Warning: Nerve Pill Required For This Reading.

There are certain things about the South that are wonderful:

I love the fact that my Granny buys okra once a week from the "black farmer down off of 706".

I love the fact that I had to ask for an extra piece of paper when it came time to fill out the people allowed to pick Remi up from school.

And I especially love the fact that when you plan a Halloween party (like I am) the first question someone asks is not some hoity-toity question, but rather, "Want me to see if I can round us up some bails of hay to sit on?"

But there are also things about living in the South (or at least my part of the South) that are a tad peculiar. Though none as peculiar as this...

Since I have moved home I have been diagnosed with multiple ailments, fractures, sprains and "nerve problems."

"Oh, poor Melisa," you might be saying to yourself, "we should really lift her up in prayer."

No, no you shouldn't.

Because you see, none of my conditions have been determined by a doctor; a real, live, educated physician. No ma'am. My conditions - and those of my husband, and both of my children - have been diagnosed by the women in my family.

In the three months I have lived here I have been diagnosed with:

• An early onset of Arthritis ("your momma has it and I can tell by looking at you you have it to.")
• Psoriasis ("Melissa, I was looking at your brush this weekend and I think I see signs of Psoriasis in it. I should know...I have it, too.")
• Flat arches ("Your uncle Dave was told he had this in High School. He's suffered with it for years. And we know you have it, just look how you run!")
• Skin Tags ("Have you noticed how many skin tags have come up on your neck in the past year, Melissa? It's really strange. I think you're Aunt Linda had that happen...")
• Pre-Nervous Breakdown ("You try to do too much and you have two small babies and nobody wants you helping out at the church anyway, just tell 'em NO! And then remind them that you can only do so much with two babies and fallen arches.")

And I've only lived here three months! There's a good chance I'll be dead by Easter.

And my poor kids. They get the worst of it because they can't speak for themselves; and as their advocate I would totally speak up for them but I'm a tad too preoccupied with the plethora of skin tags I got goin' on and the fact that I have some sort of scalp disease.

In their short little existence Remi has been diagnosed with:

ADD, Hyperactivity, Not being spanked enough (apparently that is a disease that was discovered in the 80's when my Aunt Melba was raising her two), some sort of sleeps-too-little-disorder, and a disease in the South commonly referred to as "She-won't-eat-meat-then-there-must-be-something-wrong-with-her-because-we-all-eat-meat-itis."

Poor Rocco has had diarrhea cause he's teething, diarrhea because his teeth won't come through, diarrhea because his teeth came through but then went back down again, diarrhea because I gave him Orajel, diarrhea because I didn't give him Orajel, some sort of sleeps-too-much-disorder, and the classic "The-kid-eats-everything-in-site-but-won't-eat-vegetables-what-do-you-think-is-wrong-with-him-because-we-all-eat-vegetables-itis."

Let's don't even get started on The AG. Personally, he doesn't know just how sick he is. I am trying to allow him to enjoy his last few days on earth.

I told my Granny I was going to blog the fact that they are able to diagnose every problem someone else has but can never quite put their finger on their own problems and she seemed confused...

"So? What's the big deal? Doctors can't do anything for you."

"I've just never met any other women like you all."

"Then you don't know all women."

Maybe not. But I know enough.