Happy New Year to All and to All a Good Diet

In honor of the exciting new year opening up before us, I'd like to print the audaciously appropriate poem below.

It's been around a while in various forms and unfortunately, the author is unknown - I sure with she would step forward and receive accolades for her genius.

And genius it is.

The gold standard of an exceptional poem is that it has the reader nodding or weeping or laughing in reaction. This poem does all those things for me. The author truly understands my 10-extra-pounds angst all too well after our 10-day anniversary cruise in Sept. followed by the holidays. Blech. I feel like the Michelin Man looks.

Kudos to "Author Unknown" wherever you are!

T'was the month after Christmas,
and all through the house,
nothing would fit me,
not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled,
the chocolate I'd taste
at the holiday parties
had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales
there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store
less a walk than a lumber,

I'd remember the marvelous meals I'd prepared;
the gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared;
the dips and the meatballs, the bread and the cheese
and the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself and struggled to zip
the skirt that was gaping askew on my hip,
I said to myself, as only I can,
"You can't spend a winter as wide as a van!"

So away wih the last of the sour cream dip.
Get rid of the fruitcake, each cracker and chip.
Every last food that I like must be banished
till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.
I'll chew only on this here green celery stick.
I won't have hot biscuits or cornbread or pie.
I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore ...
but isn't that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot;
Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.  

5 Incredible Christmas Words

The young woman holding the guitar looked nervous as she took her place on the stool at the front of the auditorium where 400 women chattered, all seated around beautifully decorated tables for the annual church Christmas banquet.

An expectant hush fell over the room as hot tea-sipping women dressed in their holiday finest turned their eyes toward the morning's entertainment. They had come to expect only the best in this musically talented church.

But something was wrong.

The young woman fumbled the first few chords, then haltingly plucked the familiar introduction to "O Holy Night." When she began singing, her voice was far too soft and didn't project well even with the microphone.

O holy night ... the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.

Oh, no - there was another guitar clunker and her voice slid off key yet again. I squirmed in my seat, growing uncomfortable for her and wishing she'd practiced a little more. I could see other women around me having the same worried reaction.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. 

After several halting mischords, she suddenly she stopped altogether. Collectively not knowing what to do to ease her embarrassment, the audience applauded lightly, hesitantly. But her response was not one we would ever have expected.

"Oh, do you want me to stop now?" she asked in childlike sincerity. "I could be finished if you want me to."

A bit of murmuring broke out in the audience as she set her guitar aside and leaned toward the microphone to speak. Her words shot like an arrow straight from her heart to ours.

"I know I'm not a singer," she said in a shaky, apologetic voice, "but I really wanted to share this particular song with you today. You see, I've been diagnosed with a brain tumor and my doctors tell me there's a very strong possibility that I won't be able to speak after my next surgery."

She paused as a stunned silence seized the room.

"This entire Christmas season, I've been thinking about the words to this song, 'O Holy Night' - especially these 5 words: the soul felt its worth. I just want to share with you that if you ever doubt your soul's worth like I have for the past few months, just remember what Jesus did for you. There is no greater worth than your soul, for Jesus came as a babe and then 33 years later died on the cross ... just for you. Because your soul was worth that much to Him. There is great joy - regardless of external circumstances - in knowing the true worth of your soul that was proven on that holy night in Bethlehem. So please, please allow your soul to feel its amazing worth this Christmas."

Wow.

BIG wow.

Like you, I've sung that song a thousand times over the years but I can't say that I've ever really considered the meaning to those 5 words before that moment. Maybe it's because I'm currently immersed in Too Loved to be Lost, the new book I'm writing about Papa God's incredible, limitless, unconditional love for us that this young woman's revelation resonated within me so deeply. I've thought about little else since. And it's made for the most happy and holy of Christmases for me. 

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

So I invite you, even though it's the day after Christmas and you're up to your eyeballs in turkey carcases, wadded wrapping paper, and creative leftover recipes, to ponder those 5 incredible words when you get a free moment. And allow the beauty and wonder and pure awe of His bottomless love for you to bathe your heart with joy.

Everyone Needs a Papa

I've had several recent requests from readers to explain the origin of my use of the term, "Papa God" in my books. I'd be happy to oblige.

I guess it's one of those things you do that is so much a part of you that you don't think about it anymore. Like parting your hair on the left. Or tucking your shirttail in when the rest of the fashion world wears theirs out (I'm aware only because my daughter often rebukes me for this).

Anyway, it all started back in 2004 when I began working on my first book, The Distant Shore, which released in 2007. Up to that point, I had only written considerably shorter pieces in the form of magazine and newspaper articles, so expanding my thoughts into a full sized book was quite a challenge.

The main story line is based on the true story of a young girl who is sent away from her family - for reasons unknown to her at the time - to live on the then remote, untamed Merritt Island of 1904. Emma-Lee finds life with crusty spinster Aunt Augusta very lonely and discouraging until she is befriended by kindly Captain Stone, a freighter captain.

Captain Stone is a godly man and introduces Emma-Lee to his beloved Heavenly Father, who Emma-Lee embraces as her surrogate father ... the heavenly Papa who will never abandon or forsake her like her earthly papa has done. She begins referring to Him as Papa God, and seeing the Almighty through the lens of the unconditional love of a faithful parent fills a gaping hole in her heart.

One of the things I really wanted to portray in the book was the personal relationship we can have with the Lord, our Abba as one of the ways the Aramaic Bible refers to Him. Abba is the intimate form of Father, which translates loosely as Daddy, or in my mind as Papa.

So as Emma-Lee discovered the loyal, limitless, lovingkindness side of her Papa God, so did I. I've referred to Him as Papa God ever since.


I invite you to join me. I think you'll be surprised how quickly and almost magically the secret deep longing in your heart for nonjudgmental, all-accepting, all-forgiving love will be fulfilled. He's your Papa too.

So tell me - how do you view God? 


P.S. A funny little tidbit for you: After a speaking gig not long ago, a lovely lady from the audience approached me  In her thick German accent, she introduced herself and then said something that 'bout made me drop my teeth. "In Germany," she said, "we say someone is from the distant shore to mean they are gay."
Ha! I guess that particular book won't be translated into German anytime soon, since Emma-Lee is only ten.

Don't Want to Flunk This Lesson

Yeesh, it happened again.

Every single time I teach a children's church lesson, Papa God brings the exact dadgum lesson home to me. He knows all along that I'm the one who needs to hear it more than the kids. And sometimes His timing is, well, unfortunate. 

So there I am, wearing my big floppy flowered "Bible Story Lady" hat, leading a dozen 2 1/2-year-olds in a rousing chorus of The Prayer Song. Our lesson today is, "When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back."

Not exactly R.C. Sproal theological magnitude, but hey, everyone in my audience is shorter than my belly button.That's why I took the job in the first place - no PhD needed. Just KISS and tell. (KISS=Keep It Simple, Sister!)

So there's this one kid in the class - a big boy for his age - who won't sit in his chair. He starts out there but within minutes is up and migrating with the wind currents around the room. Don't know his name. We'll call him Danny.

Everyone in the room is singing with me (except Danny) when my laid-back, sweet, adorable grandson Blaine arrives late as usual (his mama made us late for church every Sunday morning for 18 years). There is not a single chair left in the room except the one Danny vacated. So the teacher directs Blaine to the empty chair, tells him to sit, and walks away.

Blaine Boy has no sooner seated his adorable little self in the tiny red chair and flashes his 100-watt smile at Mimi (me!) - who is still leading the song up front - than Danny's migration pattern comes to a sudden halt because he notices someone sitting in his chair. Not that he wants to sit in it, mind you, he just doesn't want anyone else to.

So with a running start from across the room, Danny charges sweet, unsuspecting, adorable Blaine and wallops him with a flying full body butt, knocking him out of the chair and sending him crashing onto the floor. I'm watching all this happen in slow motion and am unable to do anything about it without stopping the song and disrupting the entire class.

So I helplessly watch the kid I love more than life itself get pummeled by a bully in training pants. My blood pressure shoots through the roof of my head. I can feel my earrings start to melt. It's all I can do not to fly out of my seat and throttle this rotten little kid. But I remind myself he's only two. Even though he looks three.

Little Blaine, looking dazed and confused, slowly rises to his feet and stands there all alone (why nobody comes to his aid, I am completely befuddled) eying Danny, obviously not knowing what happened or what to do now. Danny glares back, and climbs into the chair. Squatters rights. You lose, sucker.

Blaine's adorable little face begins to pucker. Is he about to cry because he's physically hurt? Or because his feelings are hurt? He's a gentle-natured kid, so I suspect the latter. My guts are burning with the molten lava of injustice and I can feel the volcano about to blow. I'm gonna clean nasty little Danny's clock.

And then it hits me. An IM coming right from Papa God.

Helloooooo. When someone is mean to you (or in this case your adorable little grandson), you don't have to be mean back. 

But I WANT to be mean back. Danny deserves it.

Doesn't matter. When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back. I wasn't mean back when they beat me up and shred my skin with whips and thrust a crown of thorns on my head. Aren't you supposed to be becoming more like me?

Oh. Yeah. I guess.

At this point, the teacher brings a chair in from another room and helps Blaine into it. His little body shudders as he fights the tears that threaten to squeeze out. He is successful. He is brave. He is adorable. He gives Mimi a shaky smile and begins to join in the hand motions of the song that Mimi feels will never, ever end.

Danny is off the chair again and paying no attention to the song. And then there's that still, small voice again.   

So now it's time to forgive Danny.

Maybe after the lesson, Lord. After I bring him up front and say, "Okay class, here's a prime example of our lesson today. This is a bully. A mean, bad, rotten little boy. He shoved Blaine out of the chair but Blaine chose not to be mean back. Who does God love more?"

I love Danny as much as you love Blaine.

Yeah, well okay, but he can't get away with busting up my grandson. Somebody needs to punish this kid. Maybe if I humiliate him in front of the class he'll learn his lesson.  

You know you can't do that. He made a mistake. Don't you ever make mistakes?

I think I'm about to right now.

But you won't. Because you love Me. And I love you. And we both love children who are learning to love me too. Now forgive him.

I can't. It's hard to forgive something like this.

Of course it's hard. That's why I'm here. I'll help you. Let's do this thing. And I'll give you an A+ on today's lesson. Let's say it together: When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back. 

Got it.

Good.    

New Give-Away Contest

Fall 2013 Give-Away Contest

I’m tickled pink about the new Too Blessed to be Stressed Perpetual Calendar.

By the way, “perpetual” means the 365 full color pages are dated but have no year, so it can sit on your
kitchen counter forever. Or until Junior sloshes spaghetti sauce all over it.




 And to make sure you’re as tickled as I am, I’m giving away a full DOZEN perpetual calendars!

All you have to do is shoot me an electronic photo of you decom-stressing in your favorite chillin’ zone (exotic location, back yard, couch with Fido, etc.) and I’ll choose the 12 most unique and creative photos as the winners, PLUS the top three will be posted on my blog. Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss anything!

Send your photo to me at this e-dress or via my website www.DeboraCoty.com by the deadline on December 5th and if you're a winner, you’ll receive your calendars in time for Christmas as my gift to you in celebrating the birth of our Lord Jesus.

Grace That's Truly Amazing

It was no use. The $100 bill was gone.

My daughter Cricket searched her pockets for the third time just to be sure. Then she ransacked the tote bag she'd been carrying around the expansive neighborhood garage sale yet again, panic evident on her pinched, bloodless face and wild eyes.

"Oh, no. Oh, nooo! It can't be gone! It was in my pocket, I'm sure of it. I only put my hand in there once, and that was about twenty minutes ago." Cricket and I, garage sale junkie buddies for most of her 28 years, had headed out before dawn to an annual treasure-filled, 200-home combined community garage sale in an upscale neighborhood.

Sale-ing went way back with us. I had fond memories of a wispy-haired blond toddler accompanying me on my Saturday morning garage sale hunting expeditions long before she'd grown up, married, and had a toddler of her own.

But things were not going so well in the present. Adult Cricket had been miffed when I picked her up that morning (my car had more fill-to-the-brim cargo space for our loot than hers so I drove) because her husband had been paid in $100 bills on a moonlighting job the night before, rather than the small bills she had been planning to take garage sale-ing bright and early.We knew from experience that sellers rarely accepted large bill at an event like this, for it would deplete all their change.

Sure enough, nobody during the first hour of our shopping expedition would touch the hunky bill, so she'd folded it and stored it in the place she thought would be safest - her jeans pocket. And now we were halfway home and wallowing in deep misery.

"It won't do any good to go back," I said, trying to be realistic but feeling just terrible for her. "If it fell out of your pocket, it wouldn't be on the ground very long. Somebody will be having a very good day today. Maybe they really needed it."

"They couldn't have needed it worse than me." Cricket's eyes welled up and her hands started shaking. "I can't believe I lost it," she said just above a whisper. "That was pretty much all we had to spend for the baby's Christmas."

So with nothing else to be done about it, we prayed. Gee. Wouldn't you think we'd have thought of that first?

We'd barely begun pouring our grief out to Papa and begging for His mercy and grace when Cricket, in desperation, thrust her hand once again into that same empty pocket she'd already tried repeatedly. Only this time it wasn't empty. This time her hand came out clutching a wrinkled green portrait of Ben Franklin.

"Oh, my goodness! God put it back in my pocket!" Cricket cried, just before we burst into laughter and rocked the car in gleeful celebration.

Ben once was lost but now is found. Just like you. Just like me. That's grace.

Amazing.

Never Underestimate the Power of Prayer

A lovely grace-full church we visited in Mykonos, Greece

Do you ever get tired of those marvelous grace notes Papa God plops in our laps just to prove He's got our backs?

I hope not, because I'm going to share another zinger. And yet another in next week's post.

This one is not my own, actually, but was shared with me by my writer friend Karen.

Karen and I had become friends at a national conference for writer/speakers. As I exited the hotel the morning after the conference ended, I passed Karen in the lobby on her hands and knees dissecting her luggage. There were little piles of clothes, make-up bags, boxes, and books all over the floor.

"What's up, Karen?" I asked, pausing in route to catch my waiting taxi. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, I'm going batty trying to find my Kindle before my ride gets here," Karen admitted. "I just know I packed it in here but I can't seem to find it. It's got to be here somewhere. I just can't live without that thing."

Unable to loiter and commiserate any longer, I told her I'd be sure to lift her situation up in prayer and proceeded to do so as my driver sped me away to the airport."

The following day, I e-mailed Karen and asked if her Kindle search had been successful. Here was her answer:

"I searched and searched both suitcases four different times before the shuttle got there to pick us up. Never did find it. So while our driver stored our luggage in the bus, I explained my dilemma to the two other ladies from the conference catching the same shuttle. Without a moment's hesitation, one of the ladies launched into a heartfelt verbal prayer for the Lord to bring the prodigal Kindle back home.

"As soon as I got to the airport, while I was standing in line at the ticket counter, I unzipped the same compartment in my carry-on bag that I'd already searched over and over. I'll be dipped if the Kindle didn't pop right up like a jack-in-the-box."

To wrap it all up, Karen finished with a wallop. "Never underestimate the power of prayer."

To that I say, AMEN, sister!  And I'll be dipped.



 

Amazing Ephesus

Our visit to the ancient biblical city of Ephesus 

This September, Spouse and I enjoyed a wonderful 35th wedding anniversary Mediterranean cruise which took us to five European countries in 15 days.

I'll be blogging more stories about our adventures (and posting some incredible pictures) later but I just had to share with you one of the most spiritually moving parts of our trip.

Our trip to Ephesus.

Our view toward the coast en route by bus to Ephesus

Ephesus (location of one of the first ever Christian churches Paul wrote to in 1 and 2 Ephesians) is no longer an operational city and getting to it entailed riding a bus nearly an hour through the rural valleys and hills of modern day Turkey from our ship's port in Kusadasi. In biblical days, Ephesus was on the coast, but today, due to significant geological changes because of natural disasters, it's nearly 5 miles inland.

At some point (I'm not sure of the year), landslides from severe earthquakes buried the entire sprawling metropolis under tons of rock, dirt, and debris from the surrounding mountains. Archaeologists have only recently begun digging it out, and gigantic chunks of regal pillars, beautiful statues, ornate temples, stone trade centers, an enormous amphitheater, and private homes litter the ground like enormous jigsaw puzzles waiting to be pieced together.

Carved symbol on certain house entrances

As we toured the ruins of the once thriving and highly populated city, I noticed several recurrent symbols carved into the doorposts of certain buildings, or crudely scratched onto entrance stepping stones. One, the fish symbol, or ichthus, which was a clandestine symbol of early Christians to avoid punishment and ridicule by the Artemus (Diana)-worshiping society of Ephesus, I recognized immediately. But the other, something that resembled a wagon wheel with spokes, stumped me completely.

I questioned our tour guide about the meaning of the crude emblem that seemed to be turning up in strange places all over the city, but she smiled mysteriously and said, "Just wait. You'll see."

After we walked and walked around the dry, dusty streets and visited ancient toilets and bakeries and massive pagan temples, I asked her again about the circular symbol we kept running across tucked here and there, usually discreetly, in various odd locations around the city.

Road leading to Amphitheater at Ephesus

Our guide, in heavily accented English, began telling us of the persecution and ridicule endured by the first Christians of Ephesus in AD 60-70, after Paul's visit on his 2nd missionary journey (Acts 18:18-19). The leaders and artisans associated with the great temple of Artemus located there were not at all happy with the enthusiastic newfound Christians poisoning their bustling idol business, which also deepened the schism between traditional Jews and Gentile converts to Christianity.

Temple of Artemus

As she spoke, our guide began drawing in the loose sand at her feet with a long stick. It actually gave me chill bumps because it reminded me of the story of the adulterous woman about to be stoned by the furious mob when Jesus began drawing in the sand before at the temple in Jerusalem uttering the crowd-dissipating challenge, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" (John 8).  

Our guide first drew the fish (ichthus) symbol, filling in the center with the Greek letters I, X, O, Y, E (sorry - that's as close as I can come to the Greek alphabet with this keyboard), which roughly translated, means Jesus Christ God's Son Savior. Then she pointed to each letter separately, beginning with the I, and drew it with her stick in the sand, superimposing them one on top of the other. When she was finished, to my amazement, there was the exact wagon wheel symbol we had been seeing. It, too, was a secretive symbol of Christianity that was used to identify Jesus-followers without blowing their cover.

These Greek letters (center) superimposed upon each other create the top symbol

Incidentally, on his third missionary journey, Paul stayed in Ephesus, the commercial, political, and religious center of what was then Asia Minor for about three years, and then left Timothy in charge of the church for a time before the apostle John later made Ephesus his headquarters.

Tradition has it that John brought Mary, the mother of Jesus, back to Ephesus with him to take care of her until her death. We were able to visit the small house, now tended by nuns, set back in the wooded hills where she was supposed to have lived (below left). I'll try to squeeze another picture or two of Ephesus in here before this post overflows.

Mary's small stone cottage in the hills outside Ephesus

Deb on the original stone road at the Ephesus gate

 

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.