I See My Future Babies in There - How to Get a Divorce cont.

www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com - It's entirely necessary.

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

How to Get a Divorce - Men, Wake Your Little One

Today's installment of How to Get a Divorce is brought to you by www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com. Go there. Or else.

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

Your Divorce Starter Kit

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

Humor writer bound and gagged by Texans.

www.EramDoesNotLiveHere.com - the rest of the story...




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

We're Live

www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Come over and say hi to me and in the name of all that's holy, cross your fingers and sacrifice a virgin so that our new site does well.

Love you guys!



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

Harvesting organs for Judith & eating fish sticks. Good times.

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

Just a little anxiety and anal cocaine.

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

Dear Sher...Dear, Dear Sher

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

Willie, William, Will, Mr. W if you're nasty

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

Ransom? Dooce Strikes Again.

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

Don't Freakin' Tell Me to Be Myself!

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

Kittens, Dooce? Really? Wow.

Why, oh why, does this video look like a Japanese Godzilla movie? My lips and words don't match! Argh.



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

Even from my death bed I'm calling Dooce out

Late to the game? Here's Vlog One and Vlog Two to catch you up. (Sounds like characters in a Dr. Seuss book.) Don't know who my arch enemy Dooce is? Definitely do not go to Dooce.com to find out.

Play the SHER DRINKING GAME with all your homies. Every time I scratch my nose or look like I may in fact stick my finger right in it; every time I say "situation", or "going on", or "sumpin' like that", EVERYBODY DRINKS. Wake the kids 'cause it's fun for the whole family!


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

ATTN: Houston – Hide Your Jewelry & Your Husbands

Let me say first of all how much I appreciate everyone’s responses to my vlogs in which I repeatedly threaten to beat up a pregnant uber blogger named Dooce. We will return to more video taped threats in the days to come. But first, this just in…

Sher is about to do what Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC has told me repeatedly not to do. I am going to get on a plane and fly to a city I’ve never been to meet people I only know through the internet. What flavor of crazy, white trash woman does a thing like that, right?

That would be this flavor – Southern vanilla-moonshine crunch with nuts.

Ryland and Kristi are my hosts as well as the potential Houston white slave traffickers. I met them online when Kristi sent me a flattering email about Wiping the Crazy off My Face. She asked whether my background was in journalism. I told her my background was in crazy. We were immediately in love.

After many months of cyber-bff’n, Kristi introduced me to her real life BFF, Ryland. Another immediate connection was made when Ryland and I began to talk and I decided I loved her harder than a goat loves a stump. I’ve asked her repeatedly to move to Idaho with me so we can get married. As of this writing, no date has been set.

As it turns out, the three of us have a connection that is deeper than the fact we each have a computer. Collectively we believe Michael Buble is sex on a stick, Elvis is alive and Crocs are Satan’s shoe. Frankly those bonds are stronger than any I’ve had with at least ¾ of my husbands.

We also love to laugh at ourselves, at our pasts and of course, at others. As we began to exchange emails and phone calls, it didn’t take long to realize we are funnier together than we are apart.

So, without ever having seen each other in sweatpants, we began a writing palooza and are now in full on collaboration mode. We have the website, we have the want to – we just don’t have the Wordpress mojo to get it moving. Therefore I am hopping a plane, which as you know is packed with germs and is very likely to crash once I get on it, and heading to meet my bitches.

I’m horribly nervous for all the reasons you might suspect.

First of all, what if there really is no Kristi & Ryland? What if in fact their real names are Bertram and Fat Jimmy? What if they are truly planning on selling me into white slavery?

Note to Bertram & Fat Jimmy – save yourself the trouble as I will bring very little change on the auction block. My ovaries stopped working like 14 years ago and I rarely do as I’m told. Some might even say I’m sassy.

Then there is the worry that Kristi will greet me wearing a tiara and a mink stole. That’s what rich people wear every day right? Oh! Did I forget to mention Kristi is a self-proclaimed trophy wife and socialite and has more money than God? Well – God before the price of oil dropped anyway. She refers to one of her homes as “the farm” when in fact it is my firm belief she does not understand the word farm. Unless there are chickens crapping on the front lawn and she is personally up at dawn to milk something other than her husband’s bank account, a giant house on country acreage does not a farm make.

She also has lots of dinners with people who have very recognizable last names. This causes concern for me. I’m terrified I’ll show up for dinner thinking we’re having hot dogs and Van DeKamp’s Pork ‘n Beans only to find the Prime Minister of mother truckin’ Zimbabwe and a table covered in silver platters of snails and goose liver.

Note to Kristi – I don’t eat things I used to murder for fun with a salt shaker AND I don’t want to meet anyone who doesn’t know what a pork rind is and has never thrown up tequila.

Then there’s Ryland. She has this easy, understated grace about her that makes her seem entirely above it all even though she may be screaming obscenities on the inside. She’s blonde and flawless and charming and hates it when people end sentences with the word of or at. She grew up in the world of mucho money whereas I grew up in the land of biscuits and gravy and knowing for sure mucho was how people in Mexico sang the Bingo song-o. She’s an artsy-fartsy type who goes to galleries and owns art work that was not purchased in an abandoned parking lot of a liquor store. Most of it isn’t even on black velvet.

Note to Ryland – Please do not make me go to places where Guy is pronounced Gee and I cannot engage at least three people in a discussion about the finer points of how to microwave a Moon Pie to perfection. I will only embarrass you and you will have it coming.

So there it is then. My plan is to go on Memorial weekend so if you do not hear from me soon after, please alert the authorities. I’m either an uppity white slave in a foreign country or I’ve run off with someone’s Houston husband. I’m betting you can guess which is more likely.



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

The Dooce Smackdown Continues...

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

Suck it Dooce

That's right kids. Sher's first vlog. Please try to contain your joy. Also please refrain from harsh judgments of any kind. Yes - I look like your Grandma. Yes - I inadvertently cut off the video pretty much in the middle of a sentence. Yes - I look like I'm wearing a purple mom-moo. But it's my first. It's just like junior prom all over again.

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

Today on Oprah: Chickens Who Let You Pet 'Em and the Men Who Love 'Em

This week has been a bear. I know people say that all the time, but I'm calling it a bear because that's what it's been. My son, the Big Dog, came down with Influenza Type B and has been quite ill.

Influenza Type B - all of the aching misery of the Swine Flu but with no chance of being interviewed by Matt Lauer.

Because my Mama micro-chip has kicked into overdrive, I am sort of near complete exhaustion. I fought his fever like a soldier and after many, many hours of straight up battle, I finally got it down to less than 101 where my round the clock Tylenol/Motrin vigil has caused it to remain. While that's been good for my son, it's meant I've slept roughly 16 minutes since Wednesday.

This has made me a natural pleasure to be around. The chick who usually laughs hysterically at least a couple times a day has laughed dangerously close to none times. Nothing has been truly LOL funny. In fact my funny bone has largely been left untickled.

Until today.

There was a visitor to my house who shall remain nameless, but only because he nearly had an infarction when I said I was definitely going to write the story he told. Like if I said his name the entire nation would be abuzz and Entertainment Tonight would open with it. Maybe he's in witness protection or something. Come to think of it, he does seem like the kind that would be involved in nefarious activities and then later turn state's evidence.

"Well, one of the chickens got sick," he said, catching us up on what has been going on with him and his wife. Yes, they are the kind of people that have chickens, but not in the way you may have seen others have chickens. They live in a beautiful country home on many acres that is just beautiful. It's hardly the kind of place you'd expect to see poultry running around and yet there poultry is, being all free range and what not.

"Did you ring its neck?" That would be me showing my upbringing there. Back home if an animal so much as sneezed, Daddy felt the need to put it down immediately. If he was too busy to chop its head off or shoot it between the eyes or smush its little head, I had some brothers that were equally as interested in making sure nothing suffered in sickness.

Nameless looked at me as though I'd told him to ring his kid's neck. "No!" he said while making a face that indicated he may have just swallowed some old, warm cottage cheese. "We took it to the vet."

I burst into laughter because to my mind taking a chicken to the vet is the same as taking my steak to the gynecologist.

"You don't know this chicken," he said in defense. I realized that not once in forty-five years has anyone ever said that to me.

"He's like a dog. He'll follow you around the yard and let you pet him." I could see this man had some deep feelings for his chicken so I tried to stop LOL'ing with admittedly little success. "We got him to the vet and they took some x-rays."

Insert here the noise I make when I'm trying not to laugh but it sorta bursts out between my lips anyway. Sounds a little like letting the air out of a balloon.

"You got chicken x-rays? Is that what you're telling me?" I could barely get the words out.

"Yeah, but they had to send them off to the big city because we don't have a chicken specialist in town. Nobody knew what they was looking at."

I almost peed my pants. I'll admit that now. I honest to God nearly peed on myself. First of all, are there actual chicken specialists? Really? And second, I'm pretty sure the reason no one knew what they were looking at is because this vet had never before known someone who wanted his chicken x-rayed.

"Shut up!" This is my go to phrase when I don't know what else to say. It's been in all my wedding vows.

"Well they finally figured out what was wrong with it. Something had grabbed it by the neck and injured it!" The way he said it, with such horror and shock spreading across his face, led me to believe he felt perhaps there had been a chicken assailant who had crept into the chicken house in the middle of the night, grabbed the chicken by the throat and tried to commit chicken-cide.

I couldn't take it any more.

"Nameless! Of course something grabbed it by the neck! You live in the country where any number of animals think you have set up a KFC. It was probably a coon or a coyote or something - not some guy who had found out Chicken was having an affair with his wife!"

He just shook his head as if to say again, 'you don't know this chicken'. I'll admit though after this conversation I felt like I should take the time to get to know it better.

I thought we had reached the end of the chicken saga and I secretly congratulated myself for not laughing and pointing any more than I had.

"Well I gotta go," he said, "if the chicken's breathing treatments went OK then he might get to come home from the hospital today."

Cut to Sher lying on the floor laughing so hard I thought I blew a gasket. At least I got to lie down for awhile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Love music as much as I do? Listen to what I listen to! Here's a link to my Blip playlist. Yummy stuff babies.



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