Even My Dogs Smell Like Christmas (but for all the wrong reasons)

I've compiled a list I've found vaguely interesting and very personally informative as I've been preparing for the holiday season. Perhaps you, too, will be intrigued. (Perhaps instead you will be alarmed. I understand completely. If you find you are more disturbed than amused, you should totally find a more relaxing blog with a more sensible writer.)

• We have 8 bins for Halloween decorations, but only 3 for Christmas decorations.
• One of those Halloween bins is labeled "GRAVEYARD" and is an enormous bin on a high shelf so I can't really access it. I'm just saying there may be an actual graveyard in my storage room and I have no way of knowing for sure. Ce la vie.
• One of those Christmas bins is so ridiculously enormous that I usually just grab the items I need and carry those upstairs individually. Did not get that memo to my husband, who hauled the giant bin upstairs and said "whatever is in that bin needs to be separated into two smaller, lighter bins" as he huffed and puffed and grabbed his back. His look of incredulity when I announced there are actual bricks in that bin (cute preschool-painted Christmas bricks) was totally worth the price of admission.
• At least one of our dogs has upgraded from treating the Christmas tree water as vitamin water and gulping it down with wild abandon to actually nibbling on the tree. We assume to freshen his breath. Or maybe for extra protein. We will be keeping the candy canes high up on the tree per the usual this year. Because what the world does not need this holiday season is two naughty Corgis jacked up on sugar.
• Speaking of naughty Corgis, remember that cute frame my niece procured as a cute little hostess gift (actually a "thanks for getting us a place at the beach" gift) back in the summer? She visited again in October and brought the above photographed fabulously-pine-scented soy candle, which if memory serves she procured at the Memphis Farmer's Market. She totally gets MVP in the gift-giving category, because it smells divine.
• I once bumped into Morris Day of Morris Day and the Time at a church. I was reminded of this when thumbing through old preschool Christmas program pictures of the girls. Yep, they went to preschool with Morris's child. And no, I did not go up to him and sing "Ohweeohweeoh!"  while performing the accompanying dance moves, though it was encouraged by one of my dearest friends from college. We were in church, people. It didn't seem appropriate, though it was wildly tempting. (Watch a video of Morris performing Jungle Love here, but serious dancing does not commence until the 3:30 mark.)
• When in need of a tacky Christmas sweater, I would totally rather sew lights onto an old sweater than go to Goodwill to purchase a tacky Christmas sweater. And did so. Evidence below.

XO --


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Closing the Generation Gap, One Odd Odor at a Time

A conversation transcript from last evening with my 14-and-a-half-year-old daughter:

Setting: getting into the family SUV on a mild Southern spring evening, directly after a thunderstorm. 

In unison: "What's that smell?"

41 (that's me): "It's camp."

14 (the kid): "What?"

41: "It smells like camp. That mixture of sunscreen, bug spray and wet grass, with a faint whiff of damp wood and mildew."

14: "THAT'S SO WEIRD! I was just thinking it smelled like the church beach retreat!"

41: "Exactly. No matter what year, what country, whether the beach or mountains, a condo, a cabin or a tent ... whenever more than 5 people under the age of 25 gather away from home -- or really any place lacking a woman armed with bleach, hot water and a laundry room replete with a dryer with various settings -- this is the resulting smell."

14: "That's crazy! So your beach retreat smelled just like mine?!!"

41: "Yup."

14: "That doesn't explain why our car smells like camp."

41: "I was just thinking the same thing. Smelling camp on the way to Starbucks sorta ruins the experience."

14: "We have to stop this smell. How do we end this smell? Right now?!!!"

41: "Let's see if we can rustle up a woman with some hot water and bleach."

Per the usual, turns out that woman was me. I was able to isolate the various odors as follows:

Wet grass -- actual wet grass outside (see above: thunderstorm.) 
Sunscreen -- aerosol sunscreen accidentally sprayed independently while in my tennis bag, which was left in my car overnight. Good news is I have a can of tennis balls and various tennis accoutrements which are now completely safe from sunburn. 
Bug spray -- pretty sure that's a remnant from my husband's fishing trip this weekend. I'm just thankful it isn't the smell of dead and rotting fish. #blessed.
Mildew -- tiny leak in my sunroof. Cured with a pinch of aforementioned bleach.
Damp wood -- this one's a mystery. I suspect a popsicle stick or dowel rod from a science project is loose somewhere in my car. And it's apparently wet. 

If anyone needs a ride, y'all let me know. Because while my car now smells like a freshly scoured murder scene, it no longer smells like camp.

Xo---

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If You've Hot-Glued Anything in the Name of Easter, Please Don't Read This Post

This morning, while taking a break from catching up on the 976 things I didn't do while I was on Spring Break, I hopped (getting the Easter reference there?) onto Feedly to peruse some of my favorite blogs. I have an important takeaway to share:

In the blogosphere there is significant pressure to do a bunch of crafty, awesome stuff and then photograph it in soft lighting before posting with 18 simple steps so you, too, can do something crafty-awesome. 

Are these people for real?

Y'all, there are people right now making moss-covered eggs and attaching them to floral sprigs so their Sunday brunch will look appropriately spring-like and Easterish, and I'm just trying to decide if it's inappropriate to put concert tickets in my kids' baskets. (Last year we put bikinis in their baskets, so I'm not sure why I feel conflicted. I think once you've given lycra for Easter, you've passed the point of any respectable return.)

Don't get me wrong ... I love nicely arranged, tasty food. I love to sew, and enjoy whipping up throw pillows, or window treatments, and even occasionally a baby gift or some such. I have what could be considered a mildly obsessive connection to my label maker, and very much enjoy creating order from chaos in a closet or drawer, then gently bullying my family into following my newly labeled system for world domination. Or junk drawer domination. Whatever.

I'm just saying, if you're ever in a downhill spiral of "who the hell has time to DO all this cute crafty stuff?" and you're pressuring yourself to knit your dog a sweater because CHRISTMAS IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER I BETTER START FREEZING COOKIE MIX RIGHT NOW, I want you stop by right here at the Amy Mac blog where you can relax, knowing you may leave here confused ... but will never, ever leave feeling the need to organize anything, clean or paint anything. Or hot-glue moss to anything, heaven forbid.

So now the question becomes: if my daughters receive concert tickets for Easter, are they then required to wear bunny ears to said concert? I say yes, then I will post the photos here as my craft for the year 2014.

Whew -- I feel a sense of accomplishment already.

XO--

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The Velveeta Shortage is Real, Y'all

God bless my husband, a man willing not only to grocery shop, but also to stop by the store in 15 degree weather, after a long day at work, to purchase processed cheese for a dish I am making right that very minute. As in, "we're starving, but I seem to have misplaced the Velveeta. So ... we will have dinner as soon as you get home and the cheese melts."

In a pinch, he has been known to find substitutes if he can't find precisely what is on the list. For example, in the past we have learned that Sunny D does not equal orange juice, that Yoo-hoo does not equal chocolate milk, and there is a pretty significant difference between self-rising and regular flour. Now he will call me to determine valid replacements for various ingredients, which is what prompted the following call last evening:

Jake: "They are out of regular Velveeta, but have this Mexican kind. Will that do?"

Me: (Skeptically) "They're out of Velveeta? Seriously?"

Jake: "Out. Of Velveeta. It's Mexican Velveeta or nothing."

Me: "You've checked with the store clerk to see where they are hiding the plain? After looking really, really well for the regular kind?"

Jake: "There is no regular Velveeta. I repeat: There. Is. No. Plain. Velveeta."

Well, my Chicken Tetrazzini is not complete without the Velveeta, so we made do with the Mexican kind. I just assumed there had been a run for Velveeta so we Southerners could sit contentedly by the fire with our Rotel and Velveeta and a bag of Fritos while it was a frosty 5 degrees outside.

Then I came across an article in USA Today that, in fact, there is a nationwide Velveeta shortage. The Kraft Company has no valid explanation, and now the major news networks are accusing Kraft of basically making up this whole shortage business.

I resist this theory on the following grounds: Kraft is based in a suburb of Chicago. I'm assuming the good folks of Kraft have done a bit of research, and that Southerners are a pretty big demographic for their product. I feel that during this research, they very likely discovered that to get between a Southerner and a major component of every casserole and snack food we hold dear is to take one's life into their own hands. A precarious endeavor, that.

Midwesterners are sensible folks. I have lived amongst them. They do not willingly court danger. They want people to be happy, and well-fed. Thus, this shortage is to be blamed upon some sort of shelf-stocking mishap that will be corrected immediately. This could not be some sort of senseless marketing ploy that can only end with a pack of Southern women rioting at Kraft's corporate headquarters, wielding cast-iron skillets and bags of Fritos, backed by a cast of snack-shortage-crazed men and children. Each and every one of them hangry (hungry + angry = hangry), and willing to do whatever it takes to right a snacking wrong.

Let me be clear: this is not a threat. I am not planning a riot. I lived in Wisconsin for 2.5 cold, snowy years, and I would no more head toward Chicago in January than I would assemble some wings with hot-glue and dime-store feathers and attempt to fly to the moon.

Also, I will not negotiate with food marketing terrorists. I'm just saying to the entities responsible ... put the Velveeta back on the shelves and back away slowly, quietly ... and no one gets hurt.

XO ---

PS -- If you have a fantastic recipe with a key ingredient being Velveeta, please post that in the comments section. Then, once this boxed cheese crisis is resolved, we can all enjoy new and fancy dishes with every Southerners favorite cheesy weapon. 

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On the Potential Legal Ramifications of Stunning One's Self with a Stun Gun

I would like to share, in no particular order, a few things that amused me over the weekend:

I accidentally sexted my 13-year-old daughter. I swear to you autocorrect changed the key word after I hit send. I have encouraged her to continue to say "no thank you" to any and all similar propositions, whether accidental or intentional, until she is 30 years of age.

I learned that showering and shaving under duress has the potential to cost time versus save time. Because as I stepped out of my speedy, have-to-pick-up-a-whole-mess-of-kids-in-20-minutes shower, I briefly thought I had been the victim of a drive-by shooting. Never mind that I was in the bathroom on the third story of my suburban home with the only window facing my backyard, I was COVERED UP in blood and I had no idea where it was coming from, and I am from Memphis so my go-to was drive-by. Turned out I had saved myself a cool $300 at my next dermatology appointment because I had hacked a mole off my armpit. I am now considering having all hair lasered off my body to save myself this sort of trouble in the future. Also, if you're with me and I go completely white and my eyes roll back in my head, you'll know the seam of my shirt just scraped the open, gaping wound beneath my arm.

I was reminded that just when you think you know what someone's going to say, they can say something so awesome you want to have a t-shirt made with the quote. My daughter's friend spent all afternoon with us Saturday while her mom was out of town. "S," I said to the cute little girl, from a very nice, buttoned-down family, "what's your mom doing this weekend that takes her out of town?" I was expecting "She's on a girls' trip with her college friends," so when instead I got "She's gambling with my grandmother" I was nearly struck down with the awesomeness of the response. She went on to say all of her grandmother's friends from her retirement community were there, too. Her mom then elevated the whole situation to a brand-new level of freaking amazingness by informing me that while she turned in a little after midnight, all the retirees gambled until dawn and stumbled back to their hotel rooms in the clothes they were wearing the night before. It's like the walk of shame for grandparents! Except I don't think they were remotely ashamed. I have a new admiration for all retirees.

I think a waitress at Mellow Mushroom thought briefly about calling a medic -- for me. Because I was laughing so hysterically at dinner it was a toss-up whether it was a happy noise or a medical emergency. Only because I happened upon two very amusing videos on my phone: one is of my husband doing "Just Dance" on the Wii. I wish I could share that with you here, but I would never sleep again for fear he would kill me in my sleep, so you'll just have to trust me: it is hysterical. I was hyperventilating with happiness at that video, and also a perennial favorite of my sweet, kind-hearted and loving niece talking my precious but occasionally lacking in the "making sensible decisions" category nephew into testing out a stun gun. On himself. As my sister said "I love how he sticks the landing!" Having people in my family willing to do nearly anything for the amusement of others is what makes life worth living. My nephew - the one boy out of 8 grandkids - rises to the challenge. Every. Single. Time. I will also be forced to withhold that video because ... I dunno, seems like a potential legal issue to me, encouraging a teenage boy (a willing one, but still) shock himself off his feet with a stun gun. But the next time I see you, remind me and I'll happily show you the footage.

That's all. There is no point at all to this post except to document how I am so easily entertained. Really, takes nearly nothing at all.

XO-

The Higher the Hair, the Greater Potential the Photo Lands on Facebook

Y'all, something awful happened early Saturday morning, and I hope by sharing the story here I can save a few of you from living through the same horror in the days and weeks to come.

It was around 2 a.m. on Saturday. Actually, it was precisely 2:09 a.m. EDT Saturday. How do I recall the time so precisely, you ask? Ah, patience, my friends ... one must allow the story to unfold organically. Or electronically, as it were.

So, 2 a.m. I am as deeply asleep as it is possible to be when not dead and in a casket. Next thing I know, someone is firing off an air horn which they are balancing on my bedside table.  Jake and I both simultaneously do that thing all parents do when they sense an emergency is afoot: you know, the full-body Exorcism-spin, kicking off the covers and jumping into Karate Kid positioning to avert whatever danger is near. While flailing for your glasses and adjusting your pajamas and determining if your breath can perhaps be used as a burglar deterrent if needed. Don't act like you don't know exactly what I'm talking about. You do. You know.

Then I realize that freakishly alarming noise is coming from my iPhone. So I simultaneously attempt to silence the air horn while determining what the hell has possessed the phone to launch this freaking fire drill in the middle of the night. I am decidedly not amused.

The first thing I see is "Amber" and my first thought is my friend from high school has tagged a "higher the hair closer to God" picture of me from a cheer competition and something has gone horribly wrong with Facebook notifications. Which isn't an unreasonable thought at that hour and 2 hours into a dose of Benadryl.

But upon further scrutiny, I discovered it actually said "Amber Alert." So, at 2:09 a.m EDT I received an Amber Alert from St. Mary's, Georgia. Which is 376 miles from my house. Really? Really? Really, how likely is it that a suburban woman on the other side of the state, wakened from a dead sleep, with poor eyesight and a foul attitude is going to be so helpful that she should be awakened in the middle of the night?

AT&T, I have but one question: What. The. Hell?? 

The next day, when the full "what in the name of all that is good and holy" hit me, I did a little research and discovered AT&T apparently thinks this is a very sensible plan. And therefore did a little auto-install on iPhone software with the automatic settings to receive Amber Alerts, Emergency Alerts and Presidential Alerts.

I figure in the very unlikely scenario that an Amber Alert awakened me in the middle of the night and I was able to assist in the capture of the kidnapper, I would most likely murder the perpetrator with my bare hands for waking me up (and, obviously, for stealing children). Therefore, I have elected to turn off the Amber Alert on my phone and save myself a prison sentence for murdering a kidnapping pedophile. (Incidentally, the child who was missing Saturday a.m. was located safe and sound. For which I am very thankful. I cannot imagine anything more horrifying than discovering your child isn't safe and sound any time of the day or night.)

For now, I am leaving the Emergency Alerts on just in case there is a very, very good reason I should be awakened in the middle of the night, like a tsunami (yes, I live in Atlanta, just roll with this line of thinking) or the Bubonic plague being distributed via rainclouds or some such. I am hopeful those in charge will use discretion, because if they start firing these things off because there was an earthquake on the Canadian border, well ... everyone will turn those off too.

I would also like to say I am not sure just exactly what these Presidential Alerts entail, and in no way is this a political statement. No, this is an equal-opportunity, non-partisan statement: it inflames me when the president interrupts regular programming to yammer about darn near anything that I can't be served just as well reading in the newspaper the next day. So, please, Mr. President, make it worth my while if you awaken me. Ever. Really, it needs to be summer-blockbuster-movie bad, and I pray this never happens.

So, anywho. This is a very long way to tell you if you (or your kids) have an iPhone 4S or 5, with AT&T, you might consider what your general attitude might be towards being awakened in the middle of the night for an emergency alert. If, like me, you decide your personal impact on the situation will be low and your general attitude poor, do the following:

Go to "Settings."
Click on "Notifications."
Scroll all the way down until you see "Amber Alerts" and "Emergency Alerts" and toggle anything you do not want to receive to "off."

If this saves just one person from thinking a bad picture has been posted of them on Facebook by a girl named Amber, then it's all been worth it.

XO--

Margaritaville (or why my daughter almost tore her nose off with a pitcher)

I have a few stories to record for posterity. Mostly because my kids say "Mom, don't you remember??" about 1,000 times per day, so I assume I'm losing my memory and my mind. I figure here is as good a place as any to tell these stories. Please resist the urge to report us to family services.

My husband and I are not big drinkers. My husband mostly abstains because he is convinced every possible health ailment, including hearing loss and freckles, is the direct result of dehydration - and alcohol is dehydrating.  I bet the man hasn't had two beers this entire calendar year. I love the occasional glass of wine, but have to counteract my wine allergy with a Benadryl. Or two. So, wine + Benadryl = ...

I'll let you do the math on that one.

Anywho, we don't keep a lot of alcohol lying about the house. If you'd like a festive mixed drink at my house, we'll be forced to open a bottle of whiskey we received as a wedding shower gift 17 years ago. Also, we'd have nothing to mix it with. BYOB, people.

A few years ago, when the girls were about 5 and 7 years old, we were encouraging their increased independence. Little things like fixing their own waffles in the toaster and pouring their own juice out of a little plastic pitcher stored on a reachable shelf in the fridge. They were doing a bang-up job, slapping cereal onto the table and sloshing juice into their glasses like a couple of harried waitresses at a highway diner.

Around this time, my nieces were approaching legal drinking age. Which explains (I hope) why there were lots of questions from my kids about alcohol. "Why can't you drink alcohol before you're 21?" was the favorite query. I answered them as follows:

"First, it's the law. If you are caught drinking before you're 21, you can be arrested and put in jail. Second, if you drink before you're 21, your body isn't ready and you vomit. Usually rather violently. Messy stuff." 

Which, if you think about it, is mostly true. How many underage drinkers do you know who practice steady restraint? We were hammering (haha - pun!) this information into their impressionable minds in the hopes that when the girls were a little older (like the ages they are currently approaching), we would have set a firm foundation that alcohol is to be treated with the same respect afforded a sleeping cobra: best left alone, if not feared outright.

On Memorial Day that year, we had a group of friends over for a cookout. It was a lovely day. We milled about, chatting into the evening hours, the kids playing in the backyard doing lovely things like catching fireflies (I can't remember for sure, so let's assume the fireflies thing. It sounds right.) There were hamburgers, and beverages, lots of great conversations and tired kiddos by the end of the night. It was one of those rare occasions we actually had alcoholic beverages on hand and were forcibly feeding them to our guests.

Fast-forward to the next evening. I'm fixing the girls something to drink with their dinner. I pour some juice out of the pitcher front and center in the fridge, only to immediately realize the juice was actually some leftover margarita we'd served the evening before. I said "whoops! That's not apple juice, that's margarita!" and poured the remainder down the sink.

When I turn around, the 7-year-old is doing the silent horror cry. You know the one: face red, shoulders heaving, tears streaming, no sound. "Baby, what's wrong?" I asked.

"Momma, I DRANK THAT MARGARITA THIS MORNING FOR BREAKFAST. I THOUGHT IT WAS JUICE!"

To recap: my second-grade daughter kicked off summer with TEQUILA -- for breakfast.

As you can imagine, I was horror-stricken. Images of my sweet baby stumbling around at 7 a.m. like a height-challenged drunk at a frat party pop into my head. I think I hear sirens, most likely carrying Drug Enforcement Agency officials and Mrs. Hannigan, who will take my children to an orphanage for children whose parents let them consume hard liquor in the morning in lieu of milk and cereal.

"How much did you drink?" I asked, starting to hyperventilate. She was crying like she was coming off a ten-day drunk, so I assumed the worst and prayed she hadn't drunk-dialed her grandmothers before I was even out of bed.

"I took one drink and thought it was rotten, so I poured it down the sink," she replied, dropping her face into her hands and sobbing louder.

"So you only had one sip?"

"Yes ma'am, and it tasted so bad I spit it right out!"

"Oh! Wait, if you didn't really drink any, why are you still crying?"

"Are the police going to arrest me for drinking alcohol before I turn 21??!!" she shrieks.

Now she is genuinely hysterical, a wild look in her eye like she might try to outrun the law if I reach for the phone. I paused for effect, as though considering what path I should take.

"Sweetheart, not this time," I said, giving her a benevolent look. She was quite relieved I wasn't going to have her thrown her in jail. I was able to explain away the "why didn't I vomit?" since she didn't really drink any, but warned her that was awful close. And that I'd make sure I didn't store alcoholic beverages in the same pitchers daddy mixed apple juice in anymore. Ahem.

She remained traumatized for some time, so we'd have to sneak off if we were going to snicker about the situation. The story could only be told in hushed tones. It was a while before she thought it was funny when my sister would call and sing "wasted away again in Margaritaville! Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt!"

So a few weeks ago, when the same child, now 13-years-old, was holding her nose and seeing stars because she'd pummeled herself in the face with a pitcher, I should have probably expected the "what happened?!?" answer:

"I hit myself in the nose because I had to smell the juice to make sure I wasn't about to ACCIDENTALLY SERVE MYSELF A MARGARITA."

Touché.

Source: thinkgarnish.com via Leslie on Pinterest

Cause and Effect and Frankie Valli

That's me. With Frankie Valli. Unless you're my mom. Then that guy's just a pretender.

This is a lesson on cause and effect.

Last year, I saw Jersey Boys at the Fabulous Fox Theatre. For those unfamiliar, Jersey Boys is a Broadway musical about the career trajectory of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. The Fox is the historic theatre where Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable debuted a little film called Gone with the Wind, and is the best place ever to catch a show.

Cause: Quite on accident, my friend landed us front row tickets to the show. 
Effect: We fell in love with Frankie Valli and Tommy, Nick and Bob. There was eye contact. There was smiling and winking. They were singing directly to us ... we were putty in their capable hands.

Cause: When it was time to go, we walked past the lovely hotel right across from the Fox to get to our car. 
Effect: We bump smack into Frankie Valli and get our picture with him like a couple of fan girls. Bob was on his cell phone or we'd have made him hop in the picture, too. He wrote the song "We Wear Short Shorts," after all. 

Cause: I email the photo to my mother, and call her excitedly to announce "I just got my picture made with FRANKIE VALLI!"
Effect: My mother laughs and says, "Honey, Frankie Valli is my age. This boy is not actually Frankie Valli." 
Additional Effect: I am disappointed in my mother's deficit in the "willing suspension of disbelief" arena. 

Cause: I download the Four Seasons Greatest Hits and insist we listen to the music without pause for the remainder of the summer.
Effect: My 11-year-old was singing "December 1963" gleefully and word-for-word as I took her to school a few days ago. You know the one, "Oh, what a night. Late December back in '63. What a very special time for me. As I remember, what a night."

I'm going to go out a limb and say not many kids her age know the words to Frankie Valli songs. Or Johnny Cash. Or Elvis, Nirvana or U2. Mine do. Here's the thing: as a youngster, I was surrounded by all different sorts of music. I learned the words to Chubby Checker and Johnny Cash songs riding around town with my Daddy. Riding to school or to Goldsmiths out in East Memphis with my mom added gems like Neil Diamond and Elvis and Willie to my repertoire.

Thanks to my brother, I am well-versed in ZZ Top. And my sisters and Bruce Springsteen. Oh, Bruce. I know all about your wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack. Then there are the show tunes from my dance days, the 80s music from my cool older cousins, and Dusty Springfield and the Box Tops and Rufus Thomas ... just because I grew up in Memphis with a healthy respect for Sun Studio, and Stax, and Beale Street.

It makes me happy to have an appreciation for great music that resonates across the generations. How else would my kids know the stories that their grandmother once met Elvis, or their grandfather would delight in torturing me by singing "Blueberry Hill" at top volume, or that I lost all respect for my gym coach when she disparaged Bruce Springsteen back in the mid-80s?

Cause: I encourage the enjoyment and appreciation of all sorts of music, but especially "oldies," with my kids. 
Eventual effect: Seeing the look of total horror on my child's face when she realizes what the song "December 1963" she so gleefully sings is all about. For now, ignorance is bliss. 

XO---

How a Google Search Can Go So Very, Very Wrong

I consider myself a fairly savvy gal. At the very least, I'm sharp enough to conduct a thorough Google search to figure out anything I don't know, then speak authoritatively on the subject. Or maybe that's just being bossy. Whatever.

The search for medical symptoms is my favorite Google search. It has kept me from driving my children at warp speed to the pediatrician for life-threatening situations like a minor bump to the head or a hangnail. Other web searches might have convinced me I had a brain infection. I maintain we still can't eliminate the possibility.

In all seriousness, trusted medical sites are wonderful for symptom checking and probably keep scads of folks from getting something worse than they started with by sitting in a doctor's office with the really sick people.

It does, however, cause a bit of friction when I have diagnosed myself with something, only to discover from a medical professional I have something else entirely.

Take for example the time several years ago when I went to the doctor with a self-diagnosed ferocious spider bite and left with the shingles.

"I can't have the shingles, I am only 34 years old! This, my friend, is the result of a baseball-sized arachnid lacerating my face with its hairy fangs! No I didn't see the spider, it attacked me in my sleep!" 

Sad to say, apparently some lucky folks can indeed get the shingles before they are 80.

Then there was the time a few years ago when I went with high blood pressure, only to discover my blood pressure was dandy, but I had a nodule on my thyroid which would require a biopsy.

"It seems my thyroid is fairly close to my jugular vein, so I am really not comfortable with a giant, knife-like needle being jammed into my neck. Here's a $20 bill, just diagnose me with high blood pressure per my original suggestion and we'll call it a day."

The doctor would not accept my bribe and insisted on a CT scan. Turned out I didn't have to have the biopsy that would have likely ended in my throat being slashed like the woefully trusting girl in a horror flick, but I have to regularly visit a specialist who not only draws blood every single time I see her, but also mainly treats patients who are 97 years old and use a walker, oxygen, or both. I always feel self-consciously over-mobilized when I'm at her office.

Last year I visited the ENT, who informed me I have a quite deviated septum, and had I ever broken my nose?

"If my nose was broken, it was probably by the giant spider that attacked me AND gave me the shingles. And, I couldn't have a deviated septum! My nose is very straight!"

Apparently the septum situation is why I can't do a sinus rinse without waterboarding myself.

Then just last week, I went to the doctor to get a refill on my apparently-not-high-blood-pressure medication, and asked for something a little more high-octane for my allergies, at least until the pollen decreases to a three-inch coating on my car.

"Seriously? No. No, I do NOT have a sinus infection. This is ALLERGIES. I have no FEVER. I feel FINE."

She insisted I take a prescription for an antibiotic, and thank heavens, because about 6 hours later .... well, perhaps I had a fever and maybe I wasn't feeling so fine anymore.

So, I am officially willing to concede actual medical training may supercede my internet research. Which frankly makes me cranky.

Then I get a text from my sister asking what the doctor said during my visit.

Me: I wanted some sweet allergy meds, I ended up with a freaking sinus infection.

My sister: Are they going to cut out your uterus?

Me: I have checked Web MD and it definitely doesn't recommend a hysterectomy for a sinus infection." 

I think this text conversation explains so much. And should make you thankful you aren't exposed more often to our texts.

Amy M. Dawson is a humor writer and public relations strategist who thinks it should be illegal for doctors to ever say "now that you're getting older ...". She blogs about work and life at amymacpr.blogspot.com.

Smelly Plant, Smelly Plant, What Are They Feeding You?

So I decided to spiff up my office with a plant. Problem is, I am a known plant killer. It's so bad, whenever I purchase flowers or plants I think I can hear them saying "please, please .... don't take us to your house to die!" It's like a plant version of Silence of the Lambs. Which is obviously a whole other problem. Unless y'all hear plants accuse you of being a serial plant killer, too. Then I'd feel much better.

I found this plant (actually, I'd call it more of a potted shrub) and you don't have to water it. Ever. You occasionally are to spray it with a little water and that's it. I was so excited I didn't even hear this plant talking to me.

Though if it did, I wonder if it would have told me it stunk to high heaven. Because it does. It smells like a mixture of rotting dirt and hairspray and the 80s perm smell and pigs. And not just if you're right up on it ... the minute I hit the stairs to head down to the office I start gagging.

I hope this awful odor wears off. And soon. Otherwise I will take it as a sign I am not meant to overtax myself, and keeping my children and dogs alive should be my chief focus in caregiving.

I promise to be back soon with useful writing and marketing information for your business. In the meantime, I am going to spray that plant with some Trapp room spray in lieu of water. I may kill this plant yet.

XO---

That's Why You Shouldn't Believe Everything You See on Facebook

This morning at breakfast, my husband countered my announcement that Olympian Oscar Pistorius is in trouble with the law with an announcement that Waylon Jennings had died.

"That's weird. There was nothing on my news feed this morning. You'd think that would be there," I said.

"Well, it said 'RIP Waylon Jennings' and had a birth date and yesterday's date, so ..." he said.

"Don't people have any respect for old-school country music?" (I should point out that neither of us even listen to country music, but it's the principle.)

Then he started singing the theme song from the Dukes of Hazzard and we were all distracted by telling him to PLEASE STOP SINGING. Later I did an internet search and discovered Waylon Jennings DID die ... in 2002.

This shows how much we are paying attention. AND, it proves there are people out there so dedicated to Waylon they remember for ELEVEN YEARS the day he died. Which it's too bad Waylon's not still here, because I bet he would have totally loved Duck Dynasty.

RIP, Waylon.

Southern Storytellers

Southerners are hardwired to tell a good story. Sometimes they're funny, sometimes they are sad, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes cautionary ... but be forewarned, you can ask a Southerner about something as simple as the weather and you will get a full-blown novella in return.

Some of my favorite times are when Jake tells a story at dinner and the girls are literally breathless with laughter, tears rolling down their faces, sides stitching from the sheer exertion of happiness.

Let the record state, that in late January, 2013, the two girls pictured above, the ones who have placed all manner of restrictions on his behavior to reduce their chances of being embarrassed by said behavior, were absolutely begging the man to keep telling funny stories.

They stalled at the dinner table, content to be with one another, and with us, well past when the dishes were were washed and put away.

That, my friends, is the happiest story of all.

Happy Weekend!

Working at Starbucks

I love working from home. I don't have to deal with traffic, can pound out work without interruption, and can remain in my pink flowery pajamas and sporting Stephen Tyler hair until noon and only my dogs know the difference. And as long as I don't get between them and a good bone, they don't care what I look like.

But every now and then I feel the pull to get out of the office. Sometimes I just need a change of scenery, other times I'm avoiding the impending avalanche of laundry. Occasionally I'm just avoiding a spider that's made its way into my house against all measures and launching an attack seems like too much effort. Whatever.

When I want to escape, it's usually to a nearby coffee house. A Starbucks or the like is the perfect foil for procrastination. I never bring my computer charger, so time is limited.  Thus I'm not tempted to read the New York Times online (or, okay, peruse People.com for pictures of a pistol-toting Pippa).

But the last few times I've escaped to the haven of a coffee shop, I have been besieged by rudeness. Once it was a group of college-age kids putting a presentation to techno music without regard to other customers. Another time a lovely, but apparently lonely, lady offered non-stop advice on the utilization of an iPad. I should point out I was not using, nor do I own, an iPad.

But the kicker was the woman who conducted the recitation portion of her online French lesson, loudly, smack in the middle of a Starbucks at a Barnes and Noble. Every time she'd get quiet I'd think "whew, she's done" and I'd settle down to writing. Then out of nowhere she'd holler "Est-ce que je puis aller ..." and I'd have a flashback to getting kicked out of a college French class because my friend and I were laughing uncontrollably at an "I see London, I see France" joke. Let's just say a classmate's pants were not fully functional in covering up their underpants. I digress.

So I got judgy (not a word, but I like 'judgy' better than judgmental) and actually asked Siri to remind me to put earphones in my bag so I could block out the noise next time I was out. So last week, I found myself at a Starbucks where the music was distracting and loud. No problem -- I was prepared with my earphones! But when I popped them in, it still didn't drown out their music. S'okay, I cranked mine up. Then cranked it up some more. I love my music, so I turned it up SOME MORE. Ah, finally ... I hear only my music. I am so happy.

After a good while of me happily writing while listening to my music (I can't hear ANYTHING else! Whee!) I made a horrifying realization.

My earphones were not plugged in. So my music was blasting to the entire coffee house at top volume, with me nodding along blissfully unaware I was subjecting everyone else to Flo Rida rap about the life he livin'. Not a Good Feeling, Flo, in case you're wondering.

There is no point to this post except to say make sure you're earphones are pushed all the way into that little adapter thingy, and to thank the fellow sitting two feet from me who never even shot me a dirty look, and that I am thankful the original version of Cee-Lo's "Forget You" didn't play at top volume, thus inducing the toddler sitting nearby to say rude things to his preschool buddies the next day at school.

Today I am staying at my house while I am working.

Happy Weekend!