Friday, March 27, 2015

Let Me Introduce Myself... Again.

At my 30th high school reunion, I spent most of the evening re-introducing myself to the people in attendance, this despite the name tag and tiny graduation photo prominently displayed over my heart. The exchanges usually went something like, "Hi, I'm Carol? Starr? Schneider?" Blank stare, followed by a quick glance at my tiny photo. "Oh. Right. Hi." After a few hundred of these touching moments, I pretty much said, "Oh, eff it," and stuck to the few people who didn't need a name tag or photo to identify me. Included in this elite group: hubby, my high school sweetheart. Even after a few gin and tonics, he still recognized me. "Let's not go to the 40th," I said on the way home. "Okay," he said, a bit tipsy at the time. He has no memory of saying that. In fact, the entire evening is a blur. Which brings us to the 40th high school reunion tomorrow night. We're going.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Crutches In The Background

Allison and Andy, Billy and Emily... 
and the crutches in the background

This happy photo of my cousin Andy and his gorgeous wife Allison, about to dine in San Francisco with the eldest son Billy and his gorgeous girlfriend Emily, arrived on my Oy-Phone last night and made me smile and kvell and all that... until I noticed the crutches in the background, leaning against the wall. The SJG Brain immediately cranked into uh-oh mode. Clearly, one of my people had been seriously injured. One of my people, including Andy's two out of three children on this trip but not in the photo, had tripped and sprained, broken and done damage to a limb, requiring an emergency room visit, crutches and possibly months of physical therapy. Suddenly, this seemingly happy photo seemed like a cruel way to clue the SJG into the situation. 

"Who's got the crutches?" I asked, casually, like an after-thought. As in, by the way, who got hurt and ruined the trip? Andy texted a series of untruths, followed by "JK. Don't panic." JK? Who's JK? Was there another family member I didn't know about? I thought I was up to date on the family tree. I don't know from JK. Then it hit me. JK = Just Kidding. Oh. Hahahaha. "Do you know me at all, Cuzzie?" I asked. Andy texted, "They belong to the people behind us we don't know." "Well, tell them I'm worried, anyway."

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Take It Or Leave It

So yesterday, I was in the Gelson's parking lot, where else would I be, putting my recyclable earth-friendly super cool billboard grocery bags in the trunk of my car, when I noticed a woman standing off to the side, staring at me. I shut the trunk and she stepped closer. My mind started to race. I looked at her. She looked at me, and said, in a very thick Spanish accent: "I-take-it." I said nothing. She said it again: "I-take-it." I smiled, stupidly. It's not often you're faced with such a run-on sentence. I started to move my cart. She took a step closer, and said, slower this time, "I... take... it."

Ah, a moment of clarity. Don't you love those? She wanted to take my cart, as opposed to something else, like my left shoe or one of my recyclable earth-friendly super cool billboard grocery bags, which she'd have to fight me for, and she'd lose, because I love those freakin' bags.  Love. Them. So. Much. Now that I understood her goal, I sent the cart her way, and said, "Take it."

Then I got in my car and said, "I-take-it" over and over, emphasizing different words till I got it just right. "I TAKE it. "I take IT." "I TAKE IT." I got home and said it again, in a truly Shakespearean way. "I taketh it." Then I said it like my grandmother would, in a truly Yiddish way. "Why should I take it?" This went on for quite a while, I'm afraid. I did a lengthy "I-take-it" soliloquy for first hubby, youngest son and eldest puppy, till they ran screaming and barking from the room.

You'll be happy to know that just moments ago, I decided to stop saying, "I take it," before they take me away. Although, a nice rest wouldn't be so bad. If they do take me away, would you come visit me?

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Every Tom Hanks Movie Ever

One of the most hilarious Broadway shows I've ever seen starred James Corden in "One Man, Two Govnors." Since then, I've followed him, not in a stalkerish way, that's not the SJG style, but in a "what is this talented bloke up to these days" way. As of last night, he's hosting the "Late Late Show" on CBS. God forbid I should ever be up that late late. But I'm still going to record it now and then, because I love James Corden so much. Not in a deeply romantic way, mind you. More in a "what a talented bloke" way. I'm glad we cleared that up. You know how jealous hubby gets when I turn my attention elsewhere. Here's a very funny clip of Tom Hanks and James Corden reenacting every movie from Hanks' cinematic oeuvre. Enjoy, people. Enjoy. And please, double click, bitches. How many times I gotta tell ya? Double. Click.

Monday, March 23, 2015

Will You Still Fit Me Tomorrow?

Tonight you're mine, completely
You hang so well, so neatly
Tonight this dress still zips up in my size
But will you fit me, tomorrow?

Is this a lasting treasure?
Or just for Goodwill's pleasure?
Can I believe this vest once made me sigh
Will I still wear it tomorrow?

Tonight with words unspoken
You say that you're the only jeans
But will my heart be broken
When my waist no longer looks lean?

I'd like to know that your size
Is one I can be sure of
So tell me now and I won't ask again
Will you still fit me tomorrow?

(apologies to Carole King)

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Timing Is Everything

In my dreams, I'm always running late.
In my life, I'm always on time.

Well. Almost always.
Sometimes there are roadblocks.

Or self-imposed.

To arrive at my destination,
I need to get out of my own way.

And remember that wherever I go,
Timing is everything.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

All I Want Is A Little Attention

That's all.

On the second day of spring, I'm thinking about spring cleaning. Should I or shouldn't I tackle the nightmare that is my closet? Last time I spring-cleaned my closet, please don't ask me when, it was probably more of a winter purge, I'm sure I vowed never to let it get this cluttered again. But here I am, confessing that my closet, the place where I suspend clothes in disbelief, never to find them again, needs attention. There are shoes I can no longer wear, relatively newish shoes at that, because they are torture devices on my battered feet. There are pants I can no longer wear because they no longer work with my current anatomy. There are miscellaneous items that need attention. An old breakfast tray. An old heating pad. An assortment of throw pillows I should've tossed. This closet of mine is fully Freudian. It's my past, my present and my future as a guest star on "Short-Order Hoarders of Sherman Oaks." It's my id, my ego, my super ego. It's everything and nothing. And yet, unless some highly skilled organizer does an emergency closet intervention, my sanity hangs in the balance. I'm forever defined by an existential dilemma: Who came first? The SJG or the closet? Your guess is as good as mine.