A loose-lipped scribe needs mental Kaopectate for her Writerrhea

For as long as I've known her, my mother has had an incurable, untreatable disease, one that often causes great embarrassment when she's out in public. I'm not aware of the medical term for what she's got; I've always called it Footinthemouthitis.

One outbreak happened in Scotland, where Hubs and I got married. The morning after our wedding night, we met up with both sets of our parents, who were eating together in the hotel dining room.

"So?" my mom asked expectantly once we were seated at their table. I stared at her blankly. "How was it?" she continued, with the most innocent of smiles.

I nearly choked on my blood pudding.

Another episode that's now legendary in my family occurred when mom and I visited a restroom together and entered side-by-side stalls. I finished quickly, making way for another woman who was waiting outside. My mom didn't realize someone else had taken my place.

When the woman began to rather noisily go about her business, Mom, one stall over, suffered from yet another Footinthemouthitis attack.

"Oh my!" she remarked loudly. "Did you order beans or something?"

I stood outside the stalls with my mouth open while she continued commenting on the sounds coming from what she thought was my stall. I wish you could have seen her face when she opened her door, saw me standing at the sinks, and realized she'd been remarking on the bathroom habits of a complete stranger.

I tell you all this only because I'm convinced that I suffer from a variation of my mom's illness. In my case, I'd call it Writerrhea, because while I manage to say all the right things in public, I constantly embarrass myself on the page. And the fallout never ends.

"You'll never guess what just happened," Hubs hissed at me on the phone a few weeks ago. "I was in line at the Kroger deli when the woman in front of me turned around and said, 'Tell your wife the Book Bully says hello!' "

"Heh," I laughed nervously. I had written a column a few months earlier about my own particular Book Bully, a librarian at my local branch, but honestly, I tried to stay vague enough that every mean librarian in town would think I was talking about her. I liked to think I was providing a public service to beleaguered library patrons citywide.

"Did she seem mad?" I asked in a small voice.

"Did she seem mad?!" he scoffed. "Are you kidding? Of course she seemed mad!"

Maybe she'd have felt more charitable if she'd known about my Writerrhea.

Then there was the time I wrote about entering a restroom right after Martina McBride, only to find that the toilet hadn't been flushed. McToiletgate, as it would come to be known, stirred up a viper's nest of agitated publicists, producers and promoters, who proceeded to leave me angry messages on my answering machine for the next three weeks.

This being Nashville, it wasn't too long after that column came out that I took my kids to a children's crafting program at Warner Park, where I was joined by two other moms and their children. Wouldn't you know it, one of the mothers was Martina herself.

For an entire hour, we sat stone-faced across from each other at a toddler-sized table, while our children colored beside us. But Martina said nothing. She didn't go to the bathroom, either, in case you were wondering.

Worst of all is when my Writerrhea affects my own family, like the time I wrote a piece for Her Nashville magazine about getting a very—shall we say—involved type of bikini wax.

Honestly, I didn't think twice about writing the piece. Tons of women get waxed down there, and even more wonder what it's like and are too afraid to find out. But from the reaction I've gotten, you'd think I'd admitted to owning a collection of clown porn.

Hubs complained of enduring more than a few smirking comments about the column at work. But it wasn't until I paid my parents a visit that things really got itchy.

"I can't believe you wrote about getting a Brazilian," my mother giggled as we were chatting in the kitchen.

"One of my partners wanted to know what a Brazilian was," my father said sternly from across the room. That's when I turned pale. Dad is a venerable Southern doctor and an elder at his church.

"Writerrhea," I whispered. Surely the physician in him could sympathize.

So the next time I write something that rubs you the wrong way, don't get mad. Pity me.

It's totally beyond my control.

Read more Suburban Turmoil at www.suburbanturmoil.com.