Collette's Bustier Has Pretty Rhinestones.

Give me one good reason I shouldn't run away right now? I know I've threatened like 8 million times to flee, but this time I mean it. I do. I'm not even kidding.

I am so sick of being me that I can't even stand it.

I'm tired of my hair. It's all stringy and flat and not even a color that you would see in nature.

I'm tired of that one weird discolored spot on my nose that looks as though a bird crapped on me and I was too distracted by my fire batons to wipe it off.

I'm insanely tired of having OCD - which is the only kind of tired you can be when you have obsessive-compulsive disorder. I swear on all that is holy if I have to straighten the knobs on the stove just one more time, I'm gonna....

Hang on. Be right back. Please hum the theme to Kojak while I'm away.

Had to touch the damn knobs.

So here's the thing then. Some days I wake up and I'm loving life and grinning from ear to ear and humming the theme to Kojak and I think to myself, "Collette," which is what I call myself on the good days, "Collette, you are gonna rock 45 like no other."

But then there are the other days. The days I wake up and I lie very still wondering whether I'm in fact waking up from a decades long coma rather than a single night's sleep. What else would explain my having aged twenty years so quickly?

"Gertrude," which is what I call myself on the bad days, "Gertrude, you are a washed up, fat faced, hollowed out shell of your former self. I can't even bring myself to look at you."

Gertrude is a bitch.

I often wonder whether I'm having a mid-life crisis. As I said to a friend only moments ago, I feel as though I am one gold chain and a sports car away from being a pot-bellied, forty-something man chasing after twenty year old tail.

Yes I said tail and I'm not even sorry. Forty-five year old women are rarely sorry.

I feel I should get something pierced or tattooed or lifted or plumped. I am overwhelmed by a gnawing desire to change my name and commit a crime. I lie awake nights plotting how I might convince AC/DC to let me be their drummer.

Technically I cannot play the drums, but I do quite well on the shifty thing in my car so it's all good.

God help me, I gots to fly. I gots to jet. I gots to pack my red wig and my rhinestone bustier and do something that would get me a ticket to incarceration here in the Midwest.

Be warned that I won't be back before the big 4-24 birthday meltdown and if all goes as planned, I won't be back after either as I will be in hiding with my stalker, Toad Suck Guy. I figure if anyone can keep the feds from finding me, it's a seasoned stalker with a big truck and a keen knowledge of hinky behavior.

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Why you punish me? You wash away my dreams.




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

Delaying Your Gratification

(Note to reader: we are taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming - Interview with a Bunch of Guys I Tricked, but will return and with flourish in the days to come. Why? Because my ovaries hurt.)

Yesterday was a banner day for the OCD chick. First of all, there was leftover Chinese food so I had the distinct pleasure of having Mongolian Beef for breakfast. Yes it smelled so bad that one of the two Yorkie brothers buried his head under the sofa cushions. Yes it made me sick only a matter of 4 minutes later.

But still. It's the breakfast of Chinese champions.

Second, the wind in Kansas was about 400 miles per hour. That may not sound like a good thing to you, but I'm sort of in love with Kansas wind...so long as the wind is not shaped like a funnel. I like the sound very much. I also like that I have a valid excuse not to do my hair for approximately 2 months. I hate hair doing in all forms but save for the windy season, I succumb to peer pressure and do it anyway.

But the bestest of the best things to happen yesterday is that a key piece of a new venture in which I'm participating was put into place. If that sounds vague, please don't adjust your hearing aid. It is vague.

Ambiguous even.

I will say this much: I am going to be writing with an ensemble cast featuring two other women who are better than me in every way. They are blond and gorgeous and funny and smart and they never eat Chinese food for breakfast. (Although I would like them more if they did.)

This is a big deal kids and because of my deep and abiding love for you, I wanted you to be the first to know.

Right behind the Yorkie brothers, Mr. Man, the lady who answers the phone at Wong Pow's, my gynecologist, the guy who sold me my new tires, the fire baton repairman, the twenty-one year old guy I tried to cougar up on, my second cousin twice removed (from our family reunions because she has no teeth and we can't stand to watch her eat) and Dick Cheney.

He tortured me. You would have done the same thing.

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If you don't BLIP.fm kids,I can't be your friend anymore. Jeez. What are you waiting for?

Here's your song for the day by Lily Allen. Be forewarned - they are singing a very bad word that the OCD chick never says in this blog so send the kids outside before listening. I'd like to dedicate it to the person who made me mad yesterday. You suck.



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

Doest Thou Get What I'm Saying?

Today I awoke and realized that I was on the verge of experiencing a very rare occurrence. I had a day off and zero responsibility. There was nowhere I had to be and nothing I had to do that couldn’t be put off until tomorrow. It was bliss.

“I am going to the store to purchase crafty things,” I said to Mr. Man, “in large quantities.”

He wept.

Mr. Man knows with absolute certainty I have no business whatsoever buying crafty things as I am not a crafty person by any definition.

Unless you define crafty as cunning, sneaky, shrewd and devious and then I totally am.

Sometimes, like this morning, I forget that I was born missing many of the stereotypical feminine skills like: cooking, cleaning, making napkin rings out of old toilet paper rolls and remaining married to the same person for a lot of days in a row.

All it takes is something as simple as passing by a picture of Martha Stewart on the cover of a magazine holding up a vase she made out of toothpaste and cat litter and I instantly become envious and desire to also create something entirely photographable.

Before beginning, I am always hopeful. I can see clearly in my head what I am about to make and it is completely spectacular. Where I go wrong with craft projects is coincidentally the same place I go wrong with every man I’ve ever loved… I see what I hope they will be rather than the piece of crap they most definitely will turn out to be.

Wow. That was bitter. I think I need to spit.

This time my muse was a little bracelet that I frequently wear which was handcrafted in Uganda by women who have nothing better to do than make beads from paper. That’s probably because their days aren’t over-scheduled the way mine are with things like eating food and living in a house.

Every time I wear my pretty blue bracelet I always think to myself, “I can do that”. But then I get busy with work and family and husband shopping and I never follow the creative urge. Today I decided to throw caution to the wind and give it another go.

Before heading out to forage for Mod Podge, I did the smart thing and Googled for instructions and necessary supplies.

Paper
Toothpicks
Glue
Vasoline

Upon seeing the list I realized that luckily I already had these things on hand.

“Honey, why are you cutting all those little strips of paper?” Mr. Man asked. “And why is our sex kit on the kitchen table? Am I getting lucky?”

“I am creating, you imbecile! Now away with you!” I tend to get a little Master Thespian when in the throws of artful expression. Oddly enough that’s also how I talk when I’m in other throws as well.

Long story short, after approximately seven straight hours of what amounted to arduous gluing, rolling, sticking and dare I say unparalleled creative expression, I have not one single solitary bead to show for it.

Stupid Mr. Man. Next time I’m feeling creative I should probably wait ‘til he’s at work.

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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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