Oh...and my face is too fat, square and puffy.

I'm spending my lunch break thinking of things I hate about me. I know most people traditionally spend this time eating, but I feel I don't deserve food. Food is for people who are pretty, thin, rich and talented.

People like me deserve whatever the opposite of food is. Since I'm an awful cook (see below), anything I prepare falls in this category so maybe I'll eat after all.

Here are the top ten things I hate about me:

10. I'm a terrible cook. I know I just said that, but I'm so bad I'm saying it again. I can make southern food like biscuits and gravy that'll make you sass your momma, but that's it. I made homemade hash browns last week and served them to Mr. Man in bed. "Why is their ketchup on my oatmeal?" he asked.

9. My eyebrows are all wrong. Because I have Hashimoto's, my eyebrows have all but disappeared. I live in constant fear someone will spontaneously ask me to go swimming or shower with them and my eyebrows will wash off.

8. My hair is ridiculous. One year it's blond, the next it's brown and it's never the right length or style. I either look like it's 1982 and I'm in a Duran Duran video or like I've just bought a new pair of double knit pants with an elastic waist and I'm off to Bingo.

7. My nose is too small. My glasses fall down all the time and so I wind up pushing them up like someone who wears a pocket protector as a fashion accessory. I need that thing that Steve Martin invented in The Jerk. (I also need this lamp, that chair and that's all. That's all I need.)

6. What the hell is going on with my chin? It's little but almost pointy like the bad witch in Wizard of Oz. Factor in what's going on just below my chin and I'm just a few chromosomes away from being a turkey.

5. Boobs. Oh sweet lord where do I begin? Too small, too floppy and definitely not sweater worthy. I'd get new ones but my selfish family wants me to spend my money on food and electricity and stuff.

4. If you ever see me in public and ask if I'm pregnant and I kick you in your no-no place, don't feel like you're the lone ranger. My tummy is not now nor has it ever been flat. Since my youngest child is almost 15, I don't know how much longer I can use the excuse that I had a baby, but I plan to ride that train as long as I can.

3. To tan or not to tan. That is the question I ask myself every day. When I tan I at least briefly feel like I am palatable to look at and will not induce vomiting in random passersby. On the other hand, once I stop tanning - like now - my skin is a lovely color one only sees in intensive care units and funeral homes. Factor in the weird color splotches tanning leaves behind and you can see why people often stop me to ask whether there is a charity I'd like to have them donate to on my behalf.

2. I look good in absolutely nothing, and I don't mean the kind of nothing you're thinking. Clothes look all weird on me like I found them lying in the street and put them on. At 5'5" on a good day, pants are always too long and I have to wear high heels tall enough to impress a hooker. Of course I love those kinds of heels, especially when they're red, but as I am the clumsiest person alive, I fall down even more that usual. At least when I'm on the ground my shoes are cute.

1. My fingers are awful. Truly awful. If you saw my hands in a line up you would think they belonged to a farmer who was too poor for a plow and just dug up 100 acres with his bare hands. I long for the 50's when decent women wore white gloves. Maybe that's what I should do anyway. I could be the writer who brought gloves back to humor.

Crap. Lunch time is over. I'm going to go have some Quaker and ketchup.


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

Have cape, will travel.

I’ve decided I want to fight crime for a living. Not like my friends and my husband who have to use a badge and a gun and a giant ego to fight it though.

I want to fight crime in a very caped crusader kind of way. I’m of the opinion that to truly be respected as someone who takes crime fighting seriously, a really cool mask and themed costume is quite necessary. That’s exactly what’s wrong with law enforcement today by the way. Too much badge and too little crazy cool mask.

I know I for one would be far more likely to behave myself if I were pulled over by a guy wearing bat ears and a black mask. Everyone knows attempting to flee from someone involved in a dynamic duo situation is futile.

I don’t want to fight crime by anybody else’s definition of what a crime is either. I want to pick and choose what needs fighting based solely on my whim and desire.

And I have lots of whims and desires.

For instance, this weekend the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou wanted me to go with her to something called The Battle of the Bands. Because I do whatever the Evil BL tells me to, I went. Also in attendance at this insanely loud event were two people who we’ll call Thing One and Thing Two.

Thing One was a highly repellent looking creature who looked to be in her mid-fifties. Her hairstyle was circa 1973 and she had the graying complexion of someone who has been chain smoking filter less, hand-rolled cigarettes since kindergarten.

Pretty, pretty.

Thing Two was a wimpy looking guy around the same age who weighed just about eighty-five pounds with five of those directly attributed to the weight of the grease in his hair.

Yum.

Their crime? Their seemingly voracious appetite for one another.

Yes, I am a freak about inappropriate PDA’s (public displays of affection) and I admit it.

I can tolerate hand holding if it’s absolutely necessary… and by necessary I am assuming that one of the two is feeling faint and there is no motorized scooter or licensed EMS person readily available. But I can stomach nothing more.

When two people are all snuggly and touchy-feely in public I don’t think it’s cute, or precious or sweet. I think it’s gross and icky and completely criminal. These two Things were groping each other like perhaps they were wearing bubble wrap in their underwear and were playing a vigorous game of Pop It.

Gross as it was, I couldn’t stop looking at them. I do enjoy the Discovery Channel after all and as I missed the special on the mating habits of the North American Overweight Wildebeests, I felt compelled to see exactly how it all works.

FYI – the male wildebeest apparently arouses the interests of the female by constantly rubbing her back while simultaneously dangling a Marlboro out the side of his mouth and dry humping her leg.

I looked all around the concert area in hopes of finding anyone who might save the crowd from this repulsive x-rated exhibition. While I spotted several men in badges that could have easily shot these randy savages right in the head, they did nothing. No shots were fired and no one was handcuffed and taken downtown.

All that has to happen for ugly people to procreate is for those who have guns not to shoot them in the head.

Had I myself been certified as a caped crusader, I could have deployed my lasso, took them into custody and gotten the commissioner to throw them out of the city. Of course later on I’d have had to battle them after they fell into a giant tub of acid while trying to perform the Venus Butterfly, but I’d be willing to risk it.

Footnote: I still don’t know what the Venus Butterfly is. Curse you 80’s lawyer show.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Heard this the other day and remembered I loved it terrible back in the day.




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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