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.

Live! From the Ghetto!

Today's vlog is the very last one kids, so point and laugh as much as you can one more time. I may return at some point in the far away future to vlog about something wicked exciting - like time travel or winning the lottery - but barring that - we're all kinds of done with the videos. Thanks for coming to see them and please come say hi to me at www.ErmaDoesNotLiveHere.com. xoxo

Sher

This just in: Some of you - sort of a lot of you - have said NO on stopping the vlogs. I'm ten kinds of conflicted. Tell me what you think at humorwriter at gmail dot com. (Unless it's mean and then keep that shit to yourself.)

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

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.

What I Know for Sure: my legs could get a lot hairier.

Oprah thinks she's the only one who knows stuff for sure and she brags about it in every magazine she sends me.

While I may not have a magazine with my name on the cover (if you don't count the ones on my coffee table that have my name on the address label), I do know plenty of stuff for sure.

Exhibit A:

I know that a gaggle of birds can't make my Ford fall out of the sky. Reason number 869 humans should not ride in airplanes. (Yes - I said gaggle of birds.)

I know that gaggle sounds like a word one would use in rough sex, as in, "Wow Bob, I very much enjoy it when you gaggle me."

I know that Ann Coulter's mother should have had her ears clipped at the vet when she was born. Every time I see them sticking out of her Marcia Brady hairdo I am overcome with the desire to staple them to her head.

I know that the first day of the rest of my life was yesterday, so today the pressure is off.

I know that the Real Wives of Atlanta, New York and Orange County are clear examples of all that is vile in this world, but I would need an A&E Intervention to stop watching them.

I know that the conspicuous absence of a giant, big screen TV in my house is precisely the reason I have a sore throat, my dogs are ill behaved and my 401K is worth about $50 more than my Franklin Mint George W. Bush commemorative plate collection.

I know that just because my Wii Fit told me I am "unbalanced", that doesn't mean I need to check myself into The Amy Winehouse Hospital for the Big-Haired and Mentally Twisted. (Even if I do have my frequent flyer punch card that entitles me to one free stay with just two more punches.)

I know that although I complement them every day, my boobs have no self esteem. That's why they're always looking down.

I know that if Mr. Man continues to spurn my Rogaine advances, I am going to start using it on my legs.

I know spurn is what French people use to eat their Oatey-O's every morning because I'm a Southern bilingual. We are convinced if we add a fake accent to any word and simply say it slow enough and loud enough, all the peoples of the world can understand us.

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

I know I can't get enough of this song - despite the fact my daughter will have a hissy.


Love Lockdown - Kanye West




Copyright © 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.