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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All Hail the Bus Driver

Obligatory First Day of School Photo. I feel these facial expressions aptly foretold coming events.

When my older daughter was in early elementary school, I drove her to and from school each day as opposed to putting her on the bus. By the time the younger one was entering kindergarten, the older one -- then in second grade -- was chaffing for the tiny shred of independence provided by riding the bus to school. So I acquiesced, and packed them off to school on that gargantuan piece of yellow machinery.

Little Hadley came home that afternoon flushed and furious.

"That was TERRIFYING. The bus driver is a BUMPY AND TERRIBLE DRIVER! There were NO SEATBELTS!! She was RUNNING STOP SIGNS AND DRIVING SO FAST I COULD BARELY STAY IN MY SEAT!!! I will not ride the bus again. EVER."

Though Callie assured me it had not been quite the roller coaster ride dramatically described by her sister, Hadley's decision was final. Any attempts to put her back on that bus would end in child abuse allegations and hundreds of hours of therapy. I graciously accepted that her tender sensibilities were in direct opposition to the hardships she would face while riding group transportation, and queued back up in the carpool line for the remaining 6 years.

But folks, middle school would be different. She'd been toughened up by school trips (on chartered buses replete with air conditioning and facilities, but still), hardened by wandering the Atlanta airport (busiest in the U.S., natch) parking lot with her dad searching for a lost car for about an hour, and battered by a variety of illnesses, stitches and broken bones. Plus, her sister had been riding the bus to middle school for 2 years and threatened to disassemble anyone bothering her little sister.

So last Monday, we arrive at the bus stop 10 minutes early per Fulton County instructions. And I swear to you, right as we pull up, there's the bus ... lights flashing, stop sign out and doors open. As the girls ran toward the bus I hollered "make sure that's actually your bus!!!"

Yeah, apparently they didn't hear that suggestion, because about 5 minutes later I get a phone call. Before I even say hello I hear Callie say to someone "actually this is kinda funny" then to me "Uh, Mom. We accidentally got on the high school bus."

Let's recap: My 11 and 13 year old daughters were in the very back seat of a bus FULL OF HIGH SCHOOLERS and they were en route to the HIGH SCHOOL.

Sweet Mary in the heavens.

Then Callie says that while the bus driver spoke very little English (awesome), he kept repeating that he would be going to the middle school. Which he did indeed do, but only after taking a very circuitous route to the school, thereby prompting Callie to threaten to call the cops if he didn't PULL THIS BUS OVER SO MY MOM CAN GET US.

I only found out later that Hadley was already preparing to dial 911 if he didn't meet Callie's demands immediately. Thank goodness he stopped and picked up some kids they knew, otherwise I am pretty sure you'd have heard about us on the national news and how some kid in Atlanta caused an Amber Alert because she didn't like the route the bus driver took to her suburban school.

In the end, they arrived safely at school, on time and with a pretty funny story to tell.

That night at dinner I asked if they wanted me to just drive them in the morning.

Callie said "Seriously? Are you seriously asking that question?" Hadley just shot her eyebrows up to meet her hairline.

So if you're looking for me around 8:15 in the mornings, you know where I'll be. And it won't be at the bus stop.

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

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.

How to Write a Professional Bio in 6 Steps

You finally received the coveted call: you landed the keynote speaking engagement, won the top industry award, or snagged an upcoming feature in the local newspaper. “Send over your bio and we’ll get started!”

Gulp. What bio?

A succinct, captivating bio (sometimes called executive profile) is a critical piece in the personal marketing toolkit, and yet the vast majority of professional bios are as interesting to read as a technical manual for a dental chair. That is, not at all.

So if a great bio can be the difference between someone attending your seminar, buying your book or reading your article, it’s essential to aim for a bio that piques — and holds — the reader’s interest, encouraging them to want to know you a little better, and ultimately become a loyal member of your audience.

The trick to hitting the sweet spot with a professional bio is being relatable in a compelling way. Over the years, I have crafted six rules for writing winning bios. Apply these to your bio, and you’ll be ready for that can’t-miss opportunity:

Remember your reader. This is your opportunity to tell your story in an engaging way. Don’t bore your readers by regurgitating your resume. Ask yourself: what captures your attention when you’re reading a bio? Is it big-name companies? High-profile awards? Leadership roles? Make a list of what you notice in bios, and see how you can use those items in your bio, too.

Eye-catching successes go first. I’ve had clients bury their most unique experiences at the end of their bio — things like leadership at NASA, experience as a contributor with USA Today, impressive industry awards and intriguing international assignments. Your bio isn’t the place to be shy about your accomplishments! Make it easy for your reader to respect your successes from the beginning.

Keep it brief. Resist the urge to add unnecessary information.  Ask yourself “why should the reader care?” If you don’t have an excellent answer, save it for your resume. Too many bios go unread because they are too long.

Spell out acronyms and delete phrases requiring interpretation. Nothing turns a reader into a scanner (or snoozer) more quickly than a jumble of letters which mean nothing to people outside your industry. Take the time to spell out any acronym on the first reference.  The same goes for some of those favorite “business-speak” phrases: instead of “constructive stimulus strategist” try “change agent” or even just “leader.” Fancy isn’t always better.

Share personal information sparingly. While bios can be a terrific opportunity to add a personal touch to your professional persona, there is a fine line between interesting and uncomfortably quirky. Stick with the facts (“She lives in Atlanta with her husband and two daughters, and enjoys playing tennis and volunteering at her children’s schools”), always avoiding divisive topics like politics unless they directly impact your career field.

Be willing to call in an expert. If, after applying all the tips you’ve learned in this article, your bio doesn’t have the “snap” you know it needs, hire a professional writer. Your bio is the first opportunity you have to make a favorable impression when connecting with your target audience. Invest in making yours a top-notch personal marketing centerpiece.

Preparing a compelling, succinct bio guarantees when someone asks for yours — and they will — you’ll remain focused on the end result (you know … that amazing award acceptance speech, the front-page article, the keynote address) instead of the smaller, but critically important details.  

Amy M. Dawson is a brand strategist, business writer, newspaper columnist and humor writer. She’s helped hundreds of professionals — from Fortune 500 CEOs to politicians and entrepreneurs— craft their personal brand through their bios. Sign up for her quarterly newsletter here and subscribe to her blog here.

A Time Machine for Turning Big Kids Into Sweet-Scented Babies

My latest column for Northside Woman Magazine...

I am not a morning person. I wish I were. I envy those who awaken before sunrise, chipper as Doris Day, never considering a return to the cozy comfort of bed.

Alarm clocks give me vertigo. I hit snooze and fall back to sleep most mornings. If an IQ test were administered before a strong cup of coffee, I’d register a 50-point deficit. And I’d complain to the test administrator about the lack of coffee.

But I have a couple of reasons for crawling out of bed before dawn. The first is crowd control. By this, I mean getting my kids out the door dressed appropriately and with something more nutritious than Junior Mints for breakfast.

Just last week one emerged dressed in head-to-toe spandex.

“But I have GYM today. And this is what people wear to GYM,” she said when I told her to change. The look on my husband’s face said he was willing to acquiesce to such authoritative speak on gym clothes.

“I don’t care if you are participating in the javelin competition at the Olympics,” I said. “You’ll thank me when this doesn’t show up on a ‘Memories’ reel at your graduation.”

Click here for complete article.

I Embarrass You Because I Love You

My latest article for Northside Woman.....

On Dads and Denial by Amy M. Dawson

            I remember the day (middle of the night) we had our first baby (only I got stitches) and thinking "heisgoingtobethebestdad" (God bless valium.) Even in my pharmaceutically-enhanced state I knew my husband would be an amazing dad, and was well on my way to forgiving him for the egregious time lapse between "this hurts" and the epidural.

            He has more than lived up to expectations. He paraded our daughters around like blue-ribbon prize winners at the county fair, boasting about everything from excellent APGAR scores (seriously) to their superior abilities at things like growing and sleeping.

When they were little, he would whip them into a frenzy with loud caterwauling and wrestling matches (right before bedtime, natch.) He’d tell them stories about Russell R., a fictional child deviant known for things like exploding double-decker nachos onto his teacher, that left them collapsed from fits of laughter.

His fan base increased exponentially over the years. At Halloween he is in full costume, playing pranks so realistic there are kids who believe a werewolf resides in our basement (which would explain the state of our storage room.) He is routinely invited to children’s birthday parties.

But as the girls have gotten older, if the guy so much as sneezes they tell him to quit making weird noises. “That’s awkward, dad,” is a constant refrain. One was in tears because he was dancing at our neighborhood pool. (He maintains he was simply applying sunscreen while LMFAO played in the background.)

He has adjusted from being top dog to being a social liability with impressive stoicism. By that I mean he regularly threatens to choreograph a flash mob during their next school event and gives all their friends goofy nicknames.

            Our daughters do not approve of this behavior, and he’s okay with that. He knows one day they will look back and be grateful their dad loved them wildly and unconditionally, even through their tumultuous teen years. They’ll realize by not taking their threats to disown him too seriously, he helped them build their self esteem, even as they made every attempt to eviscerate his soul. That is, begging him to stop dancing poolside.

This Father's Day, I hope all dads give their children the gift of teaching them to approve of themselves, no matter what other people think. Because believing in yourself is what gives us the strength to say yes to what’s right and no to what’s wrong. Surviving your parents’ ever-creative ways of threatening to ruin your social standing builds character, but knowing you have your parents’ approval is a powerful, lasting thing.

I’m signing off before I start quoting Whitney Houston songs, but to all you dads with easily embarrassed teens, hang tough. They’ll thank you one day. Though probably not for dancing at the pool.

Amy M. Dawson is an Atlanta-based writer who remains grateful she didn’t stab her husband in the delivery room before the drugs kicked in. Read more at amymacwrites.com.
The above photo was taken on Oct. 28, 1999 at dark o'clock, moments after our first daughter was born. Jake is clearly elated. I was in a drug-induced coma, but when I regained consciousness was equally thrilled with our (obviously) perfect newborn baby.