handcrafted decoupage glass trays featuring original art & inspirational messages


Droppin' Like Flies

Sheree Burlington4 Comments

I was a wicked unpopular kid. I was a tall, skinny red head with freckles, big ears and buck teeth. I was loud, obnoxious, insecure and would do just about anything for attention.

Decades later, I've evolved into a tall, matronly dye job with freckles & wrinkles. Four years in braces have tamed the overbite. While I have mellowed a little, I'm still basically a big mouth. I've brought my attention seeking down a couple of notches. I dance, but not on tables. I have sex, but not with your boyfriend. My attempts at securing your attention are more subtle.

As a kid, I collected friends, real or imagined. In adulthood, I have a new fascination. Followers. I covet each and every one of you. You're what I think about when I should be sleeping/eating/working/painting/cleaning or bookkeeping. You're my validation. You give my life meaning. I need you.

Sometime this week, I lost one of you. Gone. Poof. Oh God. I'm boring! My writing style sucks. Wait! Was it the F word? The fact that I mentioned my boyfriend's dick? My jugs? Not enough contests? My header? What? WHAT?

Whew. OK. I'm alright now. Look. All I'm asking is that if you're going to leave, if you're not happy, if there's someone else, tell me. Don't let me be the last to know.

Dickheads Yesterday. Delinquents Today.

Sheree Burlington3 Comments

It's Tuesday morning. I'm sitting in the Day Surgery waiting room with my middle aged siblings. The room is full. I can feel the air conditioner blowing cold air, but I'm having one hot flash after another. I want to be naked. My niece's cell phone keeps going off, "girls just wanna have fun." She moves in slow motion to answer it. Studies the phone number. Everyone is looking at us. I want to dope slap her. They do, too.

Mom is in chemically induced dream land. She's getting a new hip. She's 73 and has spent the last 6 months hobbling around with a cane. She looks like she's 93. Every time I open my mouth, I hear her voice come out of it, so I've been watching her decline with a strange sense of premonition. My hands on the key board look exactly like hers. It's almost creepy. I'm sitting in a too-soft chair on an ass that's almost as wide as hers. I wonder which hip will go first.

Someone is calling my name. I look up. A police officer is standing in the door. Her badge is not shiny like those on Law and Order, but she looks like a cop to me, and to everyone else in the room. Detective Barbee - the one who arrested my delightful 15 year old son three weeks ago. She's come to deliver his invitation to court. They all watch as I step out into the hall with her.

The papers say Order and Notice of Hearing. Juvenile Petition. The block next to Delinquency is checked. Next Monday at 12:45. Be there. Because my son thinks the rules that keep us from kicking the shit out of each other whenever the spirit moves us - those rules don't apply to him.

Three weeks ago I was beating my chest and lamenting Oh! What a world! My blue eyed boy in trouble with the law because the mean old Principal got into a chest thumping match with him. Put his hands on him to keep him from storming out of the office. Called the police when he jumped out of his office window (relax - first floor.) This week, I want them to lock up his ornery ass so that he can get a glimpse of his future. This week, I'm hoping the judge will decide teach a lesson to a kid who spews venom & threats when things don't go exactly his way.

He's been pretty docile for the last three weeks. Gets shitty with me when I say no, but is getting used to hearing it & is quick to apologize. He can see the change in me. I'm done. Done protecting him, making excuses for him, giving in to him. These days, the only thing I say yes to is food and shelter. I'm preparing him for his stay at the Big House. Saw it on TV the day he got arrested. Eight CDs and a work book. Actual guidance for parents with kids at risk. I listen to it all day at work. In my car. Make him listen to it. He hates it but admits that some of it would make sense if it weren't so stupid. The information is no-nonsense. Concrete. Say this. Do that. Parental salvation for just over $300. Every parent should know about this.

I Suck At This.

Sheree Burlington5 Comments

Seriously. Suck. At. This. Veasey and Thystle manage to impart wisdom on a daily basis. Me? I got no wisdom, cause I got no life.

I work 80+ hours a week, live with Mommy, have an delinquent son and a clueless boy friend with a big dick. I work impossible hours because I'm convinced that one day, I will be rewarded for my diligence and actually be able to afford an apartment or at least one more pair of fat jeans. I drag my son through life every day because I know that one morning he'll wake up and say "Oh! I get it! If I don't figure this out, I'll be talking to visitors through a plate glass window."

And as for Ireland? I admit that the man-toy was a most effective distraction for several months (and that's not  why I dropped the L-Bomb.) But after days, weeks, months and now years of "who did your hair?" followed by comments about how much fatter my ass is now than when we first met - his dick is looking more like a long rope I'd like to wrap around his fricken neck.

Sure. My ass is fatter. I'm down to one pair of jeans and am about 5 pounds away from a daily wardrobe of sweat pants. And, in spite of the fact that he believes that short hair on any woman is a sign of latent Lesbianism, I cut it all off. Jesus H. I think I'm already starting to like girls better than boys. I'll never again iron another one of his shirts only to have him tell me I missed a spot. And if you think I will EVER clean his bathroom again so that he can tell me I forgot to wipe down the top of the light fixture - screw that.

It's Monday. I think I'll spend the entire week sitting on my fat ass in front of the computer experiencing the endless joys of web site optimization. I'll wait to hear from the police department about my son's court arraignment (another post.) Drink a delicious case of Slim Fast for breakfast. And another for lunch. Start packing for another move.

As for dick for brains - he's away on business. Maybe the gods will smile on him in Detroit. Maybe after he's done playing with his robots, he'll find an attractive, intelligent 53 year old woman with great tits, a fine ass, some Windex and a sponge. Maybe She'll clean and iron for him. And all without back talk.

Crap. Do I sound angry?

Shopping For A Man

Sheree Burlington2 Comments

About 18 months ago, I got the notion that I might like to spend some time with a man. Three years of flying solo had me romanticizing the whole relationship thing, again. Husband number one drank, hit & both entered & left my life when I was barely out of my teens. Husband number two showed up one day to build some shelves & spent the day playing on the floor with my three year old. He never left. He was one of the nicest guys in the world but was rendered helpless by his penis - the fricken thing dragged him around the landscape like a divining rod. While I was not in the market for husband number three, it occurred to me that the right combination of intelligence, language skills & testosterone could be a nice distraction.

Enter There is nothing more discouraging than sorting through hundreds of over-exposed images of men sitting on the couch with a camera in one hand and a beer in the other. WTF guys. Put on a clean shirt and go to the Sears portrait studio. Have one of your buddies catch you on their camera phone. Cut your old girlfriend/ex-wife/current wife out of a vacation photo and post that. A picture of you holding a fluffy white dog with a red bow on top of its head (seriously) is just poor marketing. A man who'd post a photo like that probably doesn’t even own a penis.

Within a month, I’d either spoken to or met a number of prospects. I learned quickly to detect the ones on an earnest search for a wife - Like, Right This Minute; Let down gently the ones for whom I had no curiosity; Roll my eyes at the idiots who were clearly suffering from blood loss to the brain. Powerless to stop themselves, they'd actually use the word "thong" in the first conversation. I tell you, it was a crap shoot.

Weeks pass (insert loud cricket chirping here.) Wait. This one is tall, seems intelligent, has varied interests and has the prerequisite handle on the English language. While I do find spelling errors in his profile (the kiss of death for me - I am a snob) I dismiss it to the fact that he's Irish. From Ireland,Irish. He's got a dog, but it's a huge black and grey husky (who probably sheds all over everything which means, crap, I'll have to vacuum every stinking day - this is where my mind goes.) We email. We talk. We decide to meet.

I like him the second I see him pull up in his truck, take the LAST fricken parking spot for blocks and lope across the street on impossibly long legs. I like him the whole time I'm giving him hell for taking the last spot. I like the way he looks at me like I've lost my mind as he takes my elbow and steers me into the restaurant.

Portsmouth, NH. Our third date. Apparently the second didn't go well, because when I called him, he said he never thought he'd hear from me again. Our last encounter, he said, “was like having lunch with a dead person." Apparently I was not on my best behavior. The second I think they like me more than I like them, I switch off. I become devoid of personality. I start planning my escape. The thing was that I actually liked this one.

Since I believe that the entire world population can be sorted into two categories, those you’d sleep with and those you wouldn’t, this presented a problem. I wanted to hang out with him. He was an unusual combination of handsome, funny and intelligent. His accent was completely charming, even if I didn’t always understand what he was saying. The problem was that I was feeling a northern rather than southern hemisphere attraction. So, in the middle of downtown Portsmouth, this comes out of my mouth: “I like you. I have fun with you. It’s just that I am not romantically attracted to you.” He stared down at me. “Oh. You mean you don’t want to have sex with me.” The tone of his voice made it clear that no other interpretation could exist. I rebutted, working the romance angle in a skilled and convoluted way. He was having none of it.

A few weeks ago, I dropped the L-Bomb. It wasn’t a brave, look him in the eye, bare my soul kind of I love you. It was a timid, muffled admission, whispered from the shadowy folds of his arms. may have to kiss a few frogs, but if you’re lucky, you might a tall, handsome man who makes you laugh, every day. It’s altogether grand.

No Hogging The Couch

Sheree BurlingtonComment

This couch represents my life. That's me, in the middle. I am surrounded by people and things that I need and care deeply about. There are a lot of things missing from this couch - A social life. Relaxation. Spirituality, A creative outlet that doesn't involve work. Inspiration to get my ass off the couch & into some regular exercise.

This is not whining. Without exception, everyone has been invited. For the most part, we've worked out who sits where and when. Peace requires the complete cooperation of everyone involved. It's not always peaceful. We all need to stretch our legs.

So, in lieu of reading or yoga or walking, I grab my moments on the computer. I fricken LOVE the Internet. I cannot imagine life without it. I find the coolest people doing the coolest things and I don't even have to get up. Most of them live lives just like mine - on a couch that's aging, sags in the middle and is the home and host of their top-shelf people.

Every once in a while I realize that I am one of those people doing cool things. I am a woman on a mission. I keep warning the gang that things may get a bit more crowded. We're going to need a bigger couch.

On Quiet And Empty Things

Sheree BurlingtonComment

These are things that remind me of my dad: His chair, its back cushion curved like his, its seat shaped by the length of his legs; every morning at 5:30 when I came downstairs, I’d find him in it – TV on, cat in his lap, coffee mug in hand. His truck, quiet and dusty in the dark garage; I drove it a couple of weeks ago. When I turned the key, Willie Nelson played on the CD. The yard, winter leaves still gathered in its corners like the snowdrifts that covered them not long ago.

I’ve grown accustomed to the empty chair, dark and alone in the half light of the morning – the locked garage door – the wild tangles of the yard. So this morning, as I stood in front of his closet and drew my hand across the sleeves of his shirts, I was not prepared. I was not prepared to stare into his empty shoes and feel the huge space he left behind. I miss him.

Please Marry My Brother

Sheree Burlington5 Comments

This is my brother, Russell. He's 6' 4" and around 210 lbs. He turned 50 on August 13, which makes him a Leo - fire sign - strong willed, opinionated, bossy, charming. He's handsome, wicked funny, a gifted musician and chronically single. While there is nothing actually wrong with him, he does work weird hours & often has to travel to make a living. The last time I counted, he had something like four (five?) cars and seven motorcycles. This alone may explain why he has never married. Who wants to park a block away?

This is a man who can fix just about anything - ok, your car or motorcycle but maybe not your broken furniture. He will make you laugh every day. He might cook you hot dogs or spaghetti but you'll have get the dishes out of the sink first. You'll need to seriously clean his bathroom. He'll write you a song and sing it to you and it will be poetic and romantic. You won't want to mess with his garage. I call it Man Land. And even though he tortured me as a child and I hated his guts, I'm very fond of him now so you'll have to share him. Our family is crazy. You'll need to be, too.