Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

It’s Just Not a Party Unless EMS Comes Out

in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity, Karaoke

So, last Saturday evening was the first Christmas party of the season at Chez Boyer. This was a fun group,  which loosely consisted of local writer friends. I need to say up front that NO OFFICAL ORGANIZATION SPONSORED THIS EVENT, and each and every writers’ group that grants me membership is blameless.

It was early in the evening–guests were still arriving. Groups of future literary luminaries chatted about all manner of highbrow matters in the kitchen and keeping room, while sipping festive drinks and nibbling on canapés–okay, it was Southwestern eggrolls, vegetarian meatloaf on crackers, and mini cheeseburgers. Hey, that meatloaf was good. I’m just saying…

Anyway, I was lounging on the sofa yakking with a couple of friends, when something went BOOM! in the kitchen.

I jumped up and looked across the bar, but all I could see was the backsides of everyone who had dashed to the middle of the kitchen.

My husband shouted, “CALL 911! NOW!!”

Clueless, but responding automatically to the tone in The Husband’s voice I grabbed the phone and made the call.

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the voice on the phone asked.

I had nothing. I shook my head, gestured wildly, and gave my name and address. I peered over someone’s shoulder. A friend we’ll call Ginger because that is SO not her name sprawled in the kitchen floor on her back looking at the ceiling.

“What happened?” I asked.

Realizing my dilemma, everyone answered at once. I picked out a few things and told the operator, “My friend got dizzy and fell out of a bar-height chair onto the hardwood floor and hit her head.”

The operator asked the standard questions, is she breathing, conscious, able to speak, etc. (All yes at that point, but at least one person said she’d lost consciousness for a moment.) I gave directions–oddly we weren’t “in the system.” The 911 operator assured me help was on the way.

By this time, The Husband had Ginger’s head and feet on pillows, and had tried to cover her with a blanket, but she declined as she was too hot already. Ginger seemed a bit confused herself, as to how she came to be flat on the floor, but poll results indicated that 70% of the people who’d seen what happened thought that she’d leaned back in the chair, not realizing she was seated sideways, and toppled to the floor, where she was at least dazed, and possibly momentarily unconscious.

One resourceful soul asked for a flashlight and went outside to wave down the EMS team. Moments later, the firetruck arrived and parked in front of the house. I greeted the team at the door–I think there were three of them–and directed them to the kitchen. The writers backed off, allowing the professionals to form a circle around Ginger and ask her the same round of questions.

Then, the doorbell rang.

For the next thirty minutes, I alternated greeting arriving guests and additional EMT’s. To each group of party guests I explained the firetruck and ambulance, then told them where to put food (and the best route into the kitchen under the circumstances) and coats, and offered them a drink. Periodically I popped by to check on Ginger, who seemed increasingly normal.

After everyone realized Ginger was okay, they went back to nibbling and socializing.

For a surreal while–I really couldn’t say how long–the group chatting around Ginger was just one more conversation clutch at the party, only they didn’t have drinks. After a bit, the EMT’s got Ginger up off the floor. She declined to go to the hospital. The EMT’s left, and Ginger stayed at the party and later sang a Karaoke duet with the gentleman who’d flagged down EMS with the flashlight.

It was a great party…

Susan When She Tried

in Evidence of My Insanity, Thoughts on Books Read

The voices in my head are singing Bad Day by Daniel Powter

What I’m reading: Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer

My summer reading project is to read the books nominated for an Anthony that I haven’t already read. I’m going to Bouchercon this year for the first time, and I’m really excited.

Stalking Susan was the first of these, and I just finished it. (I may have picked it first because I’m a Susan.) Julie Kramer introduced TV reporter Riley Spatz in Stalking Susan. I expect to become great friends with Riley. In fact, I’ve added Missing Mark, just out last week, to my summer reading list.

At one point in the book, one of Riley’s colleagues sings part of an old Elvis song, Susan When She Tried. I wasn’t familiar with it, but I confess it intrigued me, so I looked up the lyrics. I just love Google. Anyway, now I have that song in my head. It makes me want to, well, try…

I was trying something yesterday, for sure…

You know how at stoplights, if you look at the car next to you, sometimes the driver is obviously singing? Occasionally it will be a nut who is using her water bottle as a microphone, dancing in her seat, and belting one out like she’s the opening act for Kenny Chesney?

That person is almost always me. If you see me, please wave. I may not see you, because at stoplights I generally close my eyes and really FEEL the song.

Yesterday the song was Heaven Help Us All by Gladys Knight and Ray Charles.

Please honk if I don’t see the light change. Someone usually does.

Peace, out…

Susan

Why I Almost Certainly Should Have Been a Natural Blonde

in Evidence of My Insanity

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon

What I’m reading: Trouble in Paradise by Robert B. Parker

Y’all won’t believe what I did in Publix Friday… well, okay, you might. You will. Absolutely, you will…

I was making my third (and last) trip to the grocery store for 4th of July weekend supplies. I was tootling down the aisle with my cart, iPhone earbuds in, listening to The Isley Brother’s rendition of Summer Breeze. I had a list and was checking it twice, when I realized that I’d forgotten the honey mustard dressing for the chicken strips.

I parked my cart at the end of the paper products aisle and bebopped my way back over to condiments. The store was crowded, and I was zigging and zagging in and out of the crowd, but not stressed as I sometimes get in crowded stores. The music soothes my soul.

Anyway, I retrieved my honey mustard and some ranch, just in case. I dropped them in the cart, and weaved my way in and out of the mothers with small children and clueless husbands staring vacantly at the shelves as if whatever their wives wanted might jump out at them.

I noticed one man squinting at me. He mumbled something, but Summer Breeze had finished, and I was now dancing down the aisle to Lady Marmalade–the one from Moulin Rouge. This is a Jazzercise song, so I truly was, most likely, dancing (just a little bit). I figured Squinty Man just thought I was a little nutty.

But Squinty Man followed me around the corner and down the main aisle. This made me a little nervous, so I turned up the baking needs aisle, thinking he would go on by.

But he didn’t.

He followed me. I glanced at him, and he said something I couldn’t make out. I didn’t make eye contact. He was squinting harder, and I did not know this man.

Almost at the end of baking needs, he maneuvered in front of me. He said something that sounded like “milk” through Christina Aguilera’s high notes. I thought, maybe he’s looking for the canned milk. That has tripped me up before in this store. So I paused Christina.

“Ma’am,” he said.

I smiled a helpful smile, “Yes?”

“You have my cart,” he said.

I looked at the contents of the cart in front of me, expecting validation.

Oh dear.

Except for the dressings, the stuff in the cart was definitely not mine. I looked back at him, horrified. “I am SO sorry!” I said. I looked around and remembered. “I left my cart at the end of an aisle, and I forgot–“

“You have my vodka,” he said.

I looked. Sure enough, in the seat where you put your toddler, he had two fifths of vodka in a brown paper bag. He’d been to the liquor store before he came to Publix. I had made off with his liquor. I do not even drink Vodka. Vodka and I had a falling out a long time ago. But that’s a whole nother story.

“I am SO, SO sorry,” I said. “I can’t believe I did that!” I retrieved my dressings from his cart.

He shook his head and grinned. “No problem,” he said. He commandeered his cart and headed back down baking needs. “Have a nice day.”

“You too,” I called.

Friday night Jim and I were having dinner with some friends we’ll call Sandra and Wilson, because those are their names. I told them what I’d done. They laughed. Wilson shook his head and said, “I don’t think I would have told that.”

Other friends have made similar comments about other ditzy things I’ve done and told or posted. I’ve heard “I can’t believe you admit that,” a few times.

The thing is, I have to be able to laugh at myself. I don’t ever want to take myself too seriously. It’s a good thing, I guess…

Peace, out…

Susan

Shoes and Online Socializing

in Evidence of My Insanity

The voices in my head are singing Til We Ain’t Strangers Anymore by LeAnn Rimes and Bon Jovi

What I’m Reading: Night Passage by Robert B. Parker

When we moved, a year ago last January, Jim calculated that my shoes had cost five hundred dollars to transport, based on the number of boxes they took, truck space, mover-hours, etc. I don’t know what method he used to calculate this–possibly husband math.

He staged a shoe-intervention.

He bought and installed some very nice shoe racks in our walk-in closet, and told me I could keep whatever would fit. If I wanted to buy a new pair, I had to donate or toss a pair. I muttered something like, “I should have held out for the house with two walk-in closets.” Shoes are like carbohydrates and chocolate. They comfort me when I’m stressed. They fit, even if I’ve over-indulged in pasta and truffles. I am attached to my shoes. This is a fairly common phenomenon in women, I think.

Once the shelves were in the closet, though, my OCD tendencies made it impossible for me to keep a pair that wouldn’t fit on the shelves. I couldn’t have a pair sit on the floor. There must be order in the closet. (I’m sure Jim counted on this.)

I had to find new homes for several pairs. (Sigh.) I’m going to miss those oxblood snakeskin pumps from 1986. Oh well, the suit they matched went to Goodwill about ten years ago.

This morning, I had an email reminding me that five friends had invited me to join them on Facebook…

First it was the blog, then Shelfari. Then Google Reader to keep up with all the blogs I follow. I have a Twitter account, though I haven’t uttered a Tweet. So far, I haven’t done anything worthy of an alert that couldn’t wait for a blog update. But when I run across a celebrity in a restaurant in Greenville, I am ready.

“Facebook will eat into your writing time,” said Caution. “And what about Linked In, are you going to want to to that next? You have Linked In friends, too.”

Caution and I aren’t well acquainted, and I ignored her, as is my custom.

I set up a Facebook account, virtuously thinking I would spend an hour or so getting it set up, then log on once a day for a few minutes.

That was five hours ago, and I’m still playing with this thing. The first several messages I got were from my FRIENDS who had invited me to join, telling me that this thing is addictive, and I’d better watch out because Facebook will devour not only my writing time, but apparently also my sleep–and forget about Jazzercise.

I need a shelf for my online social sites… I’ll Tweet if I find one…

Peace, out…

Susan

Stress Relief

in Blather and Profound Notions, Evidence of My Insanity

The voices in my head are singing Saving Grace, by Everlast.

Relax, it’s my iPod.

Here is a great way to relax when you’re in that moment just before running through the streets of your neighborhood wearing only a Happy New Year hat and argyle socks, with a bullhorn, announcing the arrival of the Mother Ship.

I am so there–or I was, yesterday. This helped.

Turn off all the lights and light a few candles.

Start your bath, running the water a little warmer than you normally might. Pour in half a bottle of your favorite bubble bath–lavender scented is great for this. Some Lancome Aroma Calm bath oil is also nice. Throw in a fizz ball. The more products you put in the tub, the better.

Get the champagne bucket and start some chilling by the side of the tub. Sidebar: I have a reputation of ALWAYS preferring the most expensive of everything, and yet, while I’ve had pricey French champagne that I enjoyed, Korbel Brut (yes, I know technically it’s not Champagne) is my favorite. This is an anomaly, as it usually goes for around twelve bucks a bottle.

If you’ve already had more than two glasses of wine, use Pellagrino instead of Korbel.

Crank up iTunes and make yourself a playlist of twenty songs that appeal. Resist the urge to fret over which songs to pick. Don’t sit there and try top make the perfect Bathtub Playlist, and don’t choose more than twenty. Remember, your bath water is running.

Transfer the new playlist to your iPod shuffle. The shuffle is best for bathtub use, as it’s easily clipped to your bath pillow.

If you don’t have a bath pillow, roll up a towel, clip the shuffle to it, and climb into the water.

Pour yourself a glass of bubbly, pop the earphones in, and turn on the iPod and the jets.

Your bath additives, activated by the jets will soon make mountains of bubbles, beyond which you cannot see. Close your eyes and sip the icy bubbly. When you start to feel too warm, hold your champagne flute over your face and turn it upside down, dousing your face, neck, and chest. Pour another glass.

Periodically peek at the mountain of bubbles. Just before they spill out into the floor, pull the plug on the tub. When the water level drops enough, turn on the cold water. This will keep the bubbles at a safe level.

Continue alternately sipping the champagne and pouring it on yourself until you feel human again.

After you get out of the tub, blow out the candles and go straight to bed. Sleep until you feel like getting up.

Disclaimer: Please do not try this at home if you cannot do it without drowning, scalding yourself, or experiencing an irreversible past-life regression.

Peace, out…

Susan



People Like Me Should Stay Out of Walmart

in Evidence of My Insanity

I avoid Walmart for the usual reasons some folks do. Yesterday, I had to choose between going to Walmart for three items, or driving ten extra miles round-trip to Target. I gritted my teeth and went to Walmart. I only needed three things, and I recited them over and over as a mantra: picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Get in, get out.

The parking lot should have been a tip that things were not going to go well. On Thursday afternoon it was packed. I parked half a mile away, and hiked across steaming asphalt. Once inside, all the other reasons I avoid Walmart slammed me upside the head.

Apparently, I am in the minority: hordes of people love Walmart, and they were all there yesterday. I don’t handle crowds well. Actually, to be more precise, I don’t handle throngs of people milling about, vacantly starring at aisle after aisle of stuff while I try to get my three things and get the hell out of there well.

Don’t ask me why, but I got a cart. You just do. I’m absolutely convinced that the greeter hypnotizes you with her eyes when you walk in, forcing you to take a cart, even if you only want THREE things. I maneuvered the cart without incident to the picture frame aisle. Some impulse that I can’t explain compelled me to load up three collage frames instead of the one, single frame I needed.

I resisted the urge to plow the cart over a woman much more voluptuous than me. She was browsing lingerie, and appeared to be running a block pattern to keep me from cutting through on the way to household cleaning supplies, which was a mile away on the other side of the store. I dodged grannies, small children, and what appeared to be a family of zombies doing some sort of tandem shopping.

Five of them, obviously brothers and sisters from their similar coloring and features, walked single file through the store in lockstep. The tallest one led the group. They never spoke, and they focused on the sibling in front of them. I don’t know what the guy in front was focused on, but it was serious. Occasionally, one would reach out and pick something off a shelf, never missing a stride. They didn’t have carts, and may have been operating covertly to avoid detection.

After what seemed a long journey through foreign lands, I arrived in household supplies. I had to plan my maneuver carefully, and jockey for position with three hundred fifty other folks who wanted Comet, Windex, or Pledge. I grabbed the Swiffers, then remembered I needed toilet bowl cleaner refills. They were on the other end of the aisle. I fell in behind the zombies as they parted the crowd.
They needed Scrubbing Bubbles toilet refills, too. Hmm…they were near picture frames when they first passed me. They came by the Swiffers and stopped at toilet refills, which I had nearly forgotten. Would they be stopping by ice cream? What else might they need that I was also out of? At the very least, walking behind them made navigating easier. I rode their wake out of household cleaners.
The next stop was dairy. Huh. I needed yogurt, so I snagged a few Yoplaits and jumped back in line. I wasn’t good at picking up things while keeping in step, but I jumped back in quickly.
On our tour through Walmart, I filled my cart with a cornucopia of things I had no idea I needed. We did parade down the ice cream aisle, and I picked up my low-fat vanilla Edy’s gourmet. The zombies didn’t get ice cream. Somehow, they must have known I needed it.
As the zombie line headed towards the register, I reached out and scored a bottle of Merlot that I felt sure I was going to need if I ever escaped Walmart. Had I a cork screw, I would have opened it and drank it in line at the register.
The zombies checked out with the same efficiency they had shopped. Each in turn placed their items at the checkout, then moved to the other side and waited in line while the tall one paid. I waved and smiled as they marched out if the store. “Bye, y’all,” I called.
The shortest one glanced over her shoulder and looked at me as if I was a nut. Of course, she had a point.
I’ve decided to do all my shopping online from now on.
Peace, out…
Susan

Time Flies When You’re Losing Your Mind

in Uncategorized

Okay, yes, I know…that rocket left the launch pad a while back. But, unlikely as it may seem, it continues to thrust ever further into space…the final frontier. I’m getting loonier. I have proof.

Today was dermatologist day–always traumatic. I have a skin malfunction that basically ensures I’ll never grow out of the oily-occasional-breakout-teenage phase. On the up side, oily skin gets fewer wrinkles. Anyway, today was a follow up, which I have come to believe translates to, “The day you have to go to the doctor so he can get his cut on the office visit before refilling your prescriptions.” I don’t hold that against the dermatologist. I think most doctors operate that way, and who can blame them? They have vacation homes to pay for.

Today, I also had a mole check. I bet some of you see where this is headed. I am one of the very pale skinned women who slathered themselves with baby oil and iodine and baked for hours to a bright, lobster red trying to achieve a suntan during my teenage years. Since I grew a brain, I have also had several accidental sunburns. So, once in a while, a dermatologist looks me over for suspicious moles.

This was my first general mole check with this doctor. Some of you might recall the dramatic, very specific mole check that brought me to this good man. So does he. Which possibly explains why this appointment was mysteriously bumped several times due to emergencies.

After a general chat about my teenage skin, why I need to use sunscreen, et cetera, kindly doctor Harper (not his real name) left the room so Nurse could drape me. This is where I take off everything except my underwear and she gives me a sheet for my legs, and a swatch of cotton about the size of a wash cloth. She hands me the cloth. “This is for your top.”

I just looked at her.

She took another look and me and went to find a bigger wash cloth. Finally, we were all set, and Dr. Harper came back in. I chattered away about couldn’t he just sandblast my whole body and give it that air-brushed look that models in magazines had while he looked me over with a magnifying glass. Literally.

I noticed he was paying a lot of attention to a red place on my shoulder. He measured, frowned, and made some notes. “How long has this been here?” he asked.

I told him I really couldn’t say, but why was he asking?

“Is it a scar?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I thought back, and couldn’t imagine how I would have gotten a scar on my shoulder. I didn’t recall ever injuring it.

“It might be a cancerous spot,” he said, in a tone like he was saying we might have a shower later this afternoon, “or it could be a scar.”

Now, I’m thinking, this guy’s a dermatologist, and with a magnifying glass, he can’t tell the difference between a scar and cancer? But I say, of course, “Let’s get that sucker off of there right now.”

He frowned at me. “It’s really just something we need to watch.”

“Watch?? Why? Just take it off.”

“I’ll check it again in fours months, and we’ll see if it’s grown any.” He knew I’d have to come back in a month to get the refills on my teenage skin prescriptions, but he wanted to check what MIGHT BE CANCER in four months??

As you probably can guess, I did not take this well. I began to hyperventilate. “Dr. Harper, really, what’s the down side to removing something that MIGHT BE Cancer right this very minute?”

“Well, this is the type of thing we see every day. We really just need to watch it,” he said, in that father-knows-best-voice.

“Listen, Dr. Harper, I’m a little nutty”–like he didn’t know that already–“and I really think we’ll both be better off if you just get out the scalpel and get rid of whatever that is on my shoulder, because otherwise, I will lie awake and worry about it. I will obsess about it. I will drive everyone I know crazy.”

He sighed. Deeply. “You know, I really wish I’d said, ‘Hmmm, looks like you have a scar on your shoulder.'”

Again, I asked him what possible downside there was to removing the thing.

“It’s like when you go to the doctor, and he tells you that your cholesterol is high, and we need to watch it.”

I persisted. “What’s the downside?”

“It will leave a scar,” he said. He really said that. About this time, he started furiously scribbling my prescriptions.

I was flabbergasted. “But it already looks like a scar, and it MIGHT BE CANCER.”

“You wouldn’t have a doctor remove your appendix just because it might give you trouble,” he argued.

I smiled, triumphantly. “Oh yes I would. I already have.”

He cocked his head and squinted his eyes at me. “Well, if they were already in there…” He stood up and handed me my prescriptions. “See you in a month. I’ll take a look at it then.” He started rushing out the door. Over his should he said, “There’s a lot of things we could all be worried about. Forget about this and pick something else.” So now he’s my psychologist, too??

I stewed on the way to the pharmacy.

I stewed all the way home.

If he wouldn’t take the thing off, I’d find a dermatologist who would. Too bad the quack I used to see left town without notice. He’d lop anything off I asked him too, without so much as blinking. Why, he’d once taken off three or four moles in one office visit. One on my stomach, two on my arms, and… it stuck me like a thunderbolt… one on my shoulder.

The thing I wanted Dr. Harper to remove was the scar from where Dr. Left-Town-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Night had removed a mole years ago.

I think.

Y’all know how bad my memory is…

At least I can tell myself that until I go back for my teenage skin follow-up, which is a good thing, because we leave for tomorrow on vacation with my mamma and daddy and my sister and her husband. We’re going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and will be spending time in Yellowstone and Grand Tetons National Park. My family has little patience with my insanity. If I were to exhibit signs of obsessing about this mole/scar that MIGHT BE CANCER, one of them would likely drown me in the Snake River, or throw me out of a hot air balloon.

I’m already on my sister’s list because I packed a skirt, and that was not on the approved wardrobe packing list in the professionally bound trip book she prepared for us. Y’all probably won’t believe this, but she’s much crazier than I am.

Peace, out…

Susan


Deadlines, Commitments and Ailments, Oh My!

in Uncategorized

I confess…I have been very, very slack in the exercise department for the last two weeks. My VOLUPTUOUS figure has not graced the dance floor all week this week, and last week was spotty at best. But, as always, I have many reasons (not to be confused with excuses).

First off, I had several deadlines for submitting stories that came all at once. And, since I am trying, oh so very hard to become a PAID writer, I must submit. I mean, the blog is great, but it well, doesn’t pay much, and most agents and editors like to see publishing credits before they’ll take on your novel. So, there were deadlines…

And, there were commitments. And, by this, I don’t mean that I was committed to a mental facility, although, one could make an argument that such a thing is in order. Thus far I have successfully avoided the men in white coats. But I have had other things on my to-do list, like fluff the house umpteen times so a realtor could show it. Did I mention our house was on the market? I can’t remember. Anyway, here’s how this works: They call, I clean and try to make the house look like no one lives here, then I have to leave and go elsewhere for an hour or two so they can show it. It’s really fun when I spend several hours getting the house ready, drive around for a couple of hours–because, after all that house cleaning, I’m sweaty and icky and not fit to go in anywhere–and then they don’t show up.

Under the ailments category, somehow week before last I did something to my knee, my right foot and my neck. Probably this was due to the transition from vacation to trying to make up for vacation a little too abruptly. Perhaps I should have eased back into Jazzercise more gradually. Bodysculpt followed by a regular Jazzercise class two days week before last was the culprit, I think. My body was not ready to be sculpted.

Anyway, I didn’t sleep hardly at all last night, and I when I did, I had a horrible nightmare. I was in surgery (some chest or abdominal thing was being cut on). I got straight up from the operating table and went to Jazzercise in my hospital gown. The Queen of Pain was there, and she cracked on me severely because I had missed a class while being cut open and stitched back shut. She was not impressed by my REASON. I slunk out of there in shame. I’m not sure what to make of the dream, but I think my body is going in to dance withdrawal. I’ve got to get back on track. I’m thinking the score right now is Demon Diane 103, Susan 4.

But today, there’s this deadline…

Peace, out…

Spa Day

in Uncategorized

It occurred to me that in all the excitement before vacation, I neglected to tell y’all about my spa day. Well, I told y’all I was going for my pre-vacation spa day, but I never told y’all about my experience at one of our local establishments of bliss and beauty.

I was all signed up for a Day of Beauty. This package includes all the usual services: waxing (all the relevant body parts–although you will not catch me getting a Brazilian wax), massage, aromatherapy scalp massage, Dead Sea salt rub, champagne lunch, facial, manicure (with paraffin treatment), pedicure (also with paraffin treatment), makeover and shampoo and style.

Now, all of this pretty much takes the whole day. And they start serving you that champagne early. (It was five o’clock somewhere, right?) And you know, I never turn down champagne. I sipped and they refilled my glass. We repeated this process frequently throughout the day. Now, as the day progressed, there were certain, optional services that were offered, for a modest additional charge, to compliment my package and make sure I was completely relaxed and thoroughly waxed, buffed and polished for my husband’s vacation pleasure.

At some point during my massage, when the lights were low, the music soothing and I was on my, I don’t know, third? glass of champagne, the therapist noted the knots in my neck. She recommended that I have my ears candled to clear out the congestion in my ear canals and the tubes in my neck…I think that’s what she said. Anyway, I was very relaxed and said, okay, fine…sure, why not?

Now, normally, I would not lie still for someone to put a long stick in my ear and light it on fire. But, as I said, I was quite relaxed, and in a somewhat suggestive state. Also, she did put a flame-retardant shield on my head so my hair would not catch fire.

After she did both ears, she cut open the hollow candles to show me what had purportedly come out of my ears. Let me tell you, if this was on the up-and-up, it’s a wonder I could hear at all.

After we got back from vacation, I Googled ear candling, just to see what I’d come up with. Oh…my…gosh. Apparently, this process is supposed to clean the ears and the mind. The massage therapist did not mention one single thing about vacuuming my brain.

In case you were considering having this done, the internet consensus is that ear candling is ineffective in removing ear wax, which is actually good for you. regrettably, there is no established way to measure whether your mind is actually cleansed or not. I personally did not feel as though my mind was any cleaner after the process, and I think my vacation activities clearly demonstrate that this was not the case. Nor did I come across anyone in my research who testified to having had their mind cleansed.

On a positive note, the only real dangers reported are having your hair set on fire (which, as I said, I was protected from by my diligent therapist), getting your ears burnt or infected, obstruction of the ear canal, and punching a hole in your eardrum. However, there is concern expressed on some websites that ear candling will vacuum your brain slap out of your head.

To be fair, I did find a few souls who subscribe to the opinion that ear candling is quite beneficial. One of them claims that, “It cleans the whole head, brains and all – they’re all connected you know.” And the massage therapist did have a certificate from, umm… somewhere…stating that she was licensed to perform this procedure.

It is somewhat disconcerting, though, to read just a few of the titles of the websites that result from a search on ear candling: quackwatch.org, skeptic.com, deafness.about.com, hemp-ear-candles.com, and my personal favorite… colonhealth.net (what the ?).

Anyway, y’all be careful what you let them do to you at the spa, especially if your package includes champagne.

Peace, out…

You Don’t Have to Call Me Darlin’

in Uncategorized

Today was one of those days you don’t get a darn thing done that you wanted to, but a big pile of icky things you’ve been putting off shrinks a little. The three icky things I did today–and the reason I didn’t write a word or go to Jazzercise–were: 1) I took my kingsize comforter–the one that won’t fit in my washing machine–to the laundry mat. Amazingly, this was the least icky thing on the list. 2) I dug out from under the pile of mail and other debris on my desk, filing or tossing everything, and 3) I went to the doctor–the real doctor, not the dermatologist.
Remember last week when I was having trouble breathing? Well, Jim made me make a doctor’s appointment. When you tell the doctor that you feel like you can’t get enough air in your lungs, she is going to run some fun tests. The chest xray wasn’t bad, if you leave out the fact that, while she’s sure it’s nothing, there’s a spot on my right lung and it’s my body, so I have a right to know, and she doesn’t want me to come back and say, “Well, you told me it was nothing,” if it turns out to be something, but she’s sure it’s not. So now, instead of a week of blissful ignorance, after which there would have been a remote possibility I might be miffed at her, I get to spend a week with my overactive imagination running hog wild with all kinds of horrible scenarios just so she won’t look bad in the unlikely event that it is actually something. I just think this is poor manners.
But the really fun test was the EKG. It was perfectly normal, but the precious little technician who performed the test kept calling me darlin’ and sweetie and sugar the whole time she was sticking those little patches all over me. There is something undignified about lying with your bra pulled down around your waist and having a stranger lean over the top of you to attach wires to your bare chest, all the while speaking in soothing tones and calling you darlin’. I know she meant well.
Anyway, it’s probably just my allergies, which I have three brand new prescriptions for, and an appointment to go back in two weeks, after I have one more test. Meanwhile, I have a lot of catching up to do tomorrow. I’ve got to get the first three chapters of Lowcountry Boil off to a critique/contest for a conference I’m going to in May. The deadline is April 1. And, I have to get myself to Jazzercise in the morning. Maybe if I go to the 5:45 class, I can stop by and get a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte on the way home for breakfast.

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