Bear Necessities

Look who stopped by for dinner!

What a shocker!

I glanced through the picture window of our remote Smoky Mountain cabin, and there was a large black, furry face staring back at me. A bear face to be exact.

He was perched on the railing of our deck with his long tongue protruding, trying to corner a few sunflower seeds from our bird feeder. He was so startled when he saw us, I was afraid he'd either chomp on his own tongue, or fall overboard.

He probably marched up the stairs to get there, but for a quick exit, he leaped from the railing to a nearby tree, his sharp claws extended and strong muscles rippling beneath his fur coat, and shimmied down to the ground while we ran around like crazies screaming and trying to snap photos.

We'd heard there were occasionally bears spotted in our region, and a mountaineer down the slope that hosted bee hives had reported a honey-invader a few years ago, but we had never actually seen one in the 20 years we'd been spending vacation time there.

My 28-year-old daughter was in the shower, but managed to pick out through all the commotion in the living room the word "Bear!" So she grabbed her towel and camera, and with hair dripping down her face, shot out the door in the 45 degree late afternoon chasing the fleeing bear wearing only a towel.

That's when we discovered that the birdseed was merely dessert. By the looks of the nasty food debris strewn around the front yard, dinner had been our three full garbage bags that were sitting in the garage awaiting transportation to the dump. That'll teach me to keep the garage door closed when there are ripe trash bags inside.

But the funniest thing of all came later the next day when Spouse went to make himself a fruit smoothie. The jumbo jar of protein powder supplement that had been sitting beside the door leading from the den into the garage because it was too big to stay in the kitchen ... was missing.

Missing?

On a hunch, Spouse went on a hunting expedition and found the jar smashed on a log in the woods at the foot of our property. Apparently Joe Black Bear had hauled it away, although we can't for the life of us figure out how. The jar was too big to fit in his snout, so he must've carried it with his front paws, walking on his hind legs. Wouldn't that have been a sight to see! And eyeball-to-eyeball we would have been all right if one of us had opened the door at just the right moment.

Now we just have to keep our eyes peeled for Joe carrying a blender into the blackberry patch.

A Girl's a Girl in Any Species

Deb at TIA about to leave for Barcelona

So there we were, Spouse and I, at the airport in Venice, Italy a few weeks ago, waiting in the massive security que to board our plane.

Our long anticipated 35th wedding anniversary Mediterranean Cruise had been great fun, but we were exhausted after five countries in 15 days and anxious to get this last leg of our journey back home over.

A long line of suitcases, backpacks, purses, and totes rested at the feet of their weary owners, all travelers waiting with different degrees of impatience to partially disrobe in front of prying eyes and pass before the large screening device as their belongings rode the conveyor belt through the x-ray machine. It looked to be at least 15 more minutes before it would be our turn.

I took one last swig of my water before seeking a nearby trash can in which to toss the half-filled bottle. It was then I saw her.

Making her way boldly down the snaking procession of stalled plane-boarders was a medium-sized dog that appeared to be a beagle-bloodhound mix, dragging in her wake a uniformed security guard at the end of a short leash. I had heard about these airport sniffer dogs, trained to detect a number of illegal substances being smuggled out of the country.

This one was a proud little canine, sniffing her way confidently along, weaving through thousands of human legs while doing her job well, inspecting each bag, carry-on and tote with her large, moist, undulating black nose and then moving on to the next.  

Moving along, that is, until she reached my bags.

She passed my suitcase with no fanfare, but I'd made the mistake of sliding my 40-lb mega-mama purse off my shoulder, as always laden with everything a person could possibly need to live on a deserted island for a week, and placing it beside my carry-on to give my lopsided body a little rest before heaving it upward again when the line began moving.

The busy working dog cast a casual glance toward my purse as her furry pumping legs aimed toward Spouse's backpack. Suddenly, she halted in mid-stride. Her head literally snapped backward in a double take as her black nostrils flared and her head flew up in excitement.

Miss B (I shall call her Miss B for Beagle/Bloodhound) made a B-line right toward my purse.

Miss B became visibly more excited as she sniffed all around the exterior of my purse. Heaven help me! I thought I would puddle up right then and there like the Wicked Witch of the West in a downpour. Everyone within a quarter-mile vicinity obviously thought I was the WW of the W or at least her wayward niece as they eyed me with alarm.

I could read their minds. What kind of brazen, horrible drug-smuggling woman would pose as a regular tourist and have the audacity to STAND IN LINE BESIDE ME???

Then Miss B stuck her snout down into the interior of my purse and stood there wagging her tail as her head nearly disappeared completely into the depths of my mammoth handbag.

I noticed Miss B's handler quietly move his right hand toward the rather large handgun prominently displayed on his belt and keep it there as he asked me in heavily accented English to empty out the contents of my purse on the ground.

It was then I started to sweat. I could barely breathe. I'd read frightening stories about foreign prisons and Americans who mistakenly ended up in them. What were Italian prisons like? Were they crawling with roaches and vermin? Did they still have firing squads?

The silent crowd around us parted like the tremulous waters of the Red Sea.

I had a hard time wrestling my purse away from Miss B, who was reluctant to disengage her finely tuned sniffing apparatus from my bag, but after a little ado, I was finally was able to display the embarrassing contents for all to enjoy. And by the laughter that ensued, I'm quite sure my impromptu fellow-traveler audience enjoyed themselves immensely at my expense.  

It was hard to discern which item had interested Miss B most. It could have been the remains of a ham and cheese sandwich consumed the day before. Or the baggie of chocolate candies I'd collected from our cruise cabin pillows each night. It might have been the three granola bars, or the blueberrry muffin, or the crumbling chunk of leftover cheese pastry from breakfast.

But I'm pretty sure it was the half-eaten Snickers, because when Miss B's vacuum-cleaner nose assaulted the gooey, caramelly, chocolaty bar, her tail began beating back and forth like a clock pendulum in hyperdrive.

When the obviously irritated handler had finally managed to reinstate a little space between the quivering Miss B and the dastardly stash she had unearthed, he turned a glare on me that could melt butter.

Unlike the tittering onlookers, he was not amused. Not one smidgen.

I turned to Spouse for guidance but he was white-faced and speechlessly mortified. I mean, honestly, you'd think after being married to me for 35 years, nothing would rattle the man.

So I turned back to the nice security guard and smiled my brightest smile, shrugged my shoulders, and offered in my least criminal-like voice, "I'm sorry. I like to be prepared."

Then would you believe it? He actually rolled his eyes. I didn't think professional security people were supposed to do that. After all the crazy things they find in people's luggage? Humph. One minute I'm an international crime suspect and the next I get an insulting eye roll? Please.

So feeling properly rebuffed and humiliated, I scooped the contents of my purse back inside as the guard barked some incoherent gruff command to the canine, who instantly looked chastised and remorseful for her little faux pas. My heart went out to the poor little dog as he whisked her away. I know sniffer dogs are supposed to ignore all other smells in their quest to locate only the hidden illegal substances they've been trained to find. But who could NOT get tail-wagging excited about all that chocolate?

Miss B's handler might not get it, but I understand completely. She's a girl dog.

 

 









 

Walking Today Through the Wellness Journey

Deb visits a lovely stone cottage in Scotland

A few weeks ago, a dear writer friend, Rick, happily volunteered to walk with my niece, Andie, at the annual Florida Inspirational Writers Retreat.

My niece is an awesome girl - actually, I should say woman, since she is now a junior at USF majoring in English. But she has some lifelong physical disabilities due to cerebral palsy that make it difficult for her to get around. Especially stairs like we had to climb to get to the lunch hall and then back down to the meeting room at the FIWR.

And her eyesight is extremely limited as well, so that she needs assistance finding her way around anywhere new, and sorting out written instructions and correspondence, such as the myriad of handouts we encountered at the retreat.

Knowing that I would be tied up running the show (I'm co-director and the other co-director was ill), Rick graciously volunteered to be Andie's buddy for the retreat, meeting her at the door when she arrived and walking with her throughout the entire day. He made sure she got everywhere she needed to be and thanks to him, she thoroughly enjoyed herself.

Now there's something else about Rick you must know. He also voluntarily walks with his sister-in-law during her battle against breast cancer on the other coast of Florida. That means he travels across the state nearly every weekend to just be there with her and support her in her wellness journey.

The way I see it, to walk with someone in this sense, the stronger partner subtly paces himself to the stride of the weaker, and without being condescending in the least, although at times he must actually physically support his friend, most often he simply offers emotional support and guidance. He silently sacrifices his own comfort and needs to cover those of his companion.

The weaker partner knows that she is being looked after and lovingly protected and is therefore able to relax and lean into the caring encirclement of the stronger.

Much like Papa God walks with us through our own wellness journeys.

Andie will never be "normal" but she can achieve the state of wellness, as in "It is well with my soul." Rick's sister-in-law may not regain complete physical health again in this world (although we pray she does), but she can attain wellness. Spiritual wellness.

I've always loved the words of that wonderful old hymn which were written in the mid-1800s by a man who first lost all his possessions, then his only son to illness. Soon after, all his daughters drowned at sea when their ship capsized as they traveled to Europe to be with him. Yet somehow, after losing everything he once held dear, he was able to pen these incredible words:

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

It's really a rare and incomparable opportunity for us to walk with someone on their personal wellness journey. To silently sacrifice our own comfort and needs to cover those of our companion, so that they can say in the end, "Whatever my lot ... whatever my lot, it is well with my soul."

I believe Papa God put Rick in my life as an example of walking with someone, so that I, too, can aspire to do it in the same way Papa walks with me. I want, more than anything, to be able to say in the end, "It is well ... It is well with my soul."

The 56th Cake

A few weeks ago it was my honor and privilege to speak to a large local gathering of women. As those of us on the program met beforehand to discuss the upcoming evening, I overheard the term, "the 56th cake" mentioned several times in hushed, reverent tones.

My curiosity finally won out and I had to ask, "Will someone please tell me about the 56th cake?"

And what a story it was.

The church hosting this community women's event celebrating chocolate had been advertising and selling tickets for nearly six weeks. Many, many prayers had been sent up, asking Papa God to bless the details of this event honoring Him. A week prior to the event, 400 tickets had been sold and 50 fancy chocolate cakes were ordered from a local bakery to serve as the centerpieces of each table, and dessert for the ladies sitting there after dinner.

These were not just your run-of-the-mill chocolate cakes, they were culinary works of art, adorned with chocolate curls and doo-dads and ornate decorations that would make your saliva run like a fireman's hose when you merely glanced at one.

But in the days just before the event, a rush of orders came in for tickets, and the good ladies just couldn't bring themselves to turn anyone away. Another five cakes were rush-ordered and were to be picked up right before the event was scheduled to start.

As the designated cake-picker-upper drove to the bakery on the afternoon of the event, she received a frantic call from the church. Ten more last minute tickets had been purchased. There were nearly 500 now sold. Another table would be added. Another cake would be needed.

"But there's no way the baker can make another cake that fast," she told the caller. "And those 55 cakes were custom decorated just for us. I'll just have to try to look in their display case and see what they've got that's already made. I may have to just get a plain one. If they have any at all. Pray hard."

As she waited for the five boxed cakes to be handed over the counter, she saw that there were no other chocolate cakes in the display case remotely close to the same size or splendor of the ones they'd ordered.

In a quandary about what to do, she admitted to the lady in the white apron behind the counter that she really needed another cake. Was there anything at all they could do?

A big smile spread across her face. "I'm the baker," she said. "I have a surprise for you." She disappeared into the back room and reappeared holding another beautifully decorated cake exactly like the other 55.

"Something told me I should make an extra cake. And so I did."

Wow! Don't you just LOVE a grace note story like that? I sure do. It's a reminder that Papa God loves us dearly and is involved in every detail of our lives. Involved enough to whisper sweet somethings into the ear of a baker in order to meet a need that wasn't even a need yet.

I'd love to hear about a grace note in your life this week!    




   

Marching

While I was pedaling my bike on my usual Sunday afternoon trek this week, I saw something ahead in the road. It was moving.

Braking my bike, I noticed that recent rains had elevated the level of the pond on the left side of the road and the swamp on the right, so that they were now nearly conjoined, separated only by eight feet of black ribbon road.

And there, on the hot asphalt swatch betwixt the two watery worlds, a turtle was determinedly marching.

I use that word, marching, intentionally, because this little fellow wasn't plodding, or poking, or loitering, as turtles tend to do. He was rhythmically lifting those squat spotted legs high and forward so that his his heavy shelled body was pushing forward at an impressive pace. For a turtle.

Since my bike route is rural and there were no cars coming at the moment, I stopped for a spell to watch the little guy, wondering where he was going in such an all-fired hurry. His shell was mottled with green slimy algae, indicating that his usual abode was likely beneath the surface of the waters in either the swamp or the pond.

It occurred to me that he was out marching on foreign midday asphalt this fine day for one of three reasons:

• Adventure
• He was running away from something 
• He was running toward something

Now not to wax too anthropomorphic, but I thought I detected in his resolute trek down the yellow line a trace of excitement. It's adventure then, I thought. I'll bet he's never been out of Water World before. This is his first chance to see the big wonderful Earth and he's making treks before the water recedes and his opportunity is gone.

But he was in the highway. The highway. Where cars and trucks and mini-vans run over and crush flat little adventurous turtles. And wouldn't you know it, at that moment, a green pick-up appeared in the distance, heading our way.

I tried to herd the fellow over to one side of the road, but when he saw big lumbering me, he instantly closed up shop, retreating head and legs into the protection of his shell.. There he sat in the middle of the highway, thinking that he was safe from harm, not realizing his shell was no match for the two-ton vehicle of steel and chrome that would soon be bearing down on him.

So I quickly ditched my bike in the shallow water on the pond side of the road and picked him up, holding that hard place beneath the shell between his front and back legs. His head shot out immediately, snapping at me, and his legs began furiously scratching at my hands. But I hung on long enough to place him in the murky waters of the edge of the swamp, where he splashed away until he reached waters deep enough to glide beneath and disappear.

You know, I think I'm like that turtle in some ways. I need a good reason to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me, because I'm way too comfortable in in my own little Water World. And when I finally do venture out of my comfort zone into the unknown, I tend to march off without a clue of my destination.

I don't know where I'm going, but I'm sure in a hurry to get there.

At the first hint of danger, I crawl into my shell, where I perceive I'm safe, without realizing there are a whole lot of things that I know nothing about in this wide, wide world that could cause me harm.

And that's why dependency on Papa God is so important. He has a much broader view than I do. I must learn to trust Him to pick me up and move me to where I need to be, even though sometimes I snap at His fingers and try to scratch my way out of His grasp, not seeing that His intervention is for my own good.

How about you? What's your motivation for marching out your comfort zone today? Are you looking for adventure, running away from something, running toward something, or maybe just sitting in the middle of the road in your shell?  

The Gate Swings Both Ways

A few weeks ago, I was taking a shortcut through a subdivision I'd never entered before when something interesting caught my eye. There, in an overgrown garden at the side of an overgrown house, was a gate.

Not a fence and a gate. Not a barn gate, or a corral gate. Just a gate.

A gate that served no apparent purpose. It didn't lead to a path of any sort. It wasn't the entrance to anything observable, or the exit either. It just stood there in the middle of the yard. Calling my name.

Now I wouldn't have ever believed a simple gate could be so compelling, but as I slowed to take a better look, I could hardly contain myself. I just had to walk through that gate.

Of course the idea was silly. Why in the world would I trespass in a stranger's yard to walk through a gate to nowhere? But I'll be darned if I didn't want to. Badly.

Instead of following my irrational whim, like the law-abiding, sensible, grown-up, mature woman that I am, I pressed the gas pedal and pressed on to my appointment, for which I was already late.

I thought about that gate again this morning, and wondered what would have motivated me to want to jump out of my car, race across the lawn, swing it open and step through the threshold. Oddly enough, the moment I pictured that gate in my mind's eye, I felt my countenance lift and my heartbeat quicken. I felt ... what do you call this sensation? Excited. Yes, that's it. I felt excited.

Has it been that long since I've felt that emotion to recognize what excitement feels like?

And then suddenly I had my answer. THAT's why the gate compelled me so. It was the mystery, the fun, the adventure that the gate represented. Visions of other exciting gates in my past swirled in the periphery of my subconscious - gateways to other worlds like Narnia, visiting Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which in A Wrinkle In Time, and cavorting through old stone London gates with the Artful Dodger in Oliver.

The gate in that yard wasn't just a gate to me. It was an opening for the imagination. A place I've always loved to go, a place that always refreshed my spirit and renewed my zeal for living. A place that I just haven't had the time to visit lately with the responsibilities and drudgery of adult life.

I realize now that I need that gate. Well, maybe not that gate, but a gate. My spirit yearns to be set free in the glorious freedom and frolic of imagination symbolized by stepping through the gate.

So maybe I'll do it. Maybe I'll rig up my own gate ... in my mind. It'll look just like the gate Dorothy stepped through into the Emerald City. And maybe I'll make it a point to step through my gate now and again. Then maybe the responsibilities of adulthood won't seem like drudgery.

Heartbreaking Destiny

As I pedaled my bike down the quiet country road on my regular Sunday afternoon exercise jaunt, something I saw on the side of the road made me hit my brakes.

I hadn't noticed it in a very long time, and on this particular day, its image of stark loneliness struck me as morosely sad.

It was a mighty oak tree, several feet in diameter and as tall as a three-story building. The oak had matured in the twenty years since I first laid eyes on it, back when it was a mere impressionable teenager, and so terribly in love.

Yep. Completely, totally, in love. Smitten. And not afraid to show the world.

For the oak had sprouted right beside a young palm tree, and the two had grown together, intertwined as it seemed, for all eternity. The oak had grown around the base of the palm, so that the palm seemed to spring from its very center. And the oak had wrapped two small branches around the palm, with digit-like twigs that strongly resembled fingers extending from the ends of those winding, clinging branches, exactly like arms embracing a lover.

It was remarkable, really. You couldn't pass by without an AWWW escaping your lips and feeling a warm fuzzy feeling somewhere deep in your innards. Love was their destiny and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I always intended to take a picture of the tree-lovers, but I somehow never did.

And then one day, it was too late. The palm tree was gone. Severed from the arms that surrounded it with such passion. The new owners of the property must have thought the palm would eventually threaten the health of the oak, so they'd chain-sawed it away. Boy was I angry. No, more like livid. How could they be so cruel to ruthlessly separate the lovers like that?  

The poor pathetic oak stood there with its arms frozen in an empty embrace, encircling, loving, protecting ... nothing. I felt like my heart was ripped in half every time I saw it from then on, so in the passing years, I'd disciplined myself from looking in that direction.

Until this particular day. And would you believe it? After all this time, that oak tree still had it's arms locked in the same empty embrace? The hole in its center had never filled in, leaving the imprint of the long-gone palm tree as if it were still there. Loved. Protected.

I couldn't help but think of the funeral I had just attended that week. Married over three decades, *Justine and Mark had been high school sweethearts who never dated anyone but each other. They were both my classmates, and there was never any doubt that they were meant for each other. They clung to each other through the bad times and drew strength from each other during the good.

It was their destiny to be together.

Until Mark suddenly fell over with a heart attack at age 56.

Justine appeared to be in shock at the funeral. She was surrounded by her children and the brand new grand-baby that Mark had absolutely doted over. She hugged them over and over, she hugged her friends, she hugged everyone who came to offer their condolences. But I knew her embrace was empty, like the empty embrace of this mighty oak, left to live alone without its lover.

And twenty years from now, I'll bet the imprint of Justine's own palm tree will still be in her center as clearly as this brokenhearted oak tree. It's their destiny.

*Names changed for privacy.


 

Nurturing Us to Our Bloomingest

I've never had much of a green thumb - it's more brownish black. But you wouldn't know it by looking at my yard.

That's because I've learned the fine art of harboring only plants that thrive on their own without any help from me. Survival of the fittest. Lord of the Venus Fly-traps.

One of those hearty independent souls in my yard is the hibiscus. Three years ago I planted two 8-inch high variegated-leaf hibiscus (okay you spelling fanatics, is the plural version hibisces, hibisci, or hibiscuses?) in a spot in my side flowerbed vacated by the last victim of neglect. The lovely little plants were covered with beautiful red-orange blossoms sticking out long orange tongues bejeweled with tiny yellow sparkles.

Yep. Three years ago I planted them, and three years ago was the last time I saw them bloom.

That's not to say they haven't grown - not at all. One look at the 7-feet-tall lush plants would make you believe they're actually thriving. I notice my neighbors fertilize theirs several times a year and the crazy things bloom constantly all the way through the summer. They also prune their hibiscus back to short bare stalks each winter, but I've never bothered with all that. And mine just keep getting bigger and bigger, so they must be doing okay, right?

But they never bloom.

I don't get it. Isn't that what flowers are supposed to do?

And then yesterday I walked outside after a rainstorm to find my jumbo hibiscus plants lying flat on the ground. Apparently they'd grown so tall, their long lanky stems couldn't withstand the additional weight of rain collecting on their leaves and they finally gave way beneath the strain.

Oh. Could that be why my neighbors cut theirs back?

As I stood there shaking my head at their pitiful plight, the thought occurred to me that people are a lot like those hibiscus. We may grow and look like we're doing fine, but if not given enough fertilizer, we may never bloom. And if we're not pruned and cared for properly, we'll collapse beneath the weight of storms we simply can't endure.

Thankfully, Papa God is a MUCH better gardener than I am and He knows how to nurture us to our bloomingest.

On a happy note, we were able to save the spunky little fellas. Spouse chopped them in half and within a day, they were standing erect again, looking mighty happy to be there. And I thought I heard the littlest hibiscus stalk whisper, "Please, sir, may I have some gruel?" I think he meant fertilizer.

Exciting Announcement PLUS New Contest!

Congrats again to the 10 sweet gals who won free copies of my Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner! (Scroll back to find the names of the winners.) And kudos to Pam from Florida, the grand prize champ, who also scored the entire 3-book Take On Life series.

Okay, now for more good news!

I'm still in shock and trying to process the incredible news I received earlier this week: The Too Blessed to be Stressed Planner has sold 6,000 copies in the 6 weeks it's been available in bookstores and online.

Can you BELIEVE it? What an enormous YAY GOD!

Many, many thanks to all of you sweeties who made that happen by picking up a Planner for yourself and a friend. If you haven't yet, it's not too late - you can help me reach my goal of 10k by Christmas! (Just Google Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner if you're ordering online.)

That's my good news; now for YOUR good news!

To celebrate hitting 6k in 6 weeks, I'm going to give away 6 more Planners! 

To enter this new drawing, just subscribe to my blog if you haven't already, and invite a friend to subscribe too during this upcoming week (Aug 20 -27). Then shoot me an e-mail at deboracoty@gmail.com giving me the names of you and your friend as my new best blog buddies.

If you're one of the three names drawn out of the hat and announced on August 28, you AND your friend will receive a brand new autographed Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner absolutely free. Plus, in honor of my last book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, I'll send you both a sample of my new favorite chocolate - the absolutely smoothest, creamiest, richest chocolate you've ever wrapped your tongue around!

I hope to hear from you soon!

Waxing Eloquent

"What did you say?" I couldn't quite make out Spouse's words. My ears had been clogged since I'd taken a dozen or so laps underwater at the pool on our vacation a few days before.

"I think we should try candling your ears." Spouse exaggerated the words as if speaking to a deaf person.

"Candling my ears? What you smokin, mon?"

But he was serious. My well meaning, health-food-nut husband who loves to buck the traditional system was always open to trying alternative methods. If you want proof, just re-read the "Shoving the Envelope" chapter in my book, Too Blessed to be Stressed, when he Hiroshima'ed our home by juicing a bushel of garlic.

So for lack of any better ideas, I allowed him to pull out the 8-inch "candles" he had purchased years before, stick them in my ears, and light 'em up.

Before you think we've altogether lost our minds, let me inform you that candling is actually an ancient practice that is supposed to remove excessive ear wax. No kidding. Somebody a long, long time ago came up with the idea of creating "candles" of fabric impregnated with beeswax that when lit on the ends, supposedly create a vacuum that serves to soften and disintegrates errant ear wax clogging the ear canal.

Spouse even pulled up a couple of video clips of pleasant looking Asian people lighting fires on these things in each others ears, while smiling and saying things to the camera like, "Don't move head while candle lit or you burn hair off head."

Although my heart did skip a beat or two at this last admonition, I trust Spouse (most of the time) and was more than over not being able to hear the smoke alarm go off when dinner was ready. So a' candling we go.

Unfortunately, it didn't work. After 20 minutes of blowing warm crackling smoke into each ear, I could hear no better. In fact, it actually got worse. I think the candle heat must have melted the ear wax into into a solid cork.

So after a sleepless night, the next morning found me in line at the local Walk-In clinic. When the 15-year-old doctor finally made an appearance (I swear the kid had never shaved), he peered into my ears with his magnifying thingie and remarked. "Yep, it looks like ear wax all right. But there's a strange round black spot on the ear canal wall that I've never seen anything like before."

I figured Doogie Houser had probably never seen anything like it before because he just got out of med school last week. "It's most likely singed hair follicles from candle smoke," I replied cheerily.

His little freckled face looked confused.

"Candles," I explained. "You know, candling. You put candles in your ears to remove the ear wax. Only it didn't work."

"W-W-WHAT?" Doogie sputtered in disbelief. Something akin to horror played across his young innocent features. I could tell he was picturing me with lit birthday candles sticking out of both sides of my head. "You put candles in your EARS??"

So I tried to explain the legitimacy of the whole thing, but he couldn't stop shaking his head and muttering something that sounded like, "inconceivable." I wanted to tell him that that I saw that movie too and, "I don't think it means what you think it means" in a Spanish accent, but he seemed to be in a big hurry to exit the room.

Shortly afterwards I heard, through the closed door, a chorus of "What?" from the rest of the medical staff in the hall. Then a 12-year-old MA came in with an awesome little pressure washer gizmo and blasted those ear wax corks right out of there. I asked if I could borrow it to use on my driveway, but she didn't bite.

So goes another episode in the Coty stump-the-medical-profession game. You thought I couldn't top the doctor fainting dead away on the floor during my colonoscopy, didn't you?  (Scroll back for that post.)

Life is such an adventure. Can't wait to see what's next!