my front door and I guess that's going to have to be OK. Anger is healthy after all and beating a person who doesn't want to be beaten is excellent aerobic exercise. I'm always saying I need to get more exercise.

Hey you. Come here a minute.



Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
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I would warm the shaving cream first, but that's just me.

I'm so tired, I need a new word to express my tiredness. Sadly the English language leaves me unable to fully make you aware of my tiredness, so I shall have to invent one right on the spot.

I am Ad-Bay Ired-Tay.

My fluency in Pig Latin is directly related to the fact that I am married to one.(You can decide if I mean I'm married to a pig or a Latin. It'll be a fun game that will provide you hours of good natured fun.)

Because I am a notoriously positive person (and not a bad liar either), I have been trying to tell myself how lucky I am that I get to work 12 and 16 hour days lately. I mean, it could be worse, right? Surely there are worse things than working all day and then getting up at the butt crack of dawn to do it again. Right?

Am I right?!?

Let's see here. Shaving the testicles of lions before they get testicular surgery is probably worse. I don't know...they probably give 'em some kind of lion sedative before they send in the shaver so maybe my current job is still worse. Unless the sedative is delivered in suppository form, in which case perhaps the exciting position of lion suppository technician is worse than my job.

You think they have a TV Diploma course for that?

To truly say which is worse however I need to first find a lion who is need of anal medicine and see how it goes. If I live through it and still have 8 fingers and at least a large part of my face intact, I'm changing careers. After all, it's my shining personality that keeps getting me husbands. They'll never notice my lacko digits and half gnawed face... so long as the lion doesn't get at my shining personality holders that are conveniently stored in my breasts.

I don't know why I have to work at all, frankly. Mr. Man makes more than enough money to support us in the manner to which I have become accustomed. The cabinets always have a healthy supply of Underwood Deviled Ham, the fridge is stocked with Diet Pepsi with Caramel and my car has all four doors on it. (Now.) Why do I have to have a career? What the hell happened to the Leave it to Beaver dream of yesteryear? Who decided that we women have to have jobs and do "important work" any damn way? If it was put up to vote at one of them there Women's Lib meetings, I was not in attendance.

Or I was drunk. Or in the middle of one of my weddings. Or drunk.

See, here's the thing. I am more than content to make martinis and cookies and serve them to my husband and son when they come home after their hard day of doing man things like picking their noses and rolling around in substances that make them smell bad than to be at a job of my own outside this house.

I'm not for sure which of my guys gets the cookies and which gets the martinis, but that's not what's important. What's important is that Momma's in the kitchen with a skirt on, a bottle of alcohol and a bag of chocolate chips and that's just the way God meant it to be. Look it up if you don't believe me.

I'd better get going now. It's time to go to bed again so I can get up ten minutes from now and go back to work.

Equal rights my ass.


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