Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Showing posts with label Running away.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Running away.. Show all posts
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Just a little anxiety and anal cocaine.
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Don't Freakin' Tell Me to Be Myself!
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
ATTN: Houston – Hide Your Jewelry & Your Husbands
Let me say first of all how much I appreciate everyone’s responses to my vlogs in which I repeatedly threaten to beat up a pregnant uber blogger named Dooce. We will return to more video taped threats in the days to come. But first, this just in…
Sher is about to do what Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC has told me repeatedly not to do. I am going to get on a plane and fly to a city I’ve never been to meet people I only know through the internet. What flavor of crazy, white trash woman does a thing like that, right?
That would be this flavor – Southern vanilla-moonshine crunch with nuts.
Ryland and Kristi are my hosts as well as the potential Houston white slave traffickers. I met them online when Kristi sent me a flattering email about Wiping the Crazy off My Face. She asked whether my background was in journalism. I told her my background was in crazy. We were immediately in love.
After many months of cyber-bff’n, Kristi introduced me to her real life BFF, Ryland. Another immediate connection was made when Ryland and I began to talk and I decided I loved her harder than a goat loves a stump. I’ve asked her repeatedly to move to Idaho with me so we can get married. As of this writing, no date has been set.
As it turns out, the three of us have a connection that is deeper than the fact we each have a computer. Collectively we believe Michael Buble is sex on a stick, Elvis is alive and Crocs are Satan’s shoe. Frankly those bonds are stronger than any I’ve had with at least ¾ of my husbands.
We also love to laugh at ourselves, at our pasts and of course, at others. As we began to exchange emails and phone calls, it didn’t take long to realize we are funnier together than we are apart.
So, without ever having seen each other in sweatpants, we began a writing palooza and are now in full on collaboration mode. We have the website, we have the want to – we just don’t have the Wordpress mojo to get it moving. Therefore I am hopping a plane, which as you know is packed with germs and is very likely to crash once I get on it, and heading to meet my bitches.
I’m horribly nervous for all the reasons you might suspect.
First of all, what if there really is no Kristi & Ryland? What if in fact their real names are Bertram and Fat Jimmy? What if they are truly planning on selling me into white slavery?
Note to Bertram & Fat Jimmy – save yourself the trouble as I will bring very little change on the auction block. My ovaries stopped working like 14 years ago and I rarely do as I’m told. Some might even say I’m sassy.
Then there is the worry that Kristi will greet me wearing a tiara and a mink stole. That’s what rich people wear every day right? Oh! Did I forget to mention Kristi is a self-proclaimed trophy wife and socialite and has more money than God? Well – God before the price of oil dropped anyway. She refers to one of her homes as “the farm” when in fact it is my firm belief she does not understand the word farm. Unless there are chickens crapping on the front lawn and she is personally up at dawn to milk something other than her husband’s bank account, a giant house on country acreage does not a farm make.
She also has lots of dinners with people who have very recognizable last names. This causes concern for me. I’m terrified I’ll show up for dinner thinking we’re having hot dogs and Van DeKamp’s Pork ‘n Beans only to find the Prime Minister of mother truckin’ Zimbabwe and a table covered in silver platters of snails and goose liver.
Note to Kristi – I don’t eat things I used to murder for fun with a salt shaker AND I don’t want to meet anyone who doesn’t know what a pork rind is and has never thrown up tequila.
Then there’s Ryland. She has this easy, understated grace about her that makes her seem entirely above it all even though she may be screaming obscenities on the inside. She’s blonde and flawless and charming and hates it when people end sentences with the word of or at. She grew up in the world of mucho money whereas I grew up in the land of biscuits and gravy and knowing for sure mucho was how people in Mexico sang the Bingo song-o. She’s an artsy-fartsy type who goes to galleries and owns art work that was not purchased in an abandoned parking lot of a liquor store. Most of it isn’t even on black velvet.
Note to Ryland – Please do not make me go to places where Guy is pronounced Gee and I cannot engage at least three people in a discussion about the finer points of how to microwave a Moon Pie to perfection. I will only embarrass you and you will have it coming.
So there it is then. My plan is to go on Memorial weekend so if you do not hear from me soon after, please alert the authorities. I’m either an uppity white slave in a foreign country or I’ve run off with someone’s Houston husband. I’m betting you can guess which is more likely.
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Sher is about to do what Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC has told me repeatedly not to do. I am going to get on a plane and fly to a city I’ve never been to meet people I only know through the internet. What flavor of crazy, white trash woman does a thing like that, right?
That would be this flavor – Southern vanilla-moonshine crunch with nuts.
Ryland and Kristi are my hosts as well as the potential Houston white slave traffickers. I met them online when Kristi sent me a flattering email about Wiping the Crazy off My Face. She asked whether my background was in journalism. I told her my background was in crazy. We were immediately in love.
After many months of cyber-bff’n, Kristi introduced me to her real life BFF, Ryland. Another immediate connection was made when Ryland and I began to talk and I decided I loved her harder than a goat loves a stump. I’ve asked her repeatedly to move to Idaho with me so we can get married. As of this writing, no date has been set.
As it turns out, the three of us have a connection that is deeper than the fact we each have a computer. Collectively we believe Michael Buble is sex on a stick, Elvis is alive and Crocs are Satan’s shoe. Frankly those bonds are stronger than any I’ve had with at least ¾ of my husbands.
We also love to laugh at ourselves, at our pasts and of course, at others. As we began to exchange emails and phone calls, it didn’t take long to realize we are funnier together than we are apart.
So, without ever having seen each other in sweatpants, we began a writing palooza and are now in full on collaboration mode. We have the website, we have the want to – we just don’t have the Wordpress mojo to get it moving. Therefore I am hopping a plane, which as you know is packed with germs and is very likely to crash once I get on it, and heading to meet my bitches.
I’m horribly nervous for all the reasons you might suspect.
First of all, what if there really is no Kristi & Ryland? What if in fact their real names are Bertram and Fat Jimmy? What if they are truly planning on selling me into white slavery?
Note to Bertram & Fat Jimmy – save yourself the trouble as I will bring very little change on the auction block. My ovaries stopped working like 14 years ago and I rarely do as I’m told. Some might even say I’m sassy.
Then there is the worry that Kristi will greet me wearing a tiara and a mink stole. That’s what rich people wear every day right? Oh! Did I forget to mention Kristi is a self-proclaimed trophy wife and socialite and has more money than God? Well – God before the price of oil dropped anyway. She refers to one of her homes as “the farm” when in fact it is my firm belief she does not understand the word farm. Unless there are chickens crapping on the front lawn and she is personally up at dawn to milk something other than her husband’s bank account, a giant house on country acreage does not a farm make.
She also has lots of dinners with people who have very recognizable last names. This causes concern for me. I’m terrified I’ll show up for dinner thinking we’re having hot dogs and Van DeKamp’s Pork ‘n Beans only to find the Prime Minister of mother truckin’ Zimbabwe and a table covered in silver platters of snails and goose liver.
Note to Kristi – I don’t eat things I used to murder for fun with a salt shaker AND I don’t want to meet anyone who doesn’t know what a pork rind is and has never thrown up tequila.
Then there’s Ryland. She has this easy, understated grace about her that makes her seem entirely above it all even though she may be screaming obscenities on the inside. She’s blonde and flawless and charming and hates it when people end sentences with the word of or at. She grew up in the world of mucho money whereas I grew up in the land of biscuits and gravy and knowing for sure mucho was how people in Mexico sang the Bingo song-o. She’s an artsy-fartsy type who goes to galleries and owns art work that was not purchased in an abandoned parking lot of a liquor store. Most of it isn’t even on black velvet.
Note to Ryland – Please do not make me go to places where Guy is pronounced Gee and I cannot engage at least three people in a discussion about the finer points of how to microwave a Moon Pie to perfection. I will only embarrass you and you will have it coming.
So there it is then. My plan is to go on Memorial weekend so if you do not hear from me soon after, please alert the authorities. I’m either an uppity white slave in a foreign country or I’ve run off with someone’s Houston husband. I’m betting you can guess which is more likely.
Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
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.
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.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
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.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Last seen looking fabulous.
Dear Readers,
Please print this as it may be used as evidence in the investigation of my disappearance.
Today my ex-wife-in-law and I are going to the Big City to peruse insanely expensive tanning beds for the crazy exciting new business venture we're working on.
Sounds pretty normal and not at all scary, right?
Yeah. You're wrong.
So she found this guy online who says he can hook us up with said insanely expensive beds for a little less than insane. "Where's your warehouse?" she asked.
"Ummm, I can tell you where it is, but I don't know the actual address," said the man whose last name is Jones or Smith or some other cheap hotel last name.
So we're off momentarily to meet up with this shady character who I'm guessing will have forgotten his keys and need a bolt cutter to gain entry into his business. She and I will either be raped and pillaged or wind up on COPS after helping him break and enter.
Light a candle for me (preferably one that smells like a cookie) and send us good non-raping vibes. If you haven't heard from me by 0600 hours tomorrow morning, please get together and hold a vigil. But don't use the picture on this blog when you're talking to Matt Lauer! And don't use my driver's license picture either!
Just go ahead and use this one.
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com
Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.
Blogroll Me!
Please print this as it may be used as evidence in the investigation of my disappearance.
Today my ex-wife-in-law and I are going to the Big City to peruse insanely expensive tanning beds for the crazy exciting new business venture we're working on.
Sounds pretty normal and not at all scary, right?
Yeah. You're wrong.
So she found this guy online who says he can hook us up with said insanely expensive beds for a little less than insane. "Where's your warehouse?" she asked.
"Ummm, I can tell you where it is, but I don't know the actual address," said the man whose last name is Jones or Smith or some other cheap hotel last name.
So we're off momentarily to meet up with this shady character who I'm guessing will have forgotten his keys and need a bolt cutter to gain entry into his business. She and I will either be raped and pillaged or wind up on COPS after helping him break and enter.
Light a candle for me (preferably one that smells like a cookie) and send us good non-raping vibes. If you haven't heard from me by 0600 hours tomorrow morning, please get together and hold a vigil. But don't use the picture on this blog when you're talking to Matt Lauer! And don't use my driver's license picture either!
Just go ahead and use this one.
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com
Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.
Blogroll Me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)