Although I consider myself to be a morning person, I'm super tired today because of a piercing foot cramp that kept me up for most of the night.  After enduring the pain for a long time while lying in bed, I got up and walked around my living room like those poor, innocent prison inmates on Downton Abbey.  Ultimately, I knew I needed to wake up Bo for a foot rub, but in order to convince him of the reasonableness of that idea, I got the kitchen shears, shook him and said, "I'm about to black out from a foot cramp. Do me a favor and snip this tendon here, or you could just rub my foot for a minute."  He told me to go eat a banana.

Anyway, I need to perk up, because we're having a staff meeting to initiate a new employee at noon, and as the part-time, some might say, "pretend" office manager of Bo's orthopedic practice, it's up to me to pull these things together.  I'll kick off the meeting by welcoming her to the team.  Then I'll ask one of our medical assistants to administer the customary trans-vaginal ultrasound.  Then we'll all watch to see how she reacts.  After that, I'll say, "just kidding, but the trust fall is for realzies."  Then, if the whole staff agrees that she has fully and willingly dropped into our arms, we'll move onto the part where she sings Frere Jacques and then we'll break for lunch.   

Sometimes I think we start talking to little kids way too early about concepts that they can't begin to understand, or that may even screw them up.  And I can't let Black History Month come to a close without giving you a perfect example of this idea.  

When Margot was four, her preschool took the kids through a very thoughtful, multi-day section on black history in the United States. One day, from her car seat in the back, she told me she'd learned all about a man called Dr. Martin Luther King.  When I asked her why he was special, she said, "because he was the first person who discovered that black people can be nice too."

My husband is always handing me things for no reason and I finally realized that he does it because he's a surgeon.  He's just used to passing things off to other people when he's finished with them. You'll walk by him, hands free, and before you know it, you're holding a hammer, a half package of uncooked bacon, an ice scraper, some dead D-Cell batteries, a sunglasses case, or a dog leash.  

When we first got married, I didn't realize it was a thing, so I guess I blindly took the Gorilla Glue and put it back in the kitchen drawer. In later years, when I picked up on his handoffs, I definitely mentioned to him that I found it annoying and a little demeaning.  But now that I know he's unwittingly using me as an at-home first assist, I usually cut him some slack, take the scalpel and put it back in the spice rack.

I'm getting lots of comments from followers who want me to write about my brief jail time and subsequent rehab.  Well, it's not going to happen and here's why. I pulled together my blog team over the weekend and the demographics guy told me that there are lots of young people reading this thing (Muppy, if it's you, I'm flattered).  Because I'm a role model to these kids, I want to keep them in the dark about my diabolical summonings.

I was surprised about this youthful bloc of followers, because they're known to be lethargic, so one wouldn't imagine them drumming up the energy to Google search "who is thurston howell the third?" in order to stay abreast of the topic at hand. 

My business manager brought to our attention that, because this blog has gone viral, we really need to start thinking about using it to generate income.  Of course I was excited about that, but only if we could give any money we earn to those less fortunate.  This philanthropic idea was dropped quickly after my PR person said that any charity called, "There Will Be Crumbs" would come off as super condescending.  So I'm thinking I'll just use the money for more sweaters. 

  

Margot and I were walking our scottie dog in the woods and we crossed paths with a man who was doing the same thing with his yellow lab.  The dogs immediately started to sniff each other, and I smiled and commented on how good looking his dog was, even though I didn't mean it.  

The guy nodded and said that Ginger is the smartest dog he's ever had, or ever seen for that matter.  And that not only does she immediately grasp all the commands that he has taught her, but that she also remembers where she was when she learned them (hmm?).  He said that he's continually amazed that Ginger can be such a fierce hunter, while at the same time being so gentle with kids.  He told us that we wouldn't believe how soft her coat is.  He mentioned that Ginger is a pure bred and that her parents had won some kind of prizes for being outstanding members of their breed. 

When he stopped talking, Margot said, "Our dog is black."

Do you know that you may be older now than some of the television stars you thought were on their last legs when you were a kid?  This matter came up last night and thank god we were with my sister's partner Chris, because fancy computation was required.  Chris is a non-lazy math wiz who was willing to go online, look up and then subtract the year each star was born from the year his or her show originated.  From that formula, you can glean their ages during their hit shows.  I know.  Chris is amazing and frankly, I don't know who will provide services like this for me when they move all the way to California.

Okay, I'm 52 now and here's a quick list of characters whose portrayers were younger than me when they became famous TV characters:

Archie Bunker, 47

Fred Sanford, 50

Captain Binghamton (Old Leadbottom), 38

Maude, 50

Alice (Brady Bunch), 43

Thurston Howell III, 51

I was holding my breath when I asked Chrissy to calculate Robert Young's age at the time Marcus Welby was being filmed, and thankfully I'm still younger than he was during taping (59).  That also goes for Jed Clampett (56) and Granny (60).  

The other day, my dad told me that when he wakes up in the morning, even before he opens his eyes, he roots around in his brain and usually finds a really good idea. I've been trying that lately, and it absolutely works. Wow, you know what? Right now I'm sensing that the reader who has labeled himself as "Not A Morning Person" is rolling his eyes at this practice. 

Well, it's high time that all of you NAMPs wake up and see that the rest of us are also feeling played out when the alarm goes off. We experience the same grogginess and dread, but we move on and try to be pleasant -- yes, even "before I've had my coffee."

Okay, I'm still feeling NAMP resistance. How about this to change a few minds: let's say all of us are stranded in the Sahara with no shelter and no water. And every day -- right when the sun is at its most deadly, and when we're all sunburned and dying of thirst -- right then is when everyone has to tiptoe around Phyllis, who says she's "Not A Desert Person."

So go ahead and find the brilliance that is waiting for you when you first wake up. Today it dawned on me to write about NAMPs and I think we can all agree that it was a good idea.

Greta found a typo in one of my blog posts the other day, which was painful for me because I went to Catholic grade school, where written errors were kind of like venial sins -- the lesser, non-mortal sins that will not condemn you to hell (For a list of real venial sins, go to http://www.followthissite.com/list-of-sins.php
and scroll down past Mortal Sins, The Mitigating Circumstances concerning the Sin of Masturbation and The Seven Deadly Sins).

But back to the typo.  It so mortified me that I asked a friend of mine to proof my posts before I publish them.  I thought this was a great solution, as she's a brainy person who studies and writes about the rules of grammar.  However, we soon split over creative differences. 

So now I'm trying to proof my own writing, when everybody knows that it's easier to find problems with other people's stuff. This dynamic is exactly how the word "proof" first came into being, when one medieval monk said to another, "The corrections that I have made in blood red all over your script are PROOF that you are kind of a bad writer. Whatever you do, don't Xerox this."

Right there you can see that proofers have a history of being haughty. So think twice before you enter into a relationship with a proofer because odds are they are looking for you to screw up even when they are off duty. 

Dear Followers:  

Every now and then I will highlight a comment of yours that gives legs to one of my blog posts.  This one is from my old friend, genius writer and funny man, Scott Mackey.  He is commenting on the helpful strategy I laid out about hanging up on yourself, or hanging up the phone while you are talking, to escape delicate situations:

"Connie, this works - I've done it. But you're not done with the hang-up. Immediately after disconnecting, you need to pull the phone off the hook because when they call you back (and they will), the phone will be busy so they'll assume you're trying to call THEM back. After waiting a sufficient amount of busy time, hang up and then leave the house."

Scott, thank you, that is brilliant, and we will all benefit from the adjunct trickery.  And now everyone, if you don't mind, I'll need to mention my old friend, co-worker and funny man, Pat Smith, because if I mention Scott Mackey, and overlook Pat, I'll get an angry phone call during which I'll need to hang up on myself and then do that thing Scott just said. 

Also this:  Jerry Dathe! I love you and thanks for the comment on using Solar Cones for composting because this turtle is sure to fly too close to the sun.

I've been resisting it for a long time, but I'm thinking I'll break down and compost.  My daughter asked me a few years ago if we could do it, to which I responded, "I already have a turtle."  "Turtle" is code for anything my family buys or embarks on that ultimately falls on me to care for.  And with a possible seventy-year lifespan and an expensive in-captivity lifestyle, our turtle, Natasha, is the most extreme upshot of this phenomenon.

So I told my daughter that composting is meant for someone who has a garden, and we don't have a garden (another turtle) anymore because gardening is a lonely and unrewarding enterprise to have foisted upon you.  Then she played the environment card by saying that composting at home for just one year can save global warming gases equivalent to what our washing machine produces in three months.  And that was clever of her to say because she knows a comparison like that will leave me feeling both bored and guilty.

So don't be surprised if you see one of those composting things next to my kitchen sink. I can get behind it in the end, because, like my friend Annie Marshall said in her 2nd grade science report, "Of all the things we take for granted, soil is one unsung hero."

Here's what happened:  I was about to make a left turn off of that busy Woods Hole Road, into my neighborhood, when I noticed my neighbor, let's call him Mr. Ykwya (You know who you are), trying to make a left turn out of my neighborhood onto the same busy road.  Stopped there, with my left turn signal blinking, I effectively held up traffic and made the universal hand signal for "after you," which would have allowed him a speedy and safe exit/entrance.  But, instead of jumping on my generosity, he glared at me and stayed put. So I made the left onto my street, feeling confident in my relative abilty to comprehend and react to human gestures.  As I turned, he rolled down his window, narrowed his eyes and, in a very unneighborly tone barked, "PLEASE TAKE YOUR RIGHT OF WAY!"

In that moment, he combined two of my worst things:  ungratefulness and the term "right of way," which is a creepy, antiquated expression that those apathetic employees at the DMV refuse to modernize.  "Right of way" sounds a lot like "rite of whey," which I'm thinking might have been some ancient, solemn practice where they either smeared or force fed cheese byproducts either onto or into super sick people (remind me to look that up).  From there, it doesn't take long for your thoughts to drift to the imponderably catastrophic Bubonic Plague, and who wants to think about black death everytime it's your turn to hang a Louie.

I know I'm bad at naming things, but just to get a conversation started, I'll offer the idea of replacing "right of way" with "my go" or "your go."  It sounds fresh, but it might not have the staying power we'll need --think of "my bad" and how, thankfully, that expression snuffed itself out after people my age started saying it.  I'm counting on my followers to forward some additional ideas, which I'll personally take to the DMV for their review.  I'm sure they'll fast track this business if I'm in the right line with the right documentation.

We gave our turtle, Natasha, some "feeder fish" for Christmas because we heard that it would be a real surprise for the reptile who has everything.  Natasha is a red-eared slider, a common pet that has been banned in the US since 1975, but is easily purchased in Chinatown as a joke gift by friends who once heard you say you liked turtles.  Although at first you don't want this animal because of the expensive aquarium and filtering system required to keep her (him?) alive, you soon grow to appreciate her for all the times he doesn't give you salmonella poisoning.

After the non-water members of our family opened their Christmas presents, we remembered that we had a holiday treat for Natasha.  But the second those wide-eyed little guppies plopped into Natasha's habitat, they looked a whole hell of a lot like pets too, not only to us, but also to Natasha, who normally eats pellets and hadn't yet identified with her hungry, outdoorsy species.  And then BAM! -- the light went on, Natasha's nature awakened, and we had to watch -- we're not robots -- as poor Carrot Top, Diablo, General Finn and Li'l Oscar (all named posthumously) swam for their lives.  

With no bodies to flush and having lost our appetites, we held off on a memorial brunch for those valiant little fish until the day after Christmas.  We couldn't make eye contact with Natasha, whom we all agreed had really "changed."  She picked up on that, and for a long time she gave us the cold shoulder.  Recently though, we've relied on forgiveness to improve our relationship.  Just today, I was able to share with her that I've also been known to do crazy things when I'm hungry.  

Last night I was catching up with Bo and I told him that I was really enjoying being a blogger.  He said, "That's fine.  But don't forget that you are also a husband and a mother."

There's no way for me to top that, so I'm done for today.

Greta and I ordered some really cool Warby Parker eyeglass frames to try on at home and the whole process was really exciting.   Here's what you do -- go onto their website (warbyparker.com), snap a photo of yourself and pop their glasses onto the image for a virtual try on. You can order five different frame styles that arrive in just a couple of days.  They come in a super sleek, black cloth-covered, compartmented box -- the kind of box you just know is hidden all over the houses of Mediterranean-based jewelry thieves.

The trying on of the glasses was fun while it was Greta's turn.  They all looked great and it was hard to pick just one.  But when it came to me, according to Greta, there was no frame that didn't make me look like Kim Jong-il.  This North Korean dictator, who was believed to have been 70 when he died, always chose eyewear that was way too large for his face.  So I took it as a compliment that was meant to praise my small, feminine features.

That said, my aging sisters and I have agreed that at this point in our lives, maybe classic beauty is out of our reach.  So our motto is "shooting for handsome."  That means staying fit, and having good hair, nails, shoes and glasses.

이 품위 유지하자,

Kim

I think we can all assume that Connie Chung is a follower of my blog because she's very plugged in.  Well, recently I heard that Connie bought a house right here on Cape Cod!  So just this once, I'd like to single out a reader to say:  Connie Chung, you're welcome!  Also this -- you and I have a lot in common!  For example, I also live on Cape Cod and my name is also Connie.  One notable difference between us, though, is that your hair is still brown.

But back to similarities and coincidences -- you and my daughter, Margot, share a birthday (August 20).  She's all grown up now, but she discovered this chance occurrence in 7th grade.  To commemorate it, we sat down and wrote this rap:

It's my birthday, read the Cape Cod Times at the pool --

Yeah, I read the paper.  Don't mean I'm a tool.

The Lifestyle section keeps me on the down low

With a grip of wack stuff that I like to know.

Say what?  I gasp and almost bust a lung

When I see I share a birthday with Miss Connie Chung!

Da Chung, she da bomb, she makes the stars talkers

About their childhoods, divorces and stalkers.

She's earned herself some Emmy's; I believe it's three.

Her Chinese name translated is "Princess Ivory."

This veteran journalist has had the dopest career.

I hope our birthdays fall on the same day next year.

Again, Connie, you're welcome.  And if you want to see Margot's performance of this stirring tribute to you, fast-forward five minutes into this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbri8X8vaTk.   

In closing, it’s just so cool that you live nearby.  I think you’ll find that I can be very neighborly, unless I’m at home, when I really just want to be left alone.

Some of my followers have asked me to write titles for my blog posts so they'll know what they are getting into beforehand. And I hate to disappoint hundreds of people with one decision, but no, I can’t be expected to do that because it takes me way too long to name things.

Luckily for me, my dogs and my husband were already named when I got them.  Our kids named our turtle, Natasha -- (RIP Boris!) -- but it pretty much fell on me to name our kids.  And I kind of screwed that up, because both names, “Margot” and “Greta,” are diminutive forms of the name “Margaret” – this is according to my cousin Margaret, who said to me, “Why don’t you just break down and name your next kid “Margaret.”  So, essentially I’ve named our girls “Rick” and “Dick.”

Newspaper reporters have copy editors around to write their headlines, and I like that model, but I can’t afford to hire someone to bang out titles for you guys.  I’ve got blog posts to write and it’s a miracle that I’m keeping up with all these fake deadlines.

If you're in a room with someone who is talking on the phone, it's kind of hard to tell whether they are having a conversation or leaving a voice message, because people speak so conversationally when they're leaving voice messages.  

Along those lines, what if you call someone and, even though that person answers the phone, you speak as though you are leaving a voice mail -- so you just keep delivering what you want to say, even though the guy on the other end of the line is giving voice to his idea that he is present.  It could save you a lot of time and you'd probably get away with it because, who would do that?

Which reminds me of that old and very effective idea of hanging up on yourself when you really need to terminate a phone call -- so you go ahead and hang up while you are talking.  This adds authenticity to the idea that the phone connection was dropped randomly.  It could get you out of all kinds of awkward situations and you'd probably get away with it because, who would do that?

This is my second posting, and let me share with everyone that my biggest worry at this point is that this blog, which is meant to be funny always, might devolve into something with a higher purpose.  An example of this kind of shift is found in sitcoms that build a big audience, like mine, and then start layering in squirmy "teaching moments," when we all were counting on yucking it up.  

I'm thinking specifically of that horrifying episode of M*A*S*H*, when Hawkeye Pierce made a Korean woman stifle a squawking chicken that turned out to be a squawking human baby.  And speaking of stifling, what about that unfunny time that Edith Bunker had to fight off a rapist?  Also wasn't Alex P. Keaton hooked on speed for one episode of Family Ties?

I'm figuring the best way to stave off edifying thoughts and concepts is to give my followers a safe word, which should probably be "chicken-baby," because, even after 30 years, any thought of that M*A*S*H* episode still stops me in my tracks, which is exactly what a safe word is supposed to do. 

first blog post!

Greta just set me up with this blog which I'm calling "There Will Be Crumbs" because the other day I looked down after I had eaten and there were some of them on my chest that were shaped into the word "oLd." Someone had just snapped a picture and I was afraid it would wind up online, so Margot made me a facebook page today so I could hunt that down and kill it.  

I used to make it a practice never to pose for pictures with Margot and Greta because, in photos, though they don't mean to, they make me look about 33 and 35 years older than them, respectively.  Then I realized that they were perfectly willing to pinch the back my neck to kind of smooth things out in the front, and that no one viewing the photo is the wiser.  Now, if someone wants to take our picture together and the girls forget to handle the neck thing, I just say, "ladies," and one of them will latch on and I love them for it.