I'd like to apologize for the confusion surrounding yesterday's blog. After I posted it, the censors pulled half of my paragraph on the difference between blacking out and fainting because a) it was crude, b) it was impossible to understand, and c) it was way too "nobody cares about this."  

I have to admit that I wasn't able to commit my normal level of care to what I published yesterday.  The pressures and time constraints of being a)a pretend office manager and b) a blogger with fake deadlines, are beginning to wear on me.  I also have duties as a mother, but apparently those are also of a pretend nature. The other day, one of my daughters was complaining that someone was trying to mother her.  The other one said, "Thank god we never had to deal with that at home."

Those of you who know me will not be surprised that I'm a softie when it comes to being a parent.  And I do have understated ways of rearing kids.  For instance, on communicating my expectations for the girls, I simply asked them if they had won any awards each day when I picked them up at school.  My follow up question, "Did you get any good ones off?," was my way of driving home the importance of being entertaining. On setting limits, for example, I'd serve them a modest portion of ice cream, and then ask, "is that too much?"  Also, I'm pretty sure I made that one up and you should totally try it to see those little faces scrunch up with confusion.  They can't find a good answer to that question. 

I hit a viewership milestone today, so I'd like to celebrate and give back to my followers by addressing some of your questions, comments and concerns.

First, Jerry Dathe, I'm sorry that you're feeling uneasy about my recurring black outs.  And I did speak about my condition to a medical professional, who told me to go eat a banana (see 2/18 blogpost), and then handed me a plastic gallon jug that contained about a half an inch of unused windshield wiper fluid (2/26).

A big thank you goes to Scott Mackey, a composter, who gave me the tip to stop throwing bones and gristle into my backyard.  The coyote who was peering into our sliding glass door like Audrey Hepburn at Tiffany's has moved on and I will definitely Google "composting" before I chuck anything out there again.

I'm not grateful to my sister, Julie, who pointed out that, at age 52, I am ten years older now than Ethel Mertz was when she first appeared on I Love Lucy.  This really got to me because when we were little, we all thought that if poor Ethel had been able to conceive, she would have been at least somebody's great grandmother.

For some reason, my gag reflex has dropped its beef with ear gauges.  It's probably a result of repeated exposure over time. The first one I found myself staring down the barrel of was in an Army Navy store in Mystic, CT, about seven years ago.  After a series of cartoon-worthy double takes, complete with boi-oi-oing sound effects, I must have blacked out for a second.  The next thing I knew, I was outside, sistered up to a cigar store Indian, who stood there stoically (as they are wont to do), while I tried not to hurl.  

Now I can look an ear gauge right in the eye and I'm not that grossed out (maybe a little scared) -- even one whose size is comparable to the opening of a pickle jar.  But with a hole that large, my guess is that after a while, many of those who went down this road ask, "Where do we go from here?"  

So, if you change your mind, can you grow them out like bangs?  People my age want to know this because we are scared of things that are permanent, like ear gauges, and death.  You can find out here, or you can read their bullet points below if you don't want the gory details:

1.  Take out your ear gauge and clean it, making sure there is no goo.

2.  Wait.

3.  Moisturize your ears after showering.

4.  Wear earrings of increasingly smaller sizes.

5.  Have surgery!




  

Occasionally, a friend will ask me to take pictures of one of her kids for a senior yearbook page or something like that.  I'm not a great photographer -- I'm just really good at shaming kids into doing things they clearly don't want to do.  So when my friend, Caryn Brake, asked me to take photos at her mother's wedding, I said no because the stakes were too high and there's no shaming people at their own weddings.

When Caryn insisted, I agreed, as long as I could bring a mutual friend, Jan Ferraro.  Jan is really creative, but she also has the decorum, focus, and brand new camera that give a fake photographer the confidence she needs to capture the most important day of someone's life on film. 

Yesterday was the big event, and in the morning, Jan called me to suggest that we dress up like professional photographers.  So it was black boots, black pants, white button-down shirts and vintage skinny ties (plus, obviously good hair and make-up).  Our ensembles went over really well with Caryn and her family.  And, of course, Jan was right there shooting away when my camera died, but was resurrected, during the church ceremony.

At the reception, a guest walked up to Caryn and asked her, in all seriousness, where she had found the lesbian photographers.  And after blacking out from excessive glee, she ran over to make us aware of the comment.  At that moment, everything shifted.  Jan and I were not only fake photographers, but also fake lovers.  And with our new romantic energy, I believe the quality of our work may have improved.  But how would I know?  What do I look like, a lesbian photographer?

i SHD focus more b4 i hit send when i text BC i keep sending txts to wrong PP.  I actually don't text in shorthand, so I had to google how to abbreviate some of those words, like "people," but I thought that it would spice up my intro.

Here's an example of my problem with directing texts to the intended recipients.  Yesterday, Margot texted me that she was extremely nervous about trying out for an improv group at her school.  In response,  I texted the following message to my friend Gina, who was about to meet me for a walk on the beach: "Listen, just stay loose and be alert. Everyone there is going to be nervous today.  What a freak you'd be if you weren't!"

It wasn't until Gina texted me back, "I'm not going," that I realized what I'd done. And it was kind of ironic that I accidentally texted that particular message to Gina, because she likes to keep me on my toes by texting me, out of the blue, with this kind of provocation:  "Looking forward to your PowerPoint presentation this morning at the Coonamessett Inn.  Looks like there's a big crowd.  Where r u?"

So I'm going to slow down and look before I text.  Also, Margot called last night and told us that she got into the improv group.  It's going to be so fun to see what she does with that.  Also, it might give me some great blogging fodder.  You try to write one of these things every day.

As my mom always says, "marriage is work."  And now that I'm "managing" Bo's office, he and I are also experiencing "marriage at work."  So far, I really like it, and I've figured out that I'd been missing the camaraderie of a team setting.  His staff is amazing and Bo seems genuinely glad to see me when I "manage" to come in.

However, one issue is that, like many great doctors, Bo doesn't want to be bothered with business decisions. So at work, he stays in the clinic, eluding me and my irksome issues about our 401(k)and health insurance plans, payroll, HR, buying stuff, the checkbook, marketing, and building maintenance. Okay, until I laid that out, I had no clue that I do all that, and everyone should be very afraid.  

Anyway, it didn't take me long to figure out that he was a sitting duck for the likes of me when he got home.  So I was giving him a few moments to relax and to think he was going to have a good time before I hit him with my follow up questions about x-ray equipment vendors. That's when he always remembered that he needed to go out to the garage to tighten a few things up.

Recently we decided that we'll stay at work a little longer to talk about business stuff, so that we can get a break from it after hours. Also, I'm starting to make a lot of pressing decisions without him, so everyone should be very afraid. 

Nothing gets a rise out of a Midwesterner faster than insinuating that he or she may have slept in.  My mom is from Southern Illinois, and when she was a kid, the last one to show up for breakfast was called the "barn esel."  "Esel" is German for "donkey," which is another word for "ass," which is short for "dumb ass."

So maybe I get this from you, Mom, but I identify with people who are embarrassed by resting. And I'm really secretive about the occasional afternoon nap that I (a morning person, don't forget) take in order to stay awake through cocktail hour.  So if I do have a little mid-day snooze, I tell my kids, "If anyone calls, just tell whoever it is that I'm in the shower." To which my friends say, "Well, just have her call me when she wakes up." 

Anyway, I have a great friend from Columbus, Ohio, named Pat Smith, and honestly, it's fun to get under his skin.  So yesterday, when it was late in the morning, almost noon, I sent him a two-word facebook message that I knew would undo him. It went like this, "you up?"  And, boy, he really blasted me.  He told me how long he'd been working, and what he'd done all day, and he used the term, "for crying out loud." Thanks, Pat, for letting me write about this (he said I could as long as it was funny and made him look industrious and alert).