No one likes a little extra sunlight more than the SJG. I'm a sunlight worshipper from way back, and I have the sunspots on my punim to prove it. And yet, every time we are forced to turn the clocks ahead, and by forced, I mean, we have no choice in the matter, no vote, no power, I'm filled with deep-seated resentment. Don't get me wrong. I simply adore the chance to frolic outside past my 6 p.m. dinnertime curfew, as much as anyone. I love to prance down my block and yell, "Woo-hoo, it's still light out!" What I don't love is the sleep deprivation. One hour doesn't sound like much, but it effs me up, big time. It throws off my circadian rhythm. It messes with my well-being. This makes for a tired and cranky SJG, which, I assure, isn't a good situation. Spring forward. Lose an hour of sleep. Gain an extra hour of kvetching.
A friendly SJG reminder: Tonight remember to turn your entire life forward one hour. This is the universe's way of giving you a swift kick in the tush. The message is clear: No more falling back, lazy bones. No more dwelling on the glorious past. That was so one hour ago. Get over yourself. Enough with the procrastinating. All those things you've been pretending you're going to do? Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it already. You've run out of excuses. There's no time like the future, capiche? Tonight the universe is shoving you head first into tomorrow. But if you're anything like me, you're probably wondering, what's the big rush, universe? Why you gotta be so cruel? Why you wanna deprive me of an hour of sleep? Haven't you seen the bags under my eyes, universe? I need that eff'n hour. Don't take it away. Give it back, bitch. Oh, hang on, I think the universe just sent me a text. Let's read it together, shall we? "MAKE ME." Never mind.
A conversation with the college son:
"How was your day, honey?"
"Anything interesting happen today?"
"Not one thing happened that was interesting?"
"Actually, one thing happened that was interesting."
"There was a camel on campus today."
"Yeah. I looked over and there was a camel."
"Any particular reason?"
"It was Arabian Day."
"Is that a thing?"
"Did you take a photo?"
"There was a long line."
The question of who owns the moon raises all sorts of issues for the SJG. I'm deeply disturbed, but then, you knew that already. Apparently, no one owns the moon. The moon is everybody's moon. For now. But one day, maybe sooner than you think, the moon will go on the market and start a galactic bidding war like nobody's business. Just imagine the qualifications a real estate broker would need to sell the moon. That's a lunar challenge of a lifetime, am I right? And yet, when I see the moon and the moon sees me, all I can think of is how easy it would be to get the moon ready for its first open house. From what I can tell, the moon has no closets to empty, no books to donate, no tchotchkes to relocate, no furniture to redistribute, thoughtfully. The moon isn't in escrow so fast your head could spin. Call me loony, you wouldn't be the first, but this morning, I'm jealous of the moon.
Red Skelton's Recipe For A Perfect Marriage (a rediscovered gem courtesy of my daddy): 1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.
2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California, and mine is in Texas.
3. I take my wife everywhere....but she keeps finding her way back.
4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.
5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.
6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said, "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.
7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."
8. She got a mud pack, and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.
9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!'
10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.
11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was Always.
12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.
13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?" I said, "Dust!"
This weekend, the SJG learned an important lesson. Too much of a good thing makes me do something in public that I prefer to do off-camera: Doze off. To ward off unwelcome snoozing, I try to limit my dosage of culture, lest my brain shut down and I commence inappropriate siesta-taking. Here's what pushed me over my cultural limit: I saw not one, but two plays this weekend, both matinees. "Brief Encounter" (fab!) and "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike" (ditto!) I'm happy to report that I made it through "Brief Encounter" without nodding off on Saturday, a personal victory. Alas, by "Vanya and Sonia" Sunday afternoon, the sandman stalked me for two and a half hours. "Sleep, SJG," he whispered. "No Sandman, no," I whispered back. "You so tired, SJG. You soooo tired." "Oh, eff off, Sandman," I whispered, fighting to keep my eyes open. Every time the audience laughed, which was every other minute, it was my own personal Culture Alert, reminding me to "wakey wakey, you're missing something great here." Thanks to these frequent outbursts of appreciation, I'm pretty sure I saw or at least heard most of "Vanya and Sonia." So there's that. On a positive note, the brief power napping did pay off later. I was fully recharged in time for the Oscars, a delightful evening of star-powered selfies, pizza deliveries and only one or three uncomfortable moments, involving Liza with a Z (sit down, Liza, no random hugging of winners), Kim Novak and a be-wigged John Travolta, mispronouncing Idina Menzel's name. Dozing off during the Academy Awards? Not happening. Not in front of a room full of relatives who would never let me live down that particular shanda.