Please let this vacation be over now.

(That's my brother and me being all Donnie & Marie and what not.)

Contrary to what your mama may have told you, a steady diet of banana pudding, homemade ice cream and fried seafood WILL make you fat.

Or in my case, fatter.

I seriously am such a lard ass toad at this point, I'm going to wind up on TLC wearing nothing but a sheet when the fire department shows up to cut a hole in my wall to hoist me out of bed.

Y'all this "vacation" has been nothing good - with the exception of the food. The man the state says I'm supposed to love 'til death accidentally happens to him through no fault of my own, is once again in back misery. His pain is wicked bad and even though I know he is pitiful and broken down and what not, I find him highly unpleasant.

Highly.

As I write this, I am in a hotel about six hours from home because I simply could not drive one minute further. I got so tired at one point I seriously considered picking up a hitch hiker. So help me God, if Michael Buble had been thumbing his way through Arkansas, he would totally have been driving Darla the car for me.

And then I woulda raped him. 'Cause he's all hot and what not; and not for nothing, but Mr. Man is broken again so clearly I'm gonna get some-some about the same time I win the lottery.

I'll be back this weekend with many details, some pictures that will mean nothing to you, and God willing and the creek don't rise, a little vlog action.

Of course that all depends on whether I'm in jail in Sikeston, Missouri for hog tying Mr. Man and tossing him out at a convenience store.

I'm just sayin.





Copyright © Sherri Bailey
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Letters from the Southern Side

You can keep up with me - somewhat - at Erma Does Not Live Here. I'm writing letters to my friends KK & Ry and posting them there.

Why aren't I posting them here?

Yours is not to question why. Yours is to love me no matter what.

xoxoxo
Shurry Lynn
aka
Sher

Copyright © Sherri Bailey
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Goodbye Yellow Brick Road...

The OCD Chick is on vacation. Don't get excited. It's not an awesome vacation. It's a going home to that Southern State to See Family vacation.

Be not dismayed. She sees this as merely another way to find things about which to vlog so that when she returns, you may enjoy the fruits of her obsessive-compulsive labor.

While she's away, entertain yourselves by coming up with new ways to make The Chick rich and famous. Stop being so selfish!

For photo updates, travel updates and information about where she may have buried the bodies of one or more of her traveling companions, Follow The OCD Chick on Twitter. Do it. You don't want you to miss a thang.

Much love from the germ free one. Not get off here and go make Mama famous.

xoxoxo
Sher

Copyright © Sherri Bailey
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Fame will not change me one iota. (PS: What's an iota?)

If you can make me rich & even more famous that I already am, you may contact my people - VickyAkins at gmail dotcom. She's the Chief Executive People in Charge of Making Me Even More Rich & Famous Than I Already Am.

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

There is nothing to fear...

I am one of the three non-Ermas, so get thee there now and read. Do it.
www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com.

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

I'm frozen - like peas.

What? Can't a girl not vlog for a minute? If you need a vlog hit just to get you through the day... scroll on down. And no worries. A new vlog is in the works.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


I can't move. I can't go forward. I can't go backwards. I can't stand still.

I woke up this morning early after sleeping roughly 87 hours yesterday. I made a mad dash for the coffee pot, filled my big gulp coffee mug to within an inch of its life and turned on Priscilla - the world's cutest computer.

Good so far.

And then BAM. With the grace that I'm widely known for - I knock over my giant coffee cup. Everywhere is where it went. Covered is what it was. Pissed is the crayon color you'd want to use when depicting my face.

"You are an idiot," I said to me. I'm a total bitch sometimes, especially where I am concerned.

I spend no less than 42 minutes cleaning up coffee all the while telling me what's wrong with me.

"You don't think," I said to me. "You try to do too many things at once. Why don't you just slow down and do one thing at a time?"

I didn't answer. I knew it was a rhetorical question. I also know when I'm like that it's best to ignore me or risk my hot Taurus temper. I once made a grown man cry using nothing but my words and a stern glance.

And a whip.

The long and short of it is that I wound up in a big ass argument with myself during which at one particularly low moment, I told myself I was no longer going to speak to me. I started to cry until I remembered that I don't cry - cause I'm a bad ass and what not.

So here I am. Frozen like the peas that insanely hot guy with no career ambition stocks at Wal-Mart. I have much I should do today, and none of it I want to touch. I feel inept. I feel powerless. I feel confused. I feel like I think spaghetti must feel when I throw it up against the wall to see if it's done and it doesn't stick.

That's me. I'm a spaghetti noodle that doesn't stick. I'm sliding down the wall, telling myself I should have stuck because only the noodles that stick make "the show".

When is the last time in your whole long-legged life anyone told you they feel like spaghetti that doesn't stick? Or frozen like peas? I know, right? I'm your first.


I'm off to pretend to do stuff. I figure if I at least make an attempt to be productive, I won't bitch me out.









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

Ladies & Gentlemen of the Jury - I am a Fat Cow

Yes... I'm writing real words today rather than vlogging. If you're looking to take the easy road by watching rather than reading, just scroll down. But I have to tell you, I'm disappointed in your laziness.



"Dearest Sher," said the man in the white coat with the letters D & R in front of his name, "as you are about to begin cognitive behavior therapy for your OCD, I'm going to give you Zoloft in the hopes that it will make the misery that is therapy easier."

"Well then bring the shit on," said Me, "cause cognitive behavior therapy is gonna suck goat's balls and that's not fun for me."

At 45, I decided after watching too much Oprah and touching the burners on the stove one too many times, that I was going to put myself in CBT. If that TV doctor can cure OCD by making crazy people lick dirty stuff, them by gawd, I was gonna get me some of that mental wellness.

Although I have an aversion to meds of almost any kind, my level of crazy had reached such a point that I thought, "What the hell? If that pretty pill can make this misery any less, then I'm all about it."

Having now been on Zoloft for roughly 5 or 6 months, I have to confess that it's truly helped the OCD. I am able to do some things that would have been completely impossible a year ago and the cognitive behavior therapy is at least somewhat tolerable.

But today, I got the wake up call that only a woman can appreciate and it has convinced me that I'd rather suffer the CBT without aid of meds. Check it out y'all. Exhibit A...


My face is as big as Seattle and I have more chins than a Chinese phone book. (Yes I know that's an old joke but I'm distraught for godsake. Shut up.)

Of course I've realized my clothes are getting increasingly tighter and that the scale is becoming more and more my enemy. But somehow, I've managed to trick my weak brain into believing it was no big deal.

Really, Sher? Really? You thought this was NO BIG DEAL???

For godsake, look at my stomach! And who did I think I was fooling? Apparently myself. It seems I was actually fooling myself about my own ginormous face and ass.

Sweet Lord!

So tomorrow we begin tapering off the magic Z before Z is the size pants I have to start buying. Yes - cognitive behavior therapy is gonna kick my ass ten different ways and I'm NOT going to like it. I think I like my ginormity a whole lot less though.

Wish me luck. And wish me thin.




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

Sher vs. The Law of Attraction

You can also find me at Erma Does Not Live Here. She don't - but I do.

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

Sher vs. The Mammogram - Part Two

Look here reader people - don't forget I'm also one of the three MAJOR STARS of www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com. Yep. A friggin star. Go look. Really.

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

Sher vs. The Mammogram - Part One

Want me to verse stuff? Send me an email and I'll verse the hell out of it.

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

If men got mammograms - exclusive video footage.

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

I do eat the green ones. Deal with that blog reader.

I know. I'm writing words. The hell? I'm sure you all thought I had forgotten my alphabet. Trust me when I say I would rather vlog but as it's after midnight and I'm in bed, that would mean you'd see how completely forty-five years old I am and there is just no damn way I'm having any of that.

So I'm not sleeping for two reasons.

Number one - the little bastards outside have not yet come to grips with the fact that it's officially NOT the 4th of July any longer. It's my firm belief at this point they are just blowing shit up to piss me off.

Mission accomplished, Blackcat Firecracker Guy. I hate you more than Michael Jackson hated vaginas. (Forgive me Tito. I'm not myself right now.)

And reason number two I'm not sleeping - I'm planning my funeral.

So far I've only told a very limited number of people, but there is another friggin lump in my breast. I wasn't going to tell anyone because once I say it out loud, there it is again. All out loud and real and what not. Plus I didn't want to sound like a whiny, lumpy breasted, cry baby.

Which I am. Except for the crying part. Which I'm not. Because I almost never do. What with me being a bad ass and what not.

Which I totally am.

Sure, the lump is likely nothing more than me forgetting to chew my peanut M&M's again. It wouldn't surprise me a bit for the mammogram to show something yellow and delicious in my left girl. After all, they do melt in your mouth - not in your boobies.

But telling me that is NOT going to do anything but piss me the hell off, so don't say that to me. Don't email it; don't send me a greeting card with it; don't write me a poem about it; and in the name of all that is titillating; don't spray paint it on a cat and send it to me.

I do not enjoy cats and I especially don't care for message cats, what with their poorly written graffiti and aloof personalities.

Here's the thing, peeps. My factory-second brain goes right from lump to hospital to mastectomy to chemo to hair loss to yellow pieces of rubber around my wrist to Oprah to Mr. Man showing up at the morgue with my laptop because the only way you can get in it is with my DigitalPersona fingerprint and no way he's gonna let 'em plant me until he cracks my super secret code.

Truly, I've gone from zero to dead like 1000 times since I found this stupid thing. When Doctor felt me up for fun and profit last week, he made that, "Oh I'm sure it's nothing but we'd better check just in case" face - which looks eerily similar to that "Good night nurse! This chick has a peanut M&M in her boob!" face.

He told the nurse to get my mammogram scheduled STAT!

Well actually he didn't really say STAT, but it's a life long dream of mine to hear someone yell it in my presence, so I just made that part up to make me feel all flittery in my down there.

That was horrible and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be thinking sexy thoughts when I'm facing the possibility of an M&M biopsy - and/or death. That's just morbid, not to mention stupid. The last thing I wanna be doing right now is attracting undue attention from the Man upstairs for being a foul-mouthed woman with loose morals. And yes I'm well aware that he is omnipotent and omnipresent and omniawesome, but I've felt reasonably secure he's not seen me be bad recently as he's been distracted by all this Michael Jackson coverage.

Anyway, that's that and this is it and there you go. I'm back in boobie trouble again and I'm unhappy about the whole kit and caboodle.

I have no idea what that means honestly and I'm pretty sure it's not spelled correctly but you're not gonna correct me even if it's not because you feel sorry for me and my M&M breast. So there.

Suck it.

Dammit. Inappropriate and unintended sexiness again. I hope God is watching CNN right now.




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

The OCD Chick vs.Wild PT 3

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