Friday, January 22, 2016

Escape From Sherman Oaks

Marilyn at the Four Seasons 

I arrived at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills to dine with the elegant, ageless Twila, who used to play bridge with my mother and is now stuck lunching with me any time I age another year. I had barely stepped out of my luxury auto when I was greeted by a swarm of paparazzim. "SJG! Over here!" "Smile, SJG!" "Who let you out of Sherman Oaks?" "Flash your gams like Marilyn!" I was happy to oblige. I haven't had this much attention since I grabbed the marble rye from that old lady at Gelson's and made a run for it. Maybe you saw it on the news. "You're late," Twila said, as I sat down. "Sorry. I had to sign a few autographs." "We all have to play the hand we're dealt," she said. "You got that right, sister," I said, and grabbed a bread stick. Just another day in the exciting life of the SJG. 

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