Wednesday, April 23, 2014
And then our kids become teenagers and can't wait to escape from us. They stay out all night and worry us sick. They enroll in colleges that are far, far away. They don't get in, necessarily, but it's healthy to dream. Maybe they only escape a few hours away, but they're out there in the universe, aren't they, pretending to be grown ups for a while. It's a dress rehearsal. They're not adults yet. They're emerging into something else. And then they graduate college and all that escaping leads them right back to the beginning. They move back in with us and plan their next big escape into the real world of employment and paying the rent and all that fun stuff we've been handling for them since birth.
These days, I'm trying to escape from reality, a few moments here, a few moments there. Every day, I'm collecting my frequent flyer miles, planning my next big escape, even if I don't leave the house.
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 7:57 AM
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
2. Find all the diet books that never helped you shed an ounce.
3. Remove them, one at a time, for dramatic effect. All that bending and yanking. Already, you're burning calories and feeling better about yourself.
4. Make a nice stack on the floor. Pile 'em high, girlfriend.
5. Run upstairs and find the scale you hid behind the laundry basket.
6. Run downstairs. You just burned another 2,000 calories, give or take.
7. Run back upstairs again. You forgot the scale, silly. I know, I know. It's a lot to remember.
8. Come back down. See? You're so good at following instructions. Now weigh each diet book on the scale. Total it all up. Heavier than you thought, right? Maybe the books are retaining water.
9. Go outside and dump all the diet books in the trash bin.
10. Bam! You just dropped 10 pounds. Wasn't that easy? I'm here to help.
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 7:04 AM
Monday, April 21, 2014
|Don't ask again, you're embarrassing me.|
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 8:15 AM
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 9:00 AM
Saturday, April 19, 2014
I pinched myself. Could this really be happening to moi? Giant dollar signs swirled dizzily before my eyes. Lost in reverie, I tripped over the hose, drenching myself in H2Eau. As I toweled off, I offered Madame P. directions from LAX. I assumed she was jetting in from Paris for our meet-and-greet. "Non,” she corrected me, “Simi Valley.”
I told her which off-ramp to take and spent the next twelve hours scrubbing, sweeping and dusting. At noon the next day, I opened the door to find a petite, tres chic woman carting a leopardskin satchel and matching notepad. Immediately, she commenced sniffing and scribbling. “Coffee grinds … dog hair … burnt bagel … fabric softener … dish soap… cucumber-aloe body lotion … with a hint of … how you say … college boy.”
Two seconds inside and she’d nailed my personal aroma with frightening accuracy. “Wow,” I said, bowing my head in awe. “You’re good.” “C’est vrai,” quipped Madame Pheromone, immodestly. She didn’t reach her lofty status in the toilette zone by accident. Her nasal gifts are legendary in an industry that stinks of nastiness.
Hours later, we arrived at an intoxicating blend of jasmine, gardenia and a trace of doggy chew toy left out in the rain. Next came the bottle. Agreeing on the shape brought out the worst in Madame P. She wanted Watering Can, in tribute to my amateur gardening skills. I wanted something more inclusive. Laptop I Nearly Destroyed was one suggestion. She shook her head violently.
“Flip Flop?” I threw out. “Non! Non! Non!” Madame P. hollered. “Eco-friendly Grocery Tote?” I tossed out. “Peut-être,” she conceded in exhaustion. I sent the senior v.p. on her way back to Simi Valley, and waited anxiously for the results. A few weeks later, a package arrived, special delivery. Poking out of the box: A bottle in the shape of a Jewish star. An homage to my heritage? Or just a clever, Hanukkhah-tinged marketing device? Either way, it smelled divine. I started shrieking with joy. The name was equally thrilling. “Short Jewish Gal In A Bottle.”
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 8:20 AM
Friday, April 18, 2014
What should I do with the the leftover gelfite, brisket, charosis and chicken soup crowding my fridge?
Had It With Horseradish
"Plant your leftovers in the garden, get a fresh crop of guilt next spring." It sounds better in Yiddish.
The dry cleaner destroyed my favorite Easter Yarmulke. Any idea where I can get another one before Sunday?
If I knew I wouldn't tell you.
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 8:03 AM
Thursday, April 17, 2014
|(Photo courtesy of John Starr)|
I'll give you that spritz of confidence you can't get anywhere else. I'll tell you to take your hair back to bed and call in sick. I'll even write you a doctor's note. Better yet, I'll call work and pretend I'm your doctor. "Trudy can't come in today. She's come down with the Follicle Flu. It's very contagious. Trust me, you don't want her around."
What are my qualifications for opening my no-frills Salon de Sassiness? A lifetime of haircare disappointment. A sink full of tsouris. A cabinet of useless products. Ten photo albums of Horrible Hair Choices. You don't need a license for this sort of expertise. You need a hair therapist. I'm your gal. I'll analyze your needs in two seconds flat and send you on your way. It'll be the best $300 you've ever spent. Too much? Fine. Bring a coupon, I'll give you 50 percent off.
So please, stop by Carol's Hair Fashions for an overpriced, but then, what isn't, assessment of your personal hair mishegas. Walk-ins welcome. And remember, it's not just what's inside that counts. That's a lie, my friends. First get your outside in order, then we can volumize your baby fine psyche.
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 8:07 AM