Scarfing down my 1/2 and 1/2 combination platter at Panera the other day, it suddenly dawned on me that not everyone knows about the Hug and Sniff. It happened when the friend I was meeting for lunch revealed her plans to attend a gala and dessert reception with...wait for it...Madeleine Albright, Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice. Insanely jealous and barely able to masticate my remaining 1/2, I made her promise she would at least attempt the Hug and Sniff and report back to me. She looked at me like I had two heads. And a prehensile tail.

The Hug and Sniff? Hellooo? Doesn't everyone know about it? It's equivalent to the invention of fire and sliced bread.

Before I get to the technique itself, let's just revisit the...(reverberating)...POWER POWER POWER. Of SMELL SMELL SMELL. How many of you can pop open a bottle of Pine-Sol and instantly recall at least one memory from your childhood?

What about the smell of your first boyfriend? Remember that, huh? I can't pass a bottle of Stetson without having the impulse to stand in the aisle and take a nice long whiff down memory lane. I almost passed out after 20 minutes of Stetson huffing in a Rite Aid once. 

PS...I'm convinced Man Scent is the number #1 reason men get away with as much as they do. Exhibit A: The man scented t-shirt. The one you find lying around your apartment after the Last Straw and Epic Break Up. You see it lying there. Helpless and alone. "Don't pick it up. Do NOT pick it up," you say to yourself. So you pick it up. And bury your face in it, inhaling every last cotton blend fiber. Ahhh...Man Scent. Before you know what's happening, you're speed dialing his cell phone. Or you stay strong, place the man scented t-shirt in a Ziploc bag, smelling it at 30 minute intervals...and call him in an hour. We've all done it. Face it ladies, Man Scent is like being sprayed by a skunk. It's blinding, takes forever to completely dissipate, and you never forget it.

The world is full of good smells: Your mother's perfume, the smell of brownies baking, Man Scent. And the world is full of bad smells. I can still remember exactly where I was the first time I smelled rotten school cafeteria milk. Or the smell of rancid grease...also in a school cafeteria. And how many of you (ladies) have an actual physical reaction to the words "Dutch Oven?" Exactly.

Which brings me to the Hug and Sniff. If you want to remember meeting someone for the rest of your life, forget autographs. Smelling them is the ONLY way to go. I'll post the steps for the perfect Hug and Sniff in the next 24 hours. Stay tuned. 

Nothing sucks the funny out of life like a global crisis. My thoughts, prayers and love are with the Japanese people tonight.

On top of the tsunami, never-ending earthquakes, and potential for nuclear meltdown, I think my Japanese dog groomer and her husband may file a restraining order against me. What can I say? I've seen these people every week for a year. I've entrusted them with my most precious possession 52 times in a row. A girl can bond, can't she?

Rie, my Japanese-BFF-who-just-doesn't-know-it-yet, is really to blame. She is the epitome of Japanese culture and refinement. Not like the typical dog groomer who looks like they got locked in a tanning bed and sounds like they smoke two packs a day. I'm pretty sure Rie has never been out in the sun and would only smoke if she were on fire. And she loves loves loves my dog. But nothing has bonded us more than our mothers. We are both mama's girls who live what feels like a million miles away from our mamas. I wonder how you say Mama in Japanese. I'll have to ask Rie. Or Willoughby. He's learning the language.

So when the news broke on Thursday night, the first person I thought of was Rie. Well, actually...it was my cousin and her husband from East Texas who were welcoming their first baby in a Tokyo hospital (A baby girl who was born perfect with perfect timing...30 minutes before the earthquake hit). But then it was Rie. When I spoke to her at exactly 8:31 the next morning, she had just spoken to her mother in Tokyo and everyone was fine.

So I was surprised when Rie broke down in embarrassed tears on Saturday. Big embarrassed crocodile tears. She confided in me that her mother was having some physical issues and they might have to sell the business and return to Japan. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Don't leave me!" was my first reaction. But I hid it well. I'm sure she had no idea. After she broke loose from my lemur grip and I regained my composure, I really was there for her. 

Maybe this is a good time to explain that the two most polite groups of people in the world are the Japanese and Texan. It's true. And every visit to the groomer involves several "thank yous," at least one hug, and a few awkward bows. It's like watching an episode of Chip'N'Dale. "After you..." "No, I insist, after you..."

And being polite means, above all, not burdening others with your problems. So Rie must have been horrified when I forced her by emotional gunpoint into the parking lot to tell me everything. I told her 417 times in the span of 4 minutes that she had to promise to call me if she needed anything. Then I called her back to reiterate "anything." Then I texted her later that night to make sure she understood. Anything. I even outlined a list of possible BFF-in-crisis duties. If she and her husband went for a visit, I would happily watch the shop, her house...anything. And if she decided to move back, I would come over and help her pack up every last box. I'm sure she was thinking, in the politest possible way, "I'm not letting you come anywhere near my house, crazy lady."

Just so you know, Southern Hospitality does not equal crazy. The lemur grip? Ok, maybe that's a little crazy. But I would like to say to my beloved Rie and June and everyone in Japan tonight..."You are loved by me."  

If you are wondering how you can help Japan, my favorite emergency response organization is called Shelterbox. You can find out more information at www.shelterboxusa.org. 

Now I know how Charlie Sheen feels. I fell off the wagon, overdosed on six boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and now I'm spinning into a cycle of manic depression.  

But wait, there's hope. Kara sent me a link to another blog, with a note: "Read The God of Cake. You can thank me later." I hate that you think you're always right, Kara. We can just agree to disagree on that point. But I am thanking you NOW!

You guys have got to read this. It's genius. And will offer you insight on how I spent my Girl Scout weekend.

HYPERBOLE and a Half: The God of Cake

My mom calls me while I'm getting my nails done on Thursday. And says "Guess what I'm doing?" I detect mischief in her voice. 

"What?"

"I'm picking out funeral music on iTunes."

"What?!?"

My parents started estate planning a couple of months ago. What a nightmare. At first, the mere mention of it launched me into a Yiddish "PTOOEY PTOOEY" spitfest. We shan't talk of such things. It's bad mojo! "PTOOEY PTOOEY!!"

About a year ago, we had a distant in-law pass away. A mother of two grown women who'd planned her final arrangements with as much attention to detail as she had her life before. She'd planned everything...her funeral, the flowers, the music, the eulogy...she even wrote cards to her husband to be delivered on birthdays and holidays for years to come. All the family had to do, in essence, was show up to the service. I remember the look on my mother's face then. I should have known. The seed was planted.

Now, convinced that the grieving period is no time to mess around with the details of a funeral, my mom has launched into planning mode like a woman possessed. At first I was mortified. But now it's a bit like watching an I Love Lucy episode.

So when she called to tell me she was picking out funeral music...on iTunes...what could I say, really? First of all, I have to believe my mother may be the first person ever to search "Funeral" in the iTunes store. Secondly, everyone knows nobody plays funeral music at a funeral anymore. It's so last century.

Here's how the conversation went, basically:

"Why are you picking out funeral music?"

"Because this form that came with the life insurance has a spot for funeral music."

"You're kidding me."

"No, there are four blanks here."

"You mean like the request portion of Casey Kasem's American Top 40?"

"Exactly."

So yes, ladies and gentlemen...my mom and I are picking out four songs to be played at my parents' funerals. So far, I've come up with Happy Trails. The Roy and Dale version. We also came up with Willie Nelson singing On the Road Again. But my dad isn't a Willie Nelson fan. Sorry, Willie. 

I wonder when I should tell my mom I'm having her stuffed. So I can take her with me everywhere! 

PTOOEY PTOOEY!!

Ok, don't laugh. Remember the Chia Pet? The one Hal Sparks, the entire cast of VH-1's I Love the 80's, and most of America (myself included) made fun of? Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!

Well then, you're gonna love this. It turns out that Salvia Hispanica, a.k.a. Chia seed, is the new thing...to chow down upon. It's all the rage. It IS the new wheat grass. And a nutritional supplement with which I am now obsessed. 

It all started when I saw a friend mixing up these itty bitty seeds in her Crystal Light. Of course, if it's not chocolate or shaped like a chicken nugget, I'm not interested. And Crystal Light...gack! But if I was going to make fun at full velocity, I needed talking points. I picked up the container. The label described its contents as "premium Chia nutrition," with the benefits of "increased and sustained energy, controlled food cravings, better digestive health (you know what that means), increased hydration, and much more."

Hmmm, I wasn't sure about the much more part. If it isn't going to prepare my taxes, spare me. But I could use some sustained energy. Or any energy at all. Currently, I'm ready to take a nap right after my 7:00 a.m. shower. And controlled food cravings? If it will curb my desire to eat everything on Aisle 5 of my grocery store, that would be awesome! And these tiny little seeds claim to be concentrated in omega-3 fatty acids, protein and fiber. Well, those are magic words in the health and fitness industry. It's the equivalent of saying "discount wedding gowns" to the Running of the Brides at Filene's Basement's Bridal Gown Sale.  

So I try it...one tablespoon of Chia mixed with eight ounces of Simply Grapefruit juice. Mixed and soaked for 30 minutes, it looks like a poppyseed muffin. And wow, it tastes just like grapefruit juice! Or, if I mix it with orange juice...orange juice. I see...it's like a chameleon girlfriend.

A couple of days later, I'm running faster (To the theme from Rocky on loop. Yo Adrian), jumping higher, and my pipes haven't been this clean since the Romanian high colonic incident of 2007. I am in love.

I can still hear my grandmother telling me if I swallowed a lemon seed, a lemon tree would grow inside my stomach. I never ate lemons again. (This was the same woman who told me eating raw cookie dough would give me worms.) Worst case scenario is I'm growing a Chia Puppy inside my tummy as we speak. Or it's going to be like the episode of Star Trek when Captain Picard is taken over by the Borg. Except it will be half Elizabeth/half maniacal Chia Pet. If that happens, come get me!