Imposter

I always feel like I'm a little kid masquerading in a grown-up's body. I suppose it stems back to when I was a child and I thought my parents knew everything. I thought that once you reached a certain age the mysteries of the universe would magically be revealed to you. If I had known how little they really knew I'm sure I would have been very afraid.

I realize, at 35, that I don't know jack. Seriously. There are days when I go, "Ohhh....so that's how you_______________." Fill in the blank with whatever you like. There is just so much that I don't know.

I think this feeling of being an imposter is most prevalent at work. I tend to feel like a little kid even though I know I am a confident and effective professional. It's funny to think that my first professional aspiration as a child was to be a genetic engineer. I had visions of working in a lab, dipping pipets into test tubes, looking into microscopes and curing disease.

MUWWAAHHHAAAHHHAAAAAA.

*Sigh. Deep Breath. Wipe Tear*

MUWWAAHHHAAAHHHAAAAAA.

Okay. Okay. I'm over my hysterical laughter.

Eventually I settled on psychology. This is how my years as a counselor went:

"I feel so alone," my client would lament. "It's like no one ever listens to me."

Gee, I wonder what's on TV tonight. Oh Shit. What we're they saying?

I finally found my attention span and I think I actually helped a few people, but I am still amazed that I got paid for what I did. Could you imagine if I was a doctor?

"Doctor, I hurt all over. What is wrong with me?" my patient asks.

"Well, I would say you have a bad case of Moh Rahn's Disease."

"OH NO! Is it serious?"

"No. You're just a moron!" HAHAHAHAHAHA.

See. I'm an imposter. A fake. Just a big kid in an adult's body.

And then there's the whole matter of me being a parent. I'm the authority now. I'm the adult with all the answers who supposedly knows all.

Crap. Guess I'll have to fake my way through that one too.

Random Thoughts

I feel like I don't have anything to say today yet I am compelled to write. Well, at least nothing that would qualify as a story or anecdote or at the very least, interesting. Instead I will regale you with the random thoughts that pop out of my head.

I want to buy Christmas presents for people I don't know. Do you ever do that? I think sometimes, "Ohhh....I should buy that for Mopey Chick, she'd love that plush Darth Vader M & M guy!" But I don't really know Mopey Chick. So it might be weird. I do that for my imaginary internet friends and sometimes celebritites too. I also imagine what I would buy for my family if money were no object. How about a private Rolling Stones conert, Lala???

When I drive to work on the Northeast extension sometimes I just want to scrape my car along the cement wall that seperates the North and Southbound lanes. I don't really want to mess up my car, I just want to see what will happen. I suppose I would probably end up dying in a fiery wreck, so I guess I'll just leave that to my imagination.

I wear high heels to work everyday. I hate heels. I don't know why I wear them. Probably because I feel like all other types of shoes make me look like a dumpy schoolmarm. My legs hurt. I will probably have vericose veins when I am old.

I have tons of ideas about things to write about at night, but I'm too lazy and/or too tired to get up and write. I would get a tape recorder to quickly capture my thoughts but I'm afraid my husband will think I'm nuts. Sometimes I don't think he really gets my creative side.

I like to dance when I am alone in my house. I just jump around like I'm spastic and retarded. I suppose this would be good exercise if I could actually keep it up for more than a few minutes, but I am really out of shape. Sometimes I think I should tape myself because it's probably hysterical, but I am scared that it might be just plain sad.

I am stopped at every turn by my lack of money. I don't mean to say that I am unhappy or ungrateful for what I have, I just mean that there are basic things I want to do, but I can't because money is so tight. For example, I want to paint my bedroom, but I have to wait until my next payday to buy the paint. Paint's not that expensive, but the money we have currently is budgeted for groceries and bills. I hate being on a budget. I don't need to be rich, I just want to be able to go to the store and buy the few things I want when I want them.

I guess that's all for now. I know this post was a jumbled mess. I will try to be more organized for you tomorrow.

Holiday Shopping and Serial Killer Update

I hope you all had a nice Thanksgiving. I have an announcement.......

My Christmas shopping is DONE!!!

That's right. Finished. MWWAAAAHHHAAAAHAWHAWHHHAAAAA!!!!!

It is such a relief.

I know. You are thinking, so early? How did you do it? I just figured out what I wanted for everyone before I left the house and did a grab and run at the store.

Did I mention that I hate, HATE, Christmas shopping? I hate it.

I hate the commercialism, the music, the decorations, the PEOPLE, the pushing and shoving, the parking lots, and the frustration. Hate it.

So, I always try to finish before Thanksgiving so that I can miss the holiday rush. My husband's aunt called last night to ask what to get my boys. She then mentioned that she had to be at Best Buy by 3am. Now I don't know what she's saving by getting there that early, but I would probably pay that amount to NOT have to get there at 3am. I just don't get it.

I also hate the advertisers. You know, those sadistic people who advertise these awesome children's toys, your kid then begs for it, and you agree only to find out that they have really advertised four separate toys that cost about $50.00 each. UGH.

My shopping is done, my tree is up....all I have to do is wrap the presents and Christmas can just come on. I'm ready.

________________________________________

Serial Killer Update....

The Toll Booth Serial Killer has been down graded to "Creepy Toll Booth Guy". This occurred early Friday morning.

He was in my lane and as usual and said, "It's great to see you. You look fabulous today."

Instead of freezing in terror as I usually do, I said, "Do you say that to everyone?"

As I said this I noticed, for the first time, a wedding ring. He's married!

"No," he replied. "I only say that to the pretty girls like you."

Okay. So maybe not serial killer material, but definitely creepy. And I wish I could see what his wife looks like.

Ghost

I saw a ghost.

I don’t really expect anyone to believe me. I didn’t believe my eyes at first. But I did.

I am ever the skeptic. I tend to look for a scientific reason when things happen. While I do believe in God unquestionably, I tend to look at creation in a more “intelligent design” way. I think that God had a hand in the natural evolution of the world that we live in today.

I suppose it is this belief in God and my faith in the unseen that will let me accept, in my critical mind, that I saw a ghost. It’s funny, when you tell someone this, they tend to think you are a little crazy.

If you believe in heaven and hell, and you believe in angels and demons, why can’t ghosts walk the Earth? And if you believe ghosts are real, why can’t you believe that you can see one for yourself?

I guess because we like to believe that these things are out there, but they aren’t REALLY real. They are more like ideas. Not facts.

Oh, that house has a ghost in it? Cool.

Oh, there is a ghost standing in front of me? WTF!

I was driving home from work on Friday. I was around 5:30 and already completely dark this time of year. It was about 35 degrees outside. I was driving up the Northeast extension of the turnpike. A police car raced past me, lights flashing and siren blaring. The traffic slowed down to between 5 and 10 miles an hour.

It had been a long week. All I wanted to do was get home. I was tired and knew that I had to get the house picked up before our friends came over for dinner. I glanced at the side of the road for some reason, and out of the corner of my eye I saw something.

I looked more closely and there was a man walking toward the highway. He had sandy blonde hair and was wearing a yellow short-sleeved t-shirt and dark blue jeans, definitely not weather appropriate. Before I could think about how odd it was that he was there he vanished. He was just GONE.

My first thought was that I didn’t really see it. I must have thought I saw it. But I couldn’t think of any way to reason that it was something else.

I saw a man and then he just…..vanished.

I immediately felt a chill and goosebumps covered my body. I was sufficiently creeped out to say the least. I have heard that you can physically feel a ghost. I didn’t want to take any chances so I shouted, “Get out of my car!” and then I prayed.

If someone could have seen me I probably looked like a deranged schizophrenic, but I didn’t care. I guess because of my religious beliefs I don’t believe that ghosts are the Casper, fun-loving type. I’m more in the school of thought of ghosts being the Exorcist/Amityville Horror type. I’m pretty sure that a house would only have to say, “Get out!” to me one time and I’d say, “Oh, you want me to leave? Well, let me just get my purse and the place is all yours.” There wouldn’t be any hanging around on my part.

When I drove home yesterday I got a little agitated as I came to the spot where I saw the ghost. I really didn’t want to see it again. And I didn’t.

So I guess this is where the story ends. I’ll keep you posted.

NEW LINK!!!!

Attention all!

I have posted a new link to Word Nerd. Go read her blog. It is wickedly acidic with it's view of everyday humor and frustration. You'll love it!

How Far to Hell?

I have uttered the phrase “I’m in hell” or “This is hell” many times, but never did it seem more appropriate than when my husband and I were moving to Pennsylvania.

It has been almost two years since we drove from Mississippi to Pennsylvania. It took us three days to get there, mainly because I was 7 months pregnant and couldn’t drive for very long.

My husband was driving his truck and towing a U-haul trailer. Because of this, we decided we would forgo the shorter mountainous route and would travel East until we reached I-95 and then go North to our new home.

I was driving our van with our then two year old in the back and my ever-growing belly in front of me. To explain how difficult this was for me I must bore you with a few pregnancy details. I am NOT a good pregnant person. I tend to have many complications ranging from pre-eclampsia to gestational diabetes. When I drove my feet would swell and I would have unbelievably painful leg cramps.

We decided that we would only drive six hours a day for three days to make the trip easier on me, three hours in the morning and three hours in the evening. We would stop early, have a nice dinner and retire to a comfortable hotel. Even with all this planning the trip was miserable and painful.

As in the beginning of every long trip, when I pulled out of my mother’s driveway in Mississippi I set the trip odometer in my van. I like to gauge how far I’ve gone and how far I have left to go by it.

Sometime during the second day of our trip I was quickly fading. I knew I had to continue driving but I didn’t want to. My husband and I were using walkie talkies to communicate with each other because we weren’t getting new cell phones until we got to Pennsylvania.

“Honey, I am so tired,” I complained.

“I know you are, but you have to just keep going. We will stop soon, okay?” my husband asked.

“Okay. I can do it.”

So keep going I did, but not with out some serious mental complaining, and cursing, and asking God, WHY???

About that time we took a detour through a quiet country road. We were somewhere in either North Carolina or Virginia. The road was very windy and had a deep gully on the left side and a very high hill to the right. As we rounded a bend I noticed an old gas station in the gully. The paint was peeling and the walls looked as if a strong wind would knock them down. I then noticed the old sign. It had been a Shell gas station but the “S” was gone and the sign, towering high about the old station in big red letters read, “HELL”. For some reason I then looked down at my trip odometer and the mileage read 666. I shit you not. I walkie talkied my husband.

“Honey, apparently I am in hell,” I said.

“Complaining again?” he asked.

When I explained the details of my comment he didn’t believe me.

“Your odometer is NOT 666,” he said.

“It is. I swear! I was so freaked out I started praying,” I exclaimed.

True story.

(So mom, if you are reading this, just FYI – it is exactly 666 miles from your house to HELL.)

Annoyed

I am annoyed. ANNOYED I tell you! Why? Why you so boldly ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Why do I only make $2000 a year more than my boss's driver? I mean what exactly are the qualifications and training? I imagine the interview:

"So, it says here that you've had a motor vehicle operator's license since you were 16. Impressive. Most of our employees don't finish their formal training until they have finished college well into their 20's."

"Oh yes. I had my permit at 15, and of course my uncle Vinnie let me drive his car on some backroads when I was just 13."

"13! My you are a go-getter! And I see here that you have been opening doors for nearly your entire life. Stellar."

"Not only can I open doors, sir, I can do so with BOTH hands."

"An ambidextrous door opener! My! Isn't that capital! I must have you as my driver. You must start immediately!"

"Don't you want to hear about my errand running abilities?"

I mean come on people! I know the man is a professional. I understand that he deserves fair compensation. But I have a FREAKIN' MASTER'S DEGREE and I do essentially TWO jobs and am paid for ONE!

WTF???!!!

Stupidity

I am constantly amazed at the stupidity of people and what is considered “acceptable” in the workplace. I’m going to provide two examples for your reading enjoyment.

1. I received an insurance application sent from another office. By the time these particular items get to me they have already been reviewed and approved. I received an insurance application with the name Samuel L. Jackson on it. I suppose there could be an individual other than the actor Samuel L. Jackson with that name. But not only does the actor not work for us, no one with that name does either. Here’s what I received:

Samuel L. Jackson Mark Brown

So I guess Mark Brown thought it would be funny to pretend he was Samuel L. Jackson? And I guess the office in Florida thought that he didn’t need to fill out another form?

Just stupid.

2. I have to terminate insurance for employees when they leave. If I don't find out that they left from the division then we continue to pay for individuals that don't work for us. Probably not a good money saving practice.

I pay the bill and then send invoices to our different divisions in the amount that they owe to pay the corporate office back. I received a phone call yesterday.

“Hi Sherri. You billed me for John Brown in October for insurance. He was terminated in September.”

“I was unaware that he was terminated. You didn’t notify me.”

“I have to notify you?”

“Yes. If you don’t notify me that someone in Florida has been terminated, I, in Pennsylvania, have no way of knowing this.”

“Oh. I just thought you knew.”

What was I thinking?! Of course I should have known! Let me just lug my crystal ball out of my purse. Sorry boss, I can’t help you right now. I’m consulting my crystal ball to see who was terminated in Florida last week.

Stupid.

So, I in my glass house have to deal with these stupid people. Because you know I never make mistakes or do stupid things.

Sincerely,

Angelina Jolie Sherri

Playing Well

I had to “play well” at work today. By this, I mean that I had to pretend I wasn’t sick. I know…..strange, right? We are so used to pretending to be sick to get a day off? Who has to play well? Well, I do, because my boss is a germaphobe reminiscent of Niles Crane ala Frasier.

I came to work feeling pretty bad but knowing if I didn’t I would be too overwhelmed tomorrow to get anything done. I still have not caught up since my pseudovacation in October. I don’t know why it is, but if I have a little work, a little gets done. If I have a lot of work, a lot gets done. If I have an overwhelmingly impossible amount of work, I freeze and NOTHING gets done. I will actually sit and stare at the work, not knowing where to start until I spend about four hours triaging paperwork into must do, need to do and can wait until hell freezes over piles. I want to avoid this at all costs.

That is why I came in sick today. Because yesterday my boss sent me home. Don’t worry, he was nice about it. I left at 1pm. I decided that I felt like crap and was too hungry to drive the 40 minutes home on the interstate, so I was going to pick up some food beforehand and eat it on the way home. Did you know that you can literally drive for hours in any one direction in Pennsylvania and not find a fast food restaurant? It’s true.

I drove for about 20 minutes and didn’t find a drive-thru so I turned around and went in another direction. I just kept doing this, driving and turning around, refusing to get on the interstate and go home where I knew where the fast food restaurants are. It became my stubborn mission. I know you are probably saying, you don’t know where the fast food restaurants are by your work? No. No I don’t. Sue me.

Anyway, I finally found a Burger King, got some food, and drove home. I got there at 3:30. Still feeling crappy.

So I sat around watched 3 hours of some stupid bat cartoon with my son to keep him quiet because I just didn’t have the energy to chase him around. Then this morning came the decision. Go to work? Stay home? I knew I needed to go to work. I have always been trained to go to work, sick or not. So I came to work.

“How are you, Sherri?” my boss asked.

“I feel much better, thank you,” I replied as I stifled a cough.

Do you know how hard it is not to sniff in front of someone when you can feel mucus sliding down your face? It’s really horrible.

So anyway, the day is almost over. I am going to go home and collapse. My poor kids are going to get whatever frozen treat I microwave for them again tonight. I guess I’ll make up for it with vitamins and milk. Milk’s the perfect food, right?

So anyway, tomorrow I promise I will have something to write about other than vomit, throw up or being sick!

_________________________________

On a different note: Did you know that Dentyne has “Vanilla Ice” gum? What’s sad is I actually bought it and then realized I had bought something with “Vanilla Ice” on it.

"But mine’s different," he said. "It goes dum da da dum da da DA dum."

Throw Up

I know throw up probably isn't a great title for a post. It might make the reader a little wary of what is to follow. But that's what this post is about....throw up.

I did end up getting sicker following my last post. I in fact threw up for about 24 hours beginning in the wee hours of Sunday morning all the way through late Sunday night. I HATE throwing up.

My 3 year old, Charlie, can make himself throw up at will. After Charlie had been sick on Thursday, his baby brother began throwing up on Saturday. Not to be outdone, Charlie decided that he had to throw up too. My husband thought he was joking and held out a bowl that he had in the living room for the baby. Charlie leaned forward and out shot every bit of his supper.

I've never understood throwing up at will. Bulimics....I just don't get it. I mean, I can understand wanting to be thin, but I will do ANYTHING to avoid throwing up if I can.

I remember this one time that I was very sick. It was about a week before Christmas and my mom wanted to take my sister and me out to look at Christmas lights. I had eaten a Totino's pepperoni pizza for dinner. You know the frozen ones with the little square pieces of pepperoni on them? I think I was about 9 or 10.

We got in my mom's station wagon and rode into town. I can still remember the song on the radio. It was Queen...."Pressure, pressing down on you, pressing down on me....Do dum dum day...de day dum..."

Even at my young age I can remember thinking, "How appropriate. I'm about to hurl and this damn song is mocking me." Luckily I made it home, but I still had a long night of being sick in front of me. Remember those little square pieces of pepperoni???

As I hovered over a bucket that I had placed beside my bed, some 25 years later, I still heard that song in my head....dum da da dum da da dum dum...PRESSURE!

After all that, thankfully, I am beginning to feel better. I will brave the office tomorrow. I think this was the first full day of work I have missed in about 2 years.

But I did lose 5 pounds....I guess those bulimics know what they're doing after all.

Sick

There is truly nothing worse than having a sick child with the exception of having a sick child in your car, when you can’t stop because you are in heavy traffic, and they just keep getting sick, again and again, over and over, all over themselves, and you can’t stop, and you are still 45 minutes from home.

I picked the boys up from school yesterday. I arrived as usual, with one minute to spare sprinting up the front steps. I ran to the computer at the desk, the girl behind it shouting, “Hurry, hurry!” I clocked the kids out with seconds to spare. If you are late you get charged.

“I just wanted to let you know that Charlie threw up right before you got here. I don’t think he’s sick. He probably just ran around too much and got overheated,” the girl at the front desk tells me.

Charlie has been known to do that, sometimes he just throws up if he’s playing to hard and he tends to get car sick if he plays with toys in the car, so I wasn’t too worried.

“How are you feeling, Charlie?” I asked as I buckled him into his car seat.

“I’m okay, Mommy. I got sick at school.”

“I know baby. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

So off we go on our way home. I call my husband to let him know we are on our way and discuss dinner. I tell him about Charlie and just about the time we are determining that he is probably not sick he throws up again.

“Uh oh. He’s getting sick again. I gotta go.” I tell my husband.

At the next stop light I turn on the light in the van and look back at Charlie. Shit. He is COVERED in puke. It is all over him. It’s dripping down his chin, on his clothes and all over the car seat.

“I don’t feel good, Mommy. You have to get home real fast okay?” he says.

It is just so sad and pathetic. Why is it kids are sweetest when they are sick?

“Okay baby. You just sit tight. Mommy will get you home as fast as she can.”

I had to open and close the window the entire way home. The smell was horrible, but it was cold outside and I didn’t want to freeze the kids. I almost got sick myself a few times.

A little closer to home I called my husband.

“How’s Charlie doing?” he asked.

“Let's put it this way.....I’m gonna call you when we pull into our neighborhood. I want you to meet me at the car with a towel and a bucket.”

"Um...okay...." he replies.

When we get home Charlie goes straight to the bathtub. Poor baby. He was sick all night, but seems to be doing better today.

Now it's my turn. I don't feel so good......

Bleach Humidifier and Serial Killer Update

I meant to post about this last week, but I got sidetracked.

One night last week I went upstairs to bed and thought, “Wow, my husband must have done a load of laundry.” The bleach smell was unbelievably strong. Then I walked into our room…..

Immediately my sinuses began to burn and my eyes began to water. What the hell was it?

My husband came upstairs and I asked him, “Why do I smell bleach so strongly?”

“Oh. I put bleach water in the humidifier to clean it.” It had been running for about an hour.

Now I don’t know if that is the way you are supposed to clean a humidifier, but I think expelling noxious gases into a closed room that you are about to sleep in is probably not a good idea.

“Oh God! I think I’m going to die,” I cough out.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Seriously, honey,” I plead. “You have got to do something about these fumes. I don’t want to die in my sleep.” I know, I’m a little dramatic.

“Okay, fine. I’ll open a window.”

So that is how we ended up sleeping with our windows open in 30 degree weather.

So how do you clean a humidifier? Cause if that’s the way, it is just stupid.

____________________________

Toll Booth Serial Killer Update:

Going through the toll booth today, I see him. That damn tan ball cap gives him away every time.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you this morning. You look beautiful as always,” he says.

Shit. He is actually starting to remember me! It’s only a matter of days now until I disappear, I just know it.

“Um, thanks,” I reply and drive away.

Another opportunity wasted…..

Wilma Strikes Again

I just found out from one of my oldest friends that my childhood church in Lake Worth, Florida, Our Savior Lutheran, was destroyed by hurricane Wilma. My first inclination was to cry. I thought this was a little odd. I haven’t gone to that church for over 20 years, and I can’t even remember the last time it crossed my mind. But I am truly sad for the loss of something that held so many memories.

I was raised Lutheran. My father insisted on this. My mother is Catholic. I’m sure my father ranted and raved, as was his way, until my mother gave in. It was usually easier to accept defeat with my father then try to fight a losing battle.

This was one of the few places I can remember us going as a family, although I’m sure my father was absent more than he was present, my parents divorcing when I was four years old.

I attended the private school that was attached to the church. I started when I was only 3 in the Jr. Kindergarten program. I went to this school until I was 9 years old. I made some friends that I still keep in touch with.

I can remember sitting in chapel on Wednesdays. The pastor yelling as us because “The Lord’s Prayer is NOT a race children!” And how many Christmas pageants was I a donkey/shepherd/choir member/angel? (Never did get to be Mary).

The church had stain glass windows all the way around depicting passages from the bible. It was especially beautiful on a sunny day when sunlight would splash a rainbow of colors onto the floor. In later years they added an enormous pipe organ. I didn’t like it. I preferred the music the way it was before….simple.

I think that the church probably wasn’t as big as I remember, but to my child’s mind it was a cathedral. It was grand and regal.

I hope that it gets rebuilt.

_______________________________________

Now on a side note – tell me what you think about this:

My childhood church - destroyed by hurricane Wilma

My hometown - ravaged by hurricane Wilma

Cancun, my vacation destination – hit by hurricane Wilma (old Wilma gets around, huh?)

Dominican Republic, my alternate vacation destination – hit by a Tropical Storm

Paris, my alternate, alternate vacation destination – riots

Mississippi Gulf Coast, my last home – destroyed by hurricane Katrina

Meridian, Mississippi, where my family lives – Category One hurricane (Katrina) hits (this NEVER happens, by the way).

This ALL happens in a span of 2 months.

So…..is someone trying to tell me something?

Sightings

I have seen the Toll Booth Serial Killer twice since I last reported on him. I saw him once last week. He said, "My you look beautiful today." I mumbled something and drove off head down.

I promised myself the next time I saw him I would stand defiant. I will not accept your compliments serial killer! I know your true intent. I would be strong. Tell him how he is inappropriate.

Here is how I imagined the conversation:

I pull up to the toll booth looking him straight in the eye. I am not afraid.

"Good Morning," he says. "You look very beautiful."

"I don't really think it's appropriate for you to say things like that to me. It makes me uncomfortable," I reply.

He looks taken aback. Of all the women he has complimented, no one has ever stood up to him!

"Oh, I was just trying to be nice."

"No you weren't!" I demand. "You are just using these compliments as a precursor to kidnapping me and locking me in your basement. Don't lie you freak!" I scream.

A myriad of emotions wash over his unshaven face. He knows he's had.

"You think you're so smart don't you?" he asks. "You think you can blow my cover? I'll just move to another toll location on the turnpike."

"Fine!" I shout.

"Fine!" he replies.

I drive off, head held high, saving the day for all the female commuters who travel through the Norristown exit.

Ha ha!

Here is what really happened when I saw him again:

I pull up to the toll booth and realize it's him. Oh shit I think. I look down as I stick my hand out the window with the change.

"Good Morning," he says. "You look very beautiful."

I mumble "uh huh" and drive off.

Aren't I the superhero?

Damn, foiled again.

Disorder

I have diagnosed myself with a serious disorder. I can’t go to a doctor for it because it isn’t widely recognized in the medical field. I am sad to report that I have:

Bipolar Cleaning Disorder.

I know, I know. You are shocked and appalled. It true, folks. I have this terrible disorder. I’ll explain how it manifests itself.

First, you hate to clean. I mean you really HATE to clean. Example:

You must vacuum your house. You sit on the couch and look at the closet where the evil device, the vacuum, lurks. Here are your thoughts:

I don’t want to vacuum. I hate to vacuum. This sucks. To vacuum I have to get up, go to the closet, open the door, pull the vacuum out, unwrap the cord, plug it in, push the stupid vacuum all over the house, unplug it, wind up the cord and put it back in the closet. I can’t do it. I just can’t. It’s too much. I hate the vacuum. It was invented to taunt and torment me. Why can’t I just get a maid?

All this time you could have been vacuuming and it would have been done. But you can’t. You are motionless, frozen by the downswing in your Bipolar Cleaning Disorder. And this doesn’t just manifest itself with vacuuming. It can happen with dusting, laundry, and the most feared of all…..bathrooms.

Then, when you just can’t take it anymore something comes over you. All of a sudden you are frantic. You MUST clean. You start in the kitchen. You can’t wipe the counters fast enough. You vacuum, in a frenzy. Rags are flying, cleaner spraying on every surface. Nothing is safe. Family dog, get out of the way or you will soon be in the bathtub. You have catapulted from the depths of cleaning procrastination to the height of a manic cleaning episode.

While this may sound good, it’s not. You may be thinking, but you are getting your cleaning done, what’s the problem? The problem is, along with this manic cleaning phase, you develop cleaning ADD. You can’t finish any one project. You flit around the house, dishwasher open and half empty, toilet brush sitting in a half scrubbed toilet, while you dust the TV all you can think is - I need to put the laundry in the dryer.

Please, please….if you recognize yourself, get help. I am working with a therapist to get on a productive cleaning schedule. Remember folks, one day at a time. Together we can have clean houses while maintaining a happy, balanced life. I know it can be done.

Signs of the Apocalypse

Some thought 9/11 was a sign. Then there was the tsunami. And of course Katrina is fresh in everyone's mind. I on the other hand know that end times are coming because of this man:



I just found out, to my dismay, that Kevin Federline is cutting a rap album (that is the industry term, right?). I mean, wasn't it bad enough that this man was allowed to breed?

Seriously, here are a few excerpts from one of his songs:

"Back then they called me K-Fed/ But you can call me Daddy instead"

Yeah, I'm not calling you anything but, "Ewwww...."

"Well maybe, baby, you can wait and see/ Until then all these Pavarottis following me"

Huh? You have large opera singers following you? Why?

"My prediction is that y'all gonna hate on the style we create, straight 2008"

Um....we already hate you Kevin. Really.

Here's the thing. Just because you're married to Britney Spears doesn't make you a celebrity. I know you had that crapotic show or whatever it was. But you're not a star. Please, please go and take a bath, shave, and take an English course. You don't speak it well.

And get a job, ya loser.

The Sherri Show

I’m not really into reality shows. Usually I just think they’re stupid. But I have to say, I think my life would be a great one. There is one condition….my thoughts would have to be a continuous voiceover. That’s the only way it would be truly funny. Here’s an example:

Yesterday a man came to my office to drop off a membership application for my boss’s country club. He wanted my boss to sponsor him. The receptionist called up and said that he was there and wanted to make copies and could I come down and help him.

Shit. I had NO time. I was working with the safety director discussing a new database that I was going to create for him, because I.T. is certainly part of my job function, right? (*please note sarcasm).

Anyway, I wasn’t sure if this guy was actually a personal friend of my boss or not and he wasn’t in the office to ask so I figured I should err on the side of safety.

I get downstairs and the guy is just weird. I can tell from looking at him. He has on khakis that are too short, loafers, a plaid button down shirt and a sweater vest. He has glasses, greasy dark hair and a GIANT angry red zit on his neck.

“Sherri?” he says.

“Yes, hello. Is there something I can help you with.”

Eww….he’s so gross. He kind of smells too.

“I need to make some copies if that’s ok.” He holds out an inch thick book.

Damn. I don’t have time for this shit. I don’t wanna. Don’t wanna!

“Sure. Follow me to the copy room.”

We walk over to the copy room. It’s one that is downstairs that I never use and I didn't realize that the door automatically closes or I would have never gone there with him. There’s no way to hold it open. Shit. I don't want to offend him by leaving in case he's friends with my boss. I’m closed up in a small little copy room with this creep.

Oh God! This is so gross. Please don’t let him touch me. I know I’ll cringe and quite possibly scream.

“What do you need to copy?” I ask.

“Oh, just a few pages out of this book. I had some artwork that was damaged and I need to send these copies to my lawyer”, he replies.

“Okay.”

He proceeds to try to copy some pages out of the book. It’s cumbersome to do, so he is holding the book on the copier, pressing the spine down so that it copies accurately, while I push the button for him. I had to stand way to close to him.

This so totally sucks. Hurry the F up, mister. Boring. Boring. This is so boring. Oh I hate this. I hate him. I hate copy machines. I have so much work to do. Why am I helping this man?

I look down and then I notice the artwork in the book.

Holy Shit! Is that chick naked? And what is she doing with her hand?! OHMIGOD!

All the pictures were like that. I was shut up on the copy room with this weirdo while he made copies of some creepy soft porn artwork.

Gross, but quite possibly, funny.

So Where Do I Pick Up My Check???

I ran across this on someone else's site. So I did what they said and tada!....I'm $10,161.72 richer. But how do I get my check?

My blog is worth $10,161.72.
How much is your blog worth?

Voice Mail

Last Sunday I got a strange message on my cell phone voice mail. There was a lot of static and it was difficult to make out all of it, but here is what I heard:

“Stop mess….with my man or I’ll fu…..uh…your fuc…..face, bitch.”

Hmmmm……

Interesting.

What really had me baffled is the voice was definitely a black woman. I think. Well, definitely a black woman OR a redneck.

Okay. So I first checked to see who called me. Private caller. Which of course when you threaten someone is what you do, right? Don’t let them know who you are.

Then I thought, who could it be? I’m not “mess….with” anyone’s man. Am I? I mean, I suppose I could inadvertently be pissing someone off due to my charm and good looks.

So I went back to my voicemail message. It says, “This is Sherri. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”

My name is on it. Is there another Sherri messing with someone’s man? Or maybe this person only had the number. Maybe a similar cell number ended up on some guy’s bill and his woman is mad and misdialed and accidentally got me?

And why, as a woman, would you even want to hold on to some guy who is messing with another woman. If she is messing with him, he is probably messing back. Have some pride, woman!

I really, really wish I had this person’s number to call them back. Couldn’t you just imagine the conversation?

“Hello.”

“Um…yes, hi. You just called my cell phone and said you were going to do something to my face if I didn’t stop “mess” with your man. I had a really hard time finding you because you didn’t leave your number.”

“Yeah. You better leave Levon alone or I’m gonna mess you up real bad.”

“Levon, huh? Yeah, honey, you quite possibly have the wrong number.”

“What? Isn’t this Shakeena?”

“No. My name is Sherri and I plainly identified myself on my voice mail.”

“Oh. Sorry. That Shakeena been mess with Levon, I just know it!”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. Listen, why don’t you call Shakeena and tell HER to stop mess with Levon, because I’m sure if a girl is mess with your man he probably isn’t mess back with her right? I mean, you should definitely fight for this winner.”

“Yeah, I gonna do that now.”

“Ok. Good luck with that.”

Lessons Learned on the Road

You have a lot of time to think on a 1000 mile drive home. Well, in between the screaming kids and the potty breaks, that is.

I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere during this trip I finally got it. IT. Have you ever had one of those moments, I suppose you could call it an epiphany, where you just go, “Oh! So that’s what it’s all for?”

The meaning of life, as Curly so eloquently put it, is that one thing, in that one finger. Am I confusing you?

I guess what I’m trying to say is somewhere between Mississippi and Pennsylvania I finally realized why life can be so great, why it is so precious, and why I have to continually remind myself to be thankful for what I have.

I know some of you may be thinking, “Didn’t she already know this?” Yes. I did. And then I forgot. As we all do.

Life is a series of hills and valleys, dark places and epiphanies. We forget what is so wonderful about our lives and then all of a sudden it smacks us in the face and we remember.

My kids drive me crazy. I mean REALLY crazy. But I love them. And they’re mine. And life without them, now that I have known them, would feel empty.

And my husband. I’ve put him through so much. I’m sure many of you who read this remember that I was getting a divorce. WAS being the operative word.

I forgot. I forgot that I love my husband. Why?

Because as Kurt reminded me, I didn’t just want to be in love, I wanted to be in love in a movie. And I forgot that my real life ain’t that bad. And I love my husband.

I had a defining moment on my 1000 mile trip home. Life is precious. Don’t waste a moment.

We spent one night on the road during our trip. I was struggling over the continental breakfast at the hotel with my boys, (ages 3 years and 16 months). There were two other people present, a lovely woman who helped me clean up no less than 3 spilled juices and 2 bowls of spilled cheerios, and an older gentleman sipping coffee. As I was finishing up with the boys, the two of them began to talk and I overheard their conversation.

“So where are you off to?” the woman asked the older man.

“I’m traveling with my son and his family to Texas,” the old man responded.

“Oh, that sounds so nice.”

“Well, I figured I’d better go one last time. I’m 92 and this will probably be my last trip.”

His comment struck a cord. How strange it must be, I thought, to look at the end of your life and know that it is fast approaching and inevitable.

“You can’t be 92!” the lady responded. “You look wonderful! You must have had a good woman in your life.”

“I did. I lost her about 3 years ago. We were married for nearly 70 years.”

Wow.

Grasp it folks. Life is fleeting.