Thursday, August 6, 2020

Kwik Kleen Keppy Kar Wash

Mindy Kaling Inspo!

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG believes she's solved the whole hair salon shutdown situation, merging the traditional hair salon concept with the local Auto Scrub, to form Kwik Kleen Keppy Kar Wash. As she explained over a Zoom session, "I figure, some salons are getting approved to cut hair in the parking lot. Sounds okay, but what about the heavenly hair wash that comes before the cut? Sure, they can spritz your hair with a water bottle, but what fun is that? Why not line up some hunky guys...
"Polishing the hood costs extra."

"like this firefighter... to wash your hair and car at the same time? It's messy, but if they towel you and the car off at the same time, it's win-win. If this isn't genius, I don't what is." When a testy mainstream reporter on Zoom compared her idea to a sad, ill-conceived low-budget porn movie in terrible taste, her screen froze and she never returned.

Saturday, August 1, 2020

That Time My Brother Won The Dating Game

"This is about as straight as I get," says my brother John Starr, regarding his 1979 appearance on "The Dating Game." You'll notice that the other two loser contestants have magically disappeared, because who even cares about them? Not us. So sit back and enjoy 4.5 minutes of vintage hilarity from a simpler time when life was 100 percent perfect in every way. Or not. Either way, watch this.  

Friday, July 31, 2020

It Wasn't Me

Last night at approximately 7:15 p.m., as I modeled a peppy polka dot dress, elegant eyewear and cotton ball hairdo, so much easier and cheaper to maintain, now that the salon situation is once again in the crapper, the SJG's married son rudely accused me of a crime. "Ma," the text began, part of an endless family chain, because God forbid these people in my bubble should pick up a phone and call, "there's a photo fee you know you owe to Chlo." "How dare you!" I replied. Followed by, "It wasn't me." "Don't hide from the truth, Ma. You know it was you. Here's the Facebook evidence." 
The so-called evidence

Okay, fine. So maybe I did "borrow" an adorable photo of my grand baby that I just-so-happened to come across on Chlo's Instagram. But isn't it my right, after a lifetime of giving, giving, giving, to take a bissel something for myself? Not according to the justice-minded millennials down the road. Before I could make my case, this unreasonable demand arrived from a lovely French negotiator: "You owe $5 a photo, family price. Pretty fair for that amount of cuteness." Who was I to argue? And yet, I still needed to offer a weak typo-ridden defense. "It wasn't me. Or maybe it was. Who the @#$% cares? Leave me alone. I'm very busy pretending to watch the Lakers. I'll pay later in hogs." Before I could correct myself and write "@#$%! I meant hugs!" the youngest son chimed in with the shaming. "Hogs? Seems unreasonable, Ma." Half a second later, my D.I.L. mocked me, visually.

Then added: "No thank you. Five hogs are more than I can handle." Humph. That may or may not be the last time I "borrow" anything from these people. 

Monday, July 20, 2020

Portrait Of A Kvetcher

Can you say shanda? The official portrait of the SJG has been removed from the Not-So-Grand Foyer of the Jewish Home for Compulsive Kvetchers, and replaced by...
... "Something a little less depressing," according to Riba Fish Noshberg, JHCK's founder. "Listen, we didn't get rid of the SJG's portrait altogether. God forbid we should insult her. We truly appreciate the Smart & Final veggie tray she schleps to the weekly kvetch sessions, not to mention her small but meaningful annual donation to our Everything Aches Endowment Fund. Why the switch? Well, the board took a vote and decided the SJG's portrait doesn't quite fit our current slogan, prominently displayed on a nice plaque in the garden, if you can call it that. It's true, we've been doing a little weeding. We got rid of This Too Shall Pass, because, let's face it, we have no idea if this Covid situation will pass. The message feels a little fuzzy and misleading. So we went with It Could Be Worse, even though, just between us, I can't imagine how much worse it could get, can you? But so you shouldn't post something nasty and undermine the important work we do here at the home, the SJG's portrait didn't vanish, it just relocated to the powder room with the peeling wallpaper, at the end of the hall."

Thursday, July 16, 2020

Oh To Be A Baby

Oh to be a baby like the sweetest baby Claire
To look up at the greatest tree, taking sips of air 
To drink in the clouds above, blissfully unaware
To feel the grass beneath you, and marvel free of care

Friday, July 10, 2020

In The Key of Oy

Three rapidly aging goddesses are kvetching on Zoom.
The first one lets out a heartfelt "Oy!"
The second sighs, "Oy vey!"
The third brushes away a tear and moans, "Oy vey iz mir!"
To which the first replies, "I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about the Covid!"

Monday, July 6, 2020

The Sombrero Stays In The Picture

Dr. John Torres & His Sombrero 

Go ahead, call me a fixating, remote micro-manager. But I'm feeling strongly about this situation. The doc on TV may be talking about the latest grim Covid-19 statistics, but I'm not focusing on numbers. I'm focusing on the supersized sombrero mounted on the wall behind him. Why, doc, why? For a festive touch? There's nothing festive going on here. And now I'm wondering how to get in touch and just tell him look, either lose the sombrero or put it on. Those are the choices.
Now I turn the channel. Oh, good, there's another TV pundit, talking about online ways to register the young people to vote. Easy-peasy. Excellent idea. I'm nodding in agreement, feeling a teenie-weenie bit optimistic. And then, oh no, I spot them. The lopsided lampshades behind him, one on each side of the background someone's put together quickly before the remote interview. I call out to longtime hubby. "Honey! Come here, you've gotta see this!" He runs downstairs, excitedly. Okay, not really. He says, "One second." "Hurry, you're gonna miss it." He takes his time. I pause the TV, one of the few powers I have in my limited repertoire these days. Finally, he appears. "Miss what?" I un-pause and point to the TV. "You tell me." "The crooked lampshades." "Yes!" "You hate them." "So much." This is why I married him almost 40 years ago. He just gets me.
Every day, my frustration mounts like that big sombrero on the wall. Last week, I really lost my kaka when I noticed the large looming metal hand sculpture, strategically placed behind a TV mavin talking about... I have no idea. I was too obsessed with the hand threatening to come to life and shake some sense into her. Yesterday on "Meet The Press," the clashing fabric choices in the former presidential adviser's den drove me "cocoa," as the mother of my granddaughter likes to say. I know, I know. Right about now, you may be wondering:
I'll have to get back to you on that.