I'm not pregnant. I just can't spit.

My ovaries are pissing me off. When my Doc told me a couple years ago that they weren't being ovary-y enough, I secretly thought the ovary fairy would probably tap me on the abdomen one night while I slept and I'd wake up all girlie and ovarian again.

Now Mr. Doctor is on the ovary bandwagon once more and says the girls have all but quit doing their thing. As you know, ovaries control the baby eggs and a woman's ability to dance slutty for her husband.

That's why I haven't made a baby in close to 15 years and my attempts to woo Mr. Man look like I'm doing the pee-pee dance while trying to suck a popcorn kernel out of my front teeth.

Don't you go worrying about me though because Doc has a plan. A highly scientific plan. A plan so crazy medical, I'm not sure you can even wrap your mind around it.

He's making me spit. In a thingie. And then I'm supposed to slap a stamp on it and mail it to somebody in a lab who will then do God knows what with it.

What if they take out my DNA and make another me? My Daddy used to say it wouldn't take nothing for him to make another one just like me and he didn't even have my spit in a thingie.

Despite my misgivings I'm gonna try and do it because I always do what men in white coats tell me to do. That's why I wash the butcher's car every Thursday and why he could identify my boobs in a police line up.

Not that my boobs have ever been in a police line up but there's always tomorrow.

The only thing that really concerns me is the actual mechanics of the spitting. I'm not much of a spitter. The evidence of that can be found in the numerous pieces of chewed gum stuck to the driver's side of my car. When I was a kid and we'd have watermelon seed spitting contests on balmy southern evenings, I just swallowed mine.

I was more comfortable with the stigma and humiliation of a watermelon induced child pregnancy than with having a slobbery black seed stuck to my chin.

Stay tuned for important updates about my spit and my ovaries. If you're lucky, I'll take pictures. On second thought, I don't know that my digital camera is equipped for that kind of thing so we'll have to see how it goes.




Copyright © 2008 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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Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.

You gotta get a firm grip and pull really hard.

I never say the right thing at the right time. Ever.

A woman in a bedazzled Christmas sweatshirt - which I personally believe to be the mark of the beast - told me when her husband says jump, she asks how high.

I said, "When my husband says jump, I ask how high...would you like me to pull your testicles over your head?"

Maybe it was because I had suffered a small seizure brought on by the sequined teddy bear on her chest that was sporting a Santa hat and holding a tiny mouse who was holding a sign wrapped in fabric Christmas lights that read, "Jesus is the reason".

I'm pretty sure it must be some kind of unforgivable sin to blame the son of God for such as that.

I always say the wrong thing.

At a funeral a few years back I ran into a highly respected man I hadn't seen in some time. There was the handshake, the appropriate small talk in hushed tones and for a while, I was doing OK. I hadn't offended anyone or said anything wildly inappropriate.

"So where are you working?" he asked.

"I'm dancing for tips at a bar over by the airport," I answered as solemnly as if I were testifying before congress.

No idea why I said it.

I never know why. It's as if I have no filter between my brain and my mouth. As soon as I think it - there it is. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to be around someone with a sense of humor thus alleviating the onset of nausea and profuse sweating that often sets in as soon as I've spoken.

Sometimes not.

"I guess I believe it's my job and my joy to take care of my husband. I'm just old fashioned," said the smug woman who evidently has time to wait on a man AND make a mockery of Christmas and cartoon animals all at the same time.

"You're right," I said, "and I'm pretty old-fashioned myself.

I believe it's my husband's job to attempt to exert his manly authority over me - and it's my job and my joy to remind him what I will do to his manly authority if he doesn't stop attempting to exert it."

Then again sometimes I guess I do know the right thing to say.


Copyright © 2008 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.

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The Divorce Was Never Really Final

January 20, 2008

That was the day I said "I quit". After four years, I kissed blogging gently on the forehead, handed it the bag I'd packed for it while it was at work and whispered "It's not you - it's me" as I pushed it out the front door and breathed a sigh of relief.

Divorce is such fun.

I didn't just break up with blogging for no good reason. I was going to write the Great American Novel and blogging was for sure the only thing keeping me from it.

Stupid blogging. Trying to keep me down.

Everyone in my world was shocked. "What are you going to do now?" they asked, as if I never did anything BUT blog. "What are WE going to do now?" they asked as if I even sorta half way cared.

So I set out to write my NY Times Best Seller. To read it in it's entirety, click here.

Since I still haven't found a publisher for my book, and since nice people like Jeff and Donna have given me email pep talks, and since I never really break up with anybody for good, blogging and I are going to try and get back together.

It may work, it may not. But what the hell? All this stuff has to get out of my head somehow and blogging was always a good listener.



Copyright © 2008, 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.

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