Vampira - Mistress of the long, long night.

I don't sleep. I am not one of those people who drifts off peacefully to sleep and then stays that way for 7 or more hours. I've always been that way but lately it's gotten even worse.

I know what you're thinking.

"Where did I leave my keys?"

(They're on the kitchen table, under yesterday's mail.)

I've had tests, I've Googled "baby can't sleep", and I've read all the best sellers about not sleeping. REM for Dummies and Be Quiet & Go to Sleep Before I Come in There were my faves.

But last night, as I was counting sheep and my blessings and the number of times I've been married, the reason I can't sleep finally dawned on me.

I'M A VAMPIRE.

I know what you're thinking.

"Why are my cough drops always covered with lint?"

(Because Hall's and Big Lint are in bed together.)

I got out of bed and ran to the mirror to check 'cause everyone knows vampires have no reflection so they can't see their own faces.

Crap. There I was looking back at me all tired and what not with my hair sticking up in such a manner that I wondered when the cat had groomed me. And then I remembered we don't have a cat and thought maybe it was a cat burglar instead.

He could have crept in with his black leggings and jaunty black burglar cap, stole all my jewels and Matrix DVD's and before he left, licked my head. Happens all the time.

But then I started doubting myself as to whether it's their reflection vampires can't see. What if it's their shadows? That sounds right.

It sounds right at 2 in the morning anyway.

So I looked around for my shadow and guess what? Not there. Totally no shadow.

I know what you're thinking.

"Having seen in the news that monkeys sometimes eat people's faces off, should I still get one for my kids to play with?"

(Yes. Don't hate the monkey. Your kids are nothing to write home about.)

I started to wonder what else about me was vampiric.

Well, I like long nails.

Sadly they aren't long right now because of a nail biting frenzy about a week ago during an especially hairy episode of Two & a Half Men, but usually they are.

Plus I deeply enjoy biting.

Mr. Man has the bruises to show it. I will often inexplicably bite him when he least expects it. Until last night I figured it was simply a case of not being disciplined correctly as a toddler. Now I know the truth.

Once I confirmed that I am in fact a vampire I began to wonder when it happened. I would think being bitten by a crazy sexy man in the middle of the night when I was wearing a long flowing white gown and had my windows open would be memorable.

I was sure it couldn't have been recently as my favorite sleeping attire of late is boxers and a T-shirt that says my monkey made me do it. Vampires do not bite chicks dressed like that.

Especially when a cat burglar just licked their head.

So what the hell? Could I have gotten a vampire bug in a public restroom?

Hell to the no. The OCD Chick carries an assorted multitude of germ killing things with her at all times and since Germ-X kills everything, it's reasonable to assume that includes vampire cooties.

And then it dawned on me. It was the wedding!

A few years ago I was mesmerized by a vampire I met at a goth wedding at which I was officiating. Although I don't remember the actual biting, I do remember stalking him out to his 1981 Toyota Corolla. That's probably where it happened as the next thing I recall is wondering where the letter D on my ass came from.

I know what you're thinking.

"How is that Octomom ever going find a man now?"

(Are you kidding? With the giant chunk of child support change she's going to undoubtedly get from Sperm Donor, they'll be lining up like she's freaking Angelina Jolie. Which she sorta is.)

I'm not sure what to do next with my bad vampire self. I guess I should probably think of a new name because everyone knows there are no vampires named Sherri Lynn. Or Margaret. Or Roberta.

I should also get out and start meeting some of my own kind at a mixer or something. I know exactly what I'm looking for in an eternal vampire partner slash friend slash cabana boy slash luvuh.





I also know what's probably looking for me.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
This is the vampire's favorite song. It has to be because it's the single best song in the entire universe. It is. I swear. Agree with me or I'll bite you. I mean it.





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

Psycho Vampire Toad Sucking Stalker. Good times - good times.

Dear Sher,

In order to entice you to attend this years Toad Suck Daze Festival ( this is the third or fourth year I've invited you). I've been considering ordering this outfit to wear to the fest. It is called the "Psycho Vampire Stalker" outfit. I should think the words psycho or vampire would be enough to bring you out, but the promise of both together might be impossible for you to resist. I'm not sure how I will explain it, and the PHL, to PJ but you'll help me think of something, right? How about I throw in your very own Monkey? You've had some pretty-good excuses, but I'm beginning to suspect that you really might not want to attend.

TSG....Your favorite stalker

Dear Toad Suck Guy aka TSG aka Stalker,

I have to admit that in all the years you've been asking me to come to Toad Suck Daze, this is the first year I am truly compelled to want to do so. The notion that a psycho vampire stalker awaits me on arrival is hard to resist indeed.

And a monkey to boot? I'm all a twitter. (Speaking of twitter, make sure you follow me.)

Whether or not I show up, you'll have to wait and see. I suggest you wait for me by the toad shaped cotton candy between the hours of 5AM and midnight. However, the idea that you would take your stalking to a new level and dress as a psycho vampire in an attempt to woo me has convinced me to bump you up the PHL (potential husband list) to number three. Congratulations.

Sher



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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Unstalkable?

Dear Sher,

Just so you'll know I'm still around, I wanted to send you the link to this tender ballad! What can I say. This guy could be from Arkansas. I used half a box of Kleenex myself, listening to it. Hope this will move me up the PHL. (potential husband list)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egCeIwjIuZM

Dear TSG,

Thank heavens you are still stalking me. I was starting to feel a little unstalkable. That song was very romantical, by the way. Not enough to bump you up the PHL, but enough to keep me from bumping you down.

Dear Sher,

I laugh so loud and so hard when i read your blog I damn near pee. Good gog you should have a book. Do'nt give up.

Dear Chick who thinks gog is good and so am I,

The best compliment I ever get is that I've made someone pee. Would it kill you guys to maybe tell me I have a pretty smile once in awhile?

Dear Sher,

Your funny. just bumped into you.

Dear Short and sweet,

Ouch.

Dear Sher,

Where are you from in North Carolina?

Dear Person who gets a cookie for paying attention,

If I tell you where I'm from then that would put you one step closer to knowing my true identity and I can't risk that you might find my secret bat lair.

Ellenboro. The name of the town is Ellenboro.

Dear Sher,

I was reading that story you wrote about the vampire at the wedding and I have to tell you I've always had a thing for vampires also. You're great.

Dear Copier,

I also like werewolves. What's your stand on werewolves?


Dear Sher,

Hey, I was just checking out your blog, which is great. Since you seem to have an interest in OCD (as do a lot of people these days), I figured you might get drawn into this story, which appears in the new October issue of Details magazine(the one with Brad Pitt on the cover). I traveled to Texas a few weeks back to attend the Obsessive Compulsive Foundation's annual conference, so the piece is about both the event and the disorder.

cheers,

Jeff
Editor-at-Large
DETAILS

Dear Large editor,

I seem to have an interest in it because I have it. When first I read it, your story made me cry. I'm in there. I live in that...every single freaking day. It's my life. I'm Smith, I'm Jeff, I'm Rick, I'm Cameron, I'm George and Dan. Thank you for your story and for emailing me. It's always a relief when I'm reminded I'm not splashing about out here all alone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I'm too old to love this song right? Don't care. Love it terrible.

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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Blogroll Me!

His turn on’s: Brown eyes, dark roots and O negative.

The OCD Chick is so much more than just a bizarre lady who can’t say that number between 5 & 7 and who has to repeat the word “gumball” 21 times while shampooing my hair so that God won’t kill my daughter’s cat.

Oh yeah. I’m a big ball of diverse talents.

I’m a writer, a Mother, a friend, a helluva twirler, a Realtor, a fake blonde, a rebel, a cook, a terrible singer and believe it or not… but why wouldn’t you…I’m an ordained minister.

You may call me the “Reverend OCD Chick”, or even “Your Holy OCD Chickiness” if you prefer.

Did I become ordained many years ago while surfing the internet in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep?

Yes, I did.

Does that make me any less a minister?

Probably.

But in the land of RV’s & Milo’s, my late night online ordination does give me the legal ability to marry people who want to be married. And believe it or not, some people do want to do that, no matter how hard I try to talk them out of it.

This weekend I brought together a man and a woman in holy matrimony. It wasn’t just any man and woman either. It was a man and woman who are occasionally very Goth, very renaissance, very different.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. They are merely lovely people who would rather pierce something in a sensitive area than to ever be seen in clothing from Old Navy or have a tan.

Out of all the fascinating people who were in the wedding party and/or in attendance, and believe me when I say there were a few attention-grabbing people present, there was one at whom I couldn’t stop staring no matter how I tried.

He was a vampire.

That’s right. An honest to goodness, I ain’t even making this up, vampire.

He showed up for rehearsal with a pale white face, jet black hair nearly to his waist and long, silver fingernails. He was dressed all in black clothing and wore nearly a floor length black overcoat. It was vampire casual. When he smiled, his mouth looked as if he may have just had a quick hit of O negative in the parking lot.

I was strangely enthralled.

Later when I returned for the ceremony, he was in his vampire finest. He wore a black suit with a white ruffled shirt underneath open to reveal his pale chest. His hair was slicked back and pulled into a pony tail. On his little finger, he wore a silver “ring” for lack of a better word, which had a long pointy thing that I’m guessing vampires use for either helping to open a vein or getting pickles out of a jar. In his right hand he carried a black walking stick that had a skull on top.

Sounds bizarre, huh?

Well here’s what's even more bizarre. Remember those old black and white vampire flicks where a perfectly normal looking red-blooded woman would beg the evil vampire to bite her so she could live forever in the netherworld with him?

I totally get that now.

No matter where he went, I stared. While Mr. Man was doing his best to get as far away from this guy as he could, I was figuring out ways to stand near him. When he asked me whether I would hold his cane for him, I think I may have even answered, “Yes, Master”.

At one point, he walked over to me and actually said these words, “My Darling, you look lovely this evening. I must photograph you.”

I nearly passed right out.

Thank goodness Mr. Man and Deputy Pretty were there to look after me or I really think I might be sound asleep right now in a two bedroom coffin in the basement of his castle.

Or with my luck, sound asleep in a two bedroom mobile home where he lives with his parents while he works nights at Jack-In-The-Box.

Yeah. That seems about right.



Copyright © 2004-2006, 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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I wonder where I left me.

I've spent most of my day doing domestic tasks while thinking deep thoughts. Something about standing in line at Wally World and cleaning the refrigerator clears my head and allows me to ponder the things in this world that need pondering.

Like why I always find hair in my refrigerator on cleaning day. And not long, bleach-blonde hair either. The kind of hair that if found on my baked potato at Shoney's would get me a free meal. Where does this stuff come from? And how does it wind up underneath the vegetable crispers? Makes me want to invest in one of those Nanny-Cams and hide it in a celery stalk. I want to know once and for all if there are disgusting little refrigerator fairies shooting fairy porn when the door closes.

I was also thinking today about my writing career. Career. I like that word. It implies I am actually earning a steady income from putting words on paper. Makes me sound all grown up, too. But, I digress.

I'm pushing the heck out of forty-one now and although my biological clock is set to snooze, my hurry up and become successful clock is ticking like a time bomb. I want to see my name on the New York Times Bestseller List while I am still young enough to go on book tours without the added frustration of trying to figure out how to pack my Depends in my carry on.

I've written for as long as I could hold a crayon. I love to write. I have to write. The problem is, other people do not have to read what I write. There's the rub. If I could possibly persuade some dictatorial government to make my stories mandatory reading for all citizens, I'd be a much happier person.(Note to self: Find out where evil foreign dictators buy groceries and "happen" to bump into them.)

Although these days I write mostly humor and articles about working from home, I have written lots of different kinds of things in the past. Maybe I should drudge some of those up and see how they fly.

For example, there was my "dark" period where I wrote about my life in such a way that any generally happy person reading my work would have been instantly compelled to lie down on the nearest train tracks. I recounted the details of my somewhat screwed up existence on this planet with such stark reality that my own daughter had to wake me up to what I was doing.

"Mom," she said with all the wisdom of a then eighteen-year-old young woman, "even though what you've written is true and even if you were to ever have this book published, no one would ever be able to read it. It's too much to stand."

And that's the name of that tune.

Then there was the time I decided I could just churn out a book according to a formula. I settled on the idea that romance and sex was where it was at and given that I had at least some understanding of those two subjects and felt I was a pretty o.k. writer, I'd just pop out a sexy, love story that would immediately be known the world over as the single best love story in the history of the world. How hard could it be, right?

Way hard.

I wrote some stories and I guess they were fair. The problem is I found I kept killing off my male leads. I'd change their names, the background of the story and before I'd made it half way through my writing, low and behold there was another fictional character carcass lying with little x's over his eyes while my heroine danced around with glee. I have no idea how it happened.

Well, I know the mechanics of the murders. I used pills, rat poison, blunt objects and on one particularly creative occasion, I actually used a stake to end the life of a handsome vampire that was foolish enough to try and court me. What I don't know is why I couldn't help but give ficticious versions of myself names like "Collette" and "Victoria" and then stand by silently as they proceeded to pull black widow acts on all my make believe suitors.

Possibly I have some unresolved anger issues toward men. Either that or I'm not getting enough fiber in my diet.

So here I am, approaching what is known to most as "mid-life" and I'm still trying to find myself both as a writer and a woman. Is that normal?

I don't know. But I do know that when I do finally find myself it will probably be in the last place I looked.

Who knows if I'll ever make it? I suppose some would counsel me to give up. To stop trying to write my way to the top. To give my fingers a rest and just sit back and grow old with grace.

To those people I would say two things.

First of all, I will never give up. If I don't have my work published before I die I am leaving instructions in my will to carve the entire lot of it in stone tablets that will surround my grave site. That way everyone that comes to see me will be forced to read what I have to say about everything from Moon Pies to make-up.

And second, I have no idea who Grace is. Why would I want to grow old with her?

Copyright © 2004, 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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Do you serve revenge in a crock pot or on ice?

My loyal readers will have noticed by now that I have not been writing on any sort of regular basis as of late. I love saying, "my loyal readers". It sounds like I have droves of them when in reality it's just my Mom, my husband and some weird guy from Montana that lives with a goat named Sheila and thinks I have a purty mouth.

I have been absolutely incapable of writing for a few months now. Well, that's not entirely true. I have written my obituary again and again. I keep hoping it'll turn out differently, but in the end I'm always dead.

Frankly, I've just been too depressed to write. I've spent hours on end wearing my fat pants and hiding under my desk with a can of chocolate frosting and a spoon. I haven't chased the dog around the house, I haven't river danced and the fire batons haven't once been fired up.

It's been a pitiful time here in Whoville.

What has caused this severe lack of happiness and lack of writing motivation, you ask? Well, grab yourself a hanky and beverage to cry into and I'll tell you.

An editor. Plain and simple, short and sweet. An editor. I can't be certain, but I think his middle name was Beelzebub and I observed that his email address did have an unusually large recurrence of the number six in it.

I'm a writer of the kinds of things many people will just never get, therefore I am plenty accustomed to rejection when I finally do get the nerve to submit my work to a publication. But this rejection was different. This was a vampire editor. He is able to maintain his pathetic life only through luring innocent writers into his lair and then digging his teeth deep into our literary jugulars until every last drop of our creativity has been sucked dry.

Thankfully, I'm not bitter.

But, while I was wallering around the house knee deep in self pity and Betty Crocker, I started to wonder about revenge. Have I ever really "gotten back" at someone when I've had my feelings hurt and more importantly, how could I get back at this mean old so and so?

I'm told revenge is a dish best served cold, but I'm not nearly clever enough to know what that means. Sort of makes revenge sound like green onion dip.

The truth is I get my feelings hurt all the time and admittedly way too easily. In fact, if I have been in the same room with you for more than two minutes, chances are you've hurt my feelings. Frankly, if I were to seek revenge on every person that has made me cry, I'd spend six days a week doing nothing but putting sugar in gas tanks.

I do have to admit that I have a slightly evil side that periodically dreams up ways to exact my revenge on those who have wronged me. Much like that little cartoon devil that sits on the shoulder of Fred Flinstone when he's faced with the choice between right and wrong, she encourages me to do evil things when my feelings are hurt. And although I usually manage to shut her up, once in awhile I'd really like to do something entirely nasty.

Which brings me back to the editor that I have decided would make an excellent prison cellmate for any toothless guy named Bubba currently residing in our country's penal system. I've decided to get him back. To do that, I will simply write the world's greatest novel titled, "The Meanest Man That Ever Lived" for which I will undoubtedly win the Pulitzer and will be paid the tidy sum of one go-zillion dollars.

And when I am interviewed by Oprah, I will tell her my sad story of woe and how this editorial troll nearly squashed my inner spirit (she loves that inner spirit stuff) and how I somehow overcame his mental cruelty one painful day at a time. He will be ostrasized by the entire nation and some parts of Ireland and will be forced to live alone on an island inhabited only by those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz where he will die old and alone.

OK. Maybe I'm just a smidge bitter.



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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net

The things we do for love.

It's funny how things you haven't thought about in years suddenly and unexpectedly show up in your thoughts.

Yesterday, while driving back from a field trip with my son's fourth grade class, I remembered a night some twenty-two years ago that I'm sure I had managed to block out of my conscious mind due to the sheer level of embarrassment it caused. All these years later, I can finally laugh at the memory. At least I think I can.

I was eighteen-years-old and freshly dumped by the man I thought would be my husband. My Grandmother had passed away and for the first time in two years, I was between boyfriends. I was depressed and on the prowl for a replacement model (fiance, not Grandmother) when I decided to visit my Mother in Ft. Knox, Kentucky.

Ft. Knox is an army base and as such, it is always teeming with young, disciplined, lonely men. Any female with most of her teeth can find a man on a military base. I was gonna get me one.

In 1982, eighteen was old enough to be granted access to the clubs on post as well as old enough to drink... as long as it was only beer or wine. The only catch was you had to have an active duty military member agree to sign you into the club. My step-father was such a person. I was all set to go to the NCO club (non-commissioned officers) that Friday night to hunt for a husband.

I spent the entire day in preparation. In much the same way you wash, wax and detail a car before you try to sell it, I was making sure my chassis was in mint condition.

I carefully applied vampire red, insanely long Lee Press On Nails. Rather than take any chance one might pop off and leave me claw challenged, I decided to go one better than the little sticky tabs that come in the package. I grabbed a bottle of Super Glue... the same kind that used to lift Volkswagens over a man's head in commercials. If it was tough enough to suspend automobiles in mid-air, surely it could keep my nails in place.

I twisted open a brand new tube of Coppertone QT (instant tan stuff) and covered my entire body. I knew that nothing attracts a man like warm, healthy, bright orange glow. I couldn't reach the backs of my shoulders, but I figured it would be dark in the club and men wouldn't be interested in the backs of my shoulders anyway.

I curled and teased my long, brown hair for at least two hours in order to achieve heights and widths that would leave any 1972 country music diva envious. Not yet satisfied with the large, winged helmet that was my coif, I bent over at the waist... as was customary in my daily hair-fixing ritual, and flipped my gigantic head of hair upside down so as to achieve maximum hair volume. I then aimed my industrial sized bottle of Final Net Ultra Hold hair spray and coated the under side of my hair.

When I could touch my hair without having my fingers get stuck in it, or when I was nearly ready to pass out, whichever came first, I stood straight again and started the Final Net process on the rest of my hair.

It was the epitome of big hair. And, under no circumstances or weather conditions was it ever, ever going to move. The only thing that could penetrate my giant mass of brown locks was water and I was praying to the rain gods that the skies remained clear. I knew if even the slightest amount of water touched my masterpiece, my head would turn into a giant mass of chewing gum.

Oh.. I almost forgot to mention the stunning white and gold head band I was wearing across my forehead. Olivia Newton-John had nothing on me. I was simply fabulous and totally ready to get physical.

I pulled on a lime green and orange striped shirt with spaghetti straps and a short lime green skirt that had little metal snaps on the pockets. I wanted to show a lot of skin in order to accentuate my brand new tan-from-a-bottle.

When we arrived at the club, I was reminding myself that above all else, I needed to look cool. I certainly looked like an attractive completely adult woman capable of bearing healthy children and cooking wonderful meals. Now I needed to act the part.

And how better to say to the world, "I am an adult" than to drink to excess and smoke cigarettes? That's what I needed to do. Smoke and drink. My stunning beauty would grab 'em, smoking and drinking would seal the deal.

I went to a cigarette machine (they still had such things in 1983) and picked the pack that I thought most reflected my femininity. Virginina Slims, what else? I found a table near the stage where a very loud band was playing and tried to act as if I sat in bars every night.

The waitress showed up and asked me what I wanted to drink. This was a toughie. I couldn't just order beer or wine... even though the law said that was all I could drink. Sophisticated women like me drank mixed drinks. The only mixed drink for which I could recall a name was 7 & 7 so that's what I ordered. I had no clue what it was, but it sounded like a womanly drink to me.

As I waited for my froo-froo drink to arrive, I noticed that the band featured a very, very hot drummer. He was beautiful. He had long, black hair, dark skin and coal black eyes. I loved him immediately and imagined how precious our dark haired children would be. I began trying to make eye contact.

I don't know if it was my high hair, my vampire nails or the striking contrast of my burnt orange skin against my lime green outfit, but he couldn't take his eyes off me. He'd smile and wink and I'd act as if I was way too cool to notice, even though my heart was about to beat out of my chest.

When the band took a break, he made his way to my table and ordered a shot of tequila with a beer back. What a grown-up, manly thing to order! I didn't know what a beer back was, but I found it terribly exciting that the father of my children did.

He told me I was beautiful and wanted to know if I'd like to go with him to another bar when he was through with this gig. How much did I love the fact that he used words like "gig"!!! It was going to be so much fun being married to a drummer.

His break was almost over, when I realized that I had one bit of ammunition I had not yet used. I hadn't smoked in front of him! Silly girl! He needed to see me smoke in order to get the full effect.

I should probably mention here that the only times I had smoked and actually inhaled prior to this moment, I had puked for hours. I figured that as long as I didn't inhale, I'd avoid the never attractive but totally inevitable vomiting. I was so smart. It's no wonder he wanted me.

Trying to open the pack with my nails was like handing it to Edward Scissorhands, but I managed to finally get it open and extract one long, thin cigarette. Now I just had to get it in my mouth and get it lit. I was home free.

I picked up the lighter and I noticed that the cigarette felt a little sticky in my hands. Apparently I had not completely gotten all the hair spray off my fingers.

I clicked the lighter once. Nothing. I clicked it again. Nothing.

When I clicked it the third time I heard a sound not unlike the sound you hear when you turn on a gas stove. WHOOSH!

Two of my beautiful, red nails were fully engulfed. I was literally on fire.

Had I been at home and had my fingers burst into flames, I might have considered stop, drop and roll. But, ever the cool-headed adult, I didn't want to scare off the love of my life by acting like this was a big deal.

I did what any logical person would do when a part of their body is on fire. I held my hand close to my face and gently blew. What I failed to take into consideration was the very same hair spray that was coating my artificial nails making them as flammable as a BBQ grill was all over my head. That dawned on me about the time my bangs started to smoke.

It was at that moment that cool went right out the window. (As if it hadn't left the building already.) I stuck my flaming hand in my 7 & 7 while frantically beating my forehead with the other one. The fire was finally extinguished.

So what does one do after having put out a blaze on one's person in a situation like this?

While I sat their smoldering and smelling of burnt hair and fake nails with my hand soaking in my drink glass, I said, "So, what time do you think you'll be done here?"

Believe it or not, this guy wasn't my first husband either.