tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21269552313022271582024-03-19T02:14:39.634-07:00Short Jewish GalThe life of a writer, wife, mother and rapidly aging goddessCarol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.comBlogger3310125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-56377765026345098392022-04-04T09:53:00.008-07:002022-04-04T09:55:27.793-07:00The Best of Claire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyqR1qcoJbMJB97hvMQaDrJcgOtm1J2KyGLcHab1mowdTEPSwliu8ple-lio1vex1XHj13bSRBYxv1E_1OxFlQitpcxo1M8Et7a2EYduMMyOcfaJ8wUMT1pJK34f-v_Lc1G-hGUOUCtJl-eD57BQ62-Id5Lk14bzxG2DFshbxKQ80gBv6zP39shHJf" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyqR1qcoJbMJB97hvMQaDrJcgOtm1J2KyGLcHab1mowdTEPSwliu8ple-lio1vex1XHj13bSRBYxv1E_1OxFlQitpcxo1M8Et7a2EYduMMyOcfaJ8wUMT1pJK34f-v_Lc1G-hGUOUCtJl-eD57BQ62-Id5Lk14bzxG2DFshbxKQ80gBv6zP39shHJf" width="180" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Not quite two, and the toddler we call Claire is already coming out of her shell (see what I did there?), expressing herself, running the show, giving directions, setting boundaries, and making her positions known.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMxPrFvFf4yOEuNbPMz3sCnS8I0VkKUYHQUn5aqR2sFdZv04fTxd8iSGtDgrYujvnc_6s1rDr78T1BgbzDeSKNUtMRigkNxIMf7H35RP7B2iWeeXG3ypUpRB6ieE5Ikj_-VjO4YvWJ_lB1qdGf4NFTn4Q980s-Eg2-rm4pAgpbOHaq9Hepeqf20UpZ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMxPrFvFf4yOEuNbPMz3sCnS8I0VkKUYHQUn5aqR2sFdZv04fTxd8iSGtDgrYujvnc_6s1rDr78T1BgbzDeSKNUtMRigkNxIMf7H35RP7B2iWeeXG3ypUpRB6ieE5Ikj_-VjO4YvWJ_lB1qdGf4NFTn4Q980s-Eg2-rm4pAgpbOHaq9Hepeqf20UpZ" width="180" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I don't clean up room, Mommy."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4F_zBtO2XzsTb5EFzhC9z1M4KPFr5twUHZu-ym2dV4NN7SqwZKlFtW1bw-DG1beKYsHXr3878asXMbyT6dWeDUHZ3290onIdOK5LYaDecdYLomJHZBmo3aA-gT_yR-DEwAcI-Md6lyOxZ4AueUnOQ6tT6ziwWcYEazFddgUj_9PGm9sCB5wLZ8jAR" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4F_zBtO2XzsTb5EFzhC9z1M4KPFr5twUHZu-ym2dV4NN7SqwZKlFtW1bw-DG1beKYsHXr3878asXMbyT6dWeDUHZ3290onIdOK5LYaDecdYLomJHZBmo3aA-gT_yR-DEwAcI-Md6lyOxZ4AueUnOQ6tT6ziwWcYEazFddgUj_9PGm9sCB5wLZ8jAR" width="180" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Hand, Gampa!"</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOkOw0MOwvs-TJO6rDtz6g8Xy7HjbpbNyDMtiSsU_c_vcejy0DKekVi6koT8083pLe_GILkahO1IcV-7CpEpeOjqUw1u81gjF9lOnD4OOnnBrz09ZM5Z1LNOLgETE_oQjN4lUXZZD6aqNAgHkyXFvNsG78zMD42GPT_FIUqMsnSm9OS20Xq_Ep9RFi" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjOkOw0MOwvs-TJO6rDtz6g8Xy7HjbpbNyDMtiSsU_c_vcejy0DKekVi6koT8083pLe_GILkahO1IcV-7CpEpeOjqUw1u81gjF9lOnD4OOnnBrz09ZM5Z1LNOLgETE_oQjN4lUXZZD6aqNAgHkyXFvNsG78zMD42GPT_FIUqMsnSm9OS20Xq_Ep9RFi" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Stop singing, Gamma!</div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwzk3ZlWva0W2vdYV8Mma1cNw33xk6Jg7whvLWzQo49r2z7ptEDddqUa1LU4Lkr63eB9JnydeH7VIaqSrPxVl53yNzVInF0ZnRtYVU-eof8rzm7VQjP_zi-WGeX7BrWLDPCAROD7D3aP3rAZjauHd0MkEceHYQ-ZC-0_PYrPbOszPW42ZfWZkvCk6R" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwzk3ZlWva0W2vdYV8Mma1cNw33xk6Jg7whvLWzQo49r2z7ptEDddqUa1LU4Lkr63eB9JnydeH7VIaqSrPxVl53yNzVInF0ZnRtYVU-eof8rzm7VQjP_zi-WGeX7BrWLDPCAROD7D3aP3rAZjauHd0MkEceHYQ-ZC-0_PYrPbOszPW42ZfWZkvCk6R" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">"We no talk about Buno, no, no, no." </span></div><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjskdGXbx-c9jW3j66sOCKT_LeA8JL7XTrsKM9lWVumK3XMM_wEWGDJc2NWWohcyXVEv9VG8FkadSdwGu5rkrIVPEwfN4rk3ViOSjnb1xDrLFgOIhAyGcyQcV3lvDYqfz4bxKveWD3xULpMr05bmBuMzFQABt9ljZdfvlLPvYixTsWmeX1U6T1q-MnT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjskdGXbx-c9jW3j66sOCKT_LeA8JL7XTrsKM9lWVumK3XMM_wEWGDJc2NWWohcyXVEv9VG8FkadSdwGu5rkrIVPEwfN4rk3ViOSjnb1xDrLFgOIhAyGcyQcV3lvDYqfz4bxKveWD3xULpMr05bmBuMzFQABt9ljZdfvlLPvYixTsWmeX1U6T1q-MnT" width="180" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Love you, Gamma!"</div><p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-72272278504568569762022-03-31T11:02:00.009-07:002022-04-01T08:38:40.275-07:00The Lightest Sleeper In The World<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMX3ynsaAN11JXL9spq0czF1R4hquzTFmFBzjVHgRoA7dsIc5Xc-T5AKsBA75KR2GFkrZspNU8ZtGUnAeFWV2R3982oA2vgmJnykxVh7WtHywkrHjHruvhaJX5dKT2vxrWMmjVMrCvLL-OKCccupUekJQ2L9SNXbPyqFBCzFhq1ZiycHLl5ShR1SVu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="784" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMX3ynsaAN11JXL9spq0czF1R4hquzTFmFBzjVHgRoA7dsIc5Xc-T5AKsBA75KR2GFkrZspNU8ZtGUnAeFWV2R3982oA2vgmJnykxVh7WtHywkrHjHruvhaJX5dKT2vxrWMmjVMrCvLL-OKCccupUekJQ2L9SNXbPyqFBCzFhq1ZiycHLl5ShR1SVu" width="320" /></a></div><br />"Did you hear those people fighting last night?" <p></p><p>"What people?"</p><p>"The people behind us."</p><p>"The a-holes who blast music?” </p><p>"Yes. Them."</p><p>"What time were they fighting?"</p><p>"Three a.m."</p><p>"You checked the time?"</p><p>"I knew you'd want to know."</p><p>"Oh, honey, thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>"How did I not hear them?"</p><p>"You were sleeping."</p><p>"I can't believe they didn't wake me up. I'm the lightest sleeper in the world."</p><p>"Not last night. You slept through it."</p><p>"Who fights at three a.m.?"</p><p>"The a-holes behind us."</p><p>"What were they fighting about?"</p><p>"I couldn't hear them that well."</p><p>"Were they swearing at each other?"</p><p>"I heard swearing, I think. "</p><p>"You think? Could you at least make out any words?"</p><p>"Not really." </p><p>"Honey! I need specifics! 'You sh*t head! You embarrassed me tonight!" 'I hate your eff'n friends!' Anything like that?"</p><p>"No." </p><p>"Come on, man. Think! Three a.m.! Something big must've happened. Did someone yell, 'That's it, you bastard! I've had it with you! Take your <i>hoot and </i>your<i> coot </i>and get<i> oot.' </i>"</p><p>"No one would ever yell something that dumb during an argument."</p><p>"Dumber things have been yelled during arguments."</p><p>"Next time they have an argument at three a.m., I'll wake you up."</p><p>"Promise?" </p><p>"I give you my word." </p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-77588823150449813312022-02-14T11:21:00.013-08:002022-02-14T11:32:32.886-08:00Say It Every Day <div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTtk8RQ8P1v_9XCPZzPI-Dd50GaSYyUeLaDOtnor2bhAOB1zK9Mqhh6TmAMUI2IEMXtIdYRvVbPvjGHTWpR6XzdcEKQPySRWrH_CAW7CibIj6ZjhyMHUdmlVcKwUO6QGUlO7RViJ630HR9Bg3saO6nmslj2GoZ9RAtqx0Daren_EBDPw49DRRUiPwp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="264" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTtk8RQ8P1v_9XCPZzPI-Dd50GaSYyUeLaDOtnor2bhAOB1zK9Mqhh6TmAMUI2IEMXtIdYRvVbPvjGHTWpR6XzdcEKQPySRWrH_CAW7CibIj6ZjhyMHUdmlVcKwUO6QGUlO7RViJ630HR9Bg3saO6nmslj2GoZ9RAtqx0Daren_EBDPw49DRRUiPwp" width="320" /></a></div>"Love, look at the two of us, strangers in many ways." I don't need Valentine's Day to sing this old Carpenters song to longtime hubby at least once, if not twice a month, with my own special Ethel Merman spin. Not that the lyrics apply to us. <span>Five decades in, </span>we're not strangers in any way. He knows me too well. He knows I'm a little too honest at times. And he's fine with that. But don't take my word for it. On this Valentine's Day, 2022, let's double-check:</div><div><p></p><p>"Honey, are you okay with how honest I am?" </p><p>"Do I have a choice?" </p><p>See. Acceptance is so important in a healthy marriage. But how did I get here? How did I arrive at this honest approach to marriage, and so much more? I caught it from my parents. They were big fans of honesty, even if it hurt. More importantly, they were big fans of saying, "I love you." A lot. Not a day went by when I didn't hear them say, "I love you." To each other. To their children. Sometimes it came with an addendum. "I don't always like you, but I always love you." Not a day goes by when I don't say "I love you" to my family and friends, and of course, the Royal Rescue Pup. I have my parents to thank for that. So don't wait for Valentine's Day, Birthdays, or National Ice Scream Day to say it. Say "I love you" every day. It's good for you. It's the best part of being alive. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT9qHHLtc_86s4m_SaNvsKQzBUs14YxyeLTb5Hd26SA0_q1vN_BxE_h0VsyVMKKm0zmi4IKjs5_HUE_r-9jItAsSz6v8HBl46WqYbiP2mbPvfoWoSyTw1MqFGLB8WqGvLArTG5y_fAY-UAbixRv7kDaoiqd32sn2c1aTyrm0zKVragZn9pk1QODwFA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1000" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjT9qHHLtc_86s4m_SaNvsKQzBUs14YxyeLTb5Hd26SA0_q1vN_BxE_h0VsyVMKKm0zmi4IKjs5_HUE_r-9jItAsSz6v8HBl46WqYbiP2mbPvfoWoSyTw1MqFGLB8WqGvLArTG5y_fAY-UAbixRv7kDaoiqd32sn2c1aTyrm0zKVragZn9pk1QODwFA=w320-h317" width="320" /></a></div><p></p></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-56541314046409020082022-01-10T11:32:00.013-08:002022-01-10T11:46:23.610-08:00Denial, Bargaining & What To Wear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8Y8_m4FMSaTVIlWnAwJp5DQC7BTAxHMWq-wsmoKuIsiYm6r5e7KwAeZDNZq_f26dvqLEHy16_dLmC-Cki0MrhzkOUAoQPM3kfPUG0J9oYVWFgqrzlbZ4SW30U8MGF4fmnSppiu5F6GqEuPFSdmVS4_5J7DOeZ-kPhZN7XGCUkaK1CbMuddI7h6qlE=s1690" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1690" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8Y8_m4FMSaTVIlWnAwJp5DQC7BTAxHMWq-wsmoKuIsiYm6r5e7KwAeZDNZq_f26dvqLEHy16_dLmC-Cki0MrhzkOUAoQPM3kfPUG0J9oYVWFgqrzlbZ4SW30U8MGF4fmnSppiu5F6GqEuPFSdmVS4_5J7DOeZ-kPhZN7XGCUkaK1CbMuddI7h6qlE=w255-h400" width="255" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Chris Rose, on her way to somewhere wonderful</div><p>It's not the kind of invitation delivered via Evite. It doesn't come with a gift registry, a list of hotels, or directions to the rehearsal dinner. How do you rehearse for this kind of thing, anyway? You really can't. There are too many variables, too many unknowns. Some happen at a cemetery. Others at a lovely location. The one we went to yesterday, in honor of our dear friend Chris Rose, the kindest, gentlest, sweetest soul, took place at a beautiful country club, her home away from home. </p><p>Given all the stages of grief, I'm kinda surprised Kubler-Ross left out the one that always hits me the hardest, pre-memorial. I'm referring to the most unspoken stage of all: What To Wear. I know, it makes me sound shallow and not terribly evolved. Too bad. I was honoring a wonderful lady I absolutely adored. I needed to look nice. I couldn't show up in my standard Pandemic-wear. Sweatpants, faded T-shirt and slippers. The wardrobe issue overwhelmed me, and soon, I slipped into Denial. Until Thursday, when reality set in. I needed to perform an emergency dress intervention without entering a germ-ridden mall. I ordered a black dress online, and paid way too much for shipping. What's more enticing than "Two-day delivery?" At this moment in my life, nothing. I felt so good. I knew Chris, who always looked sharp, would approve. </p><p>But then, the cruel emails started arriving: "Your shipment is being prepared!" "Your shipment is on its way!" "Your shipment will arrive on Monday!" Excuse me? Monday? I didn't pay extra for Monday. The memorial is Sunday. Boom. I slipped into Bargaining. If I promise to be the best human ever, the dress will arrive on Saturday. If I track the shipment, and keep tracking it, the dress will arrive on Saturday. It didn't help that FedEx kept teasing me. "Your package is in Bloomington, California!" Where the @#$% is that? I looked it up. Somewhere in San Bernardino? At least it wasn't Indiana. </p><p>I toggled in and out of Denial, Anger, Bargaining and Depression. Back and forth I went, managing to fit in a new stage: Noshing. "This cookie will make me feel better." And it did. By Friday night, I landed on Acceptance. I went into my closet, grabbed a dress that might be too cheerful for a memorial, and decided it was okay. Not great. But okay. A sense of calm descended. I knew that Chris, who faced many challenges in her life, including the death of her beloved son, was guiding me, telling me to chill. I knew we would've had a good laugh over my wardrobe insanity the next time we ran into each other at Gelson's. Saturday afternoon, the dress arrived. Chris was working her special brand of magic from the Great Beyond. </p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-32764548126087163582021-12-31T11:39:00.004-08:002021-12-31T11:50:20.657-08:00Shalom, 2021 <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zjSY0gixK4o/Yc9SNx7S9aI/AAAAAAAAacU/pJXlN0qDPskTD4GfSNIpV9G_EtdyjBy2gCNcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zjSY0gixK4o/Yc9SNx7S9aI/AAAAAAAAacU/pJXlN0qDPskTD4GfSNIpV9G_EtdyjBy2gCNcBGAsYHQ/w280-h320/thumbnail.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>So, it's the final day of this crapola year, and I've already replaced my 2021 calendar on the fridge with my 2022. I'm tempted to leave my 2021 up on the fridge, not because the pages announce wonderful upcoming events. I pretty much stayed home again. Calendar-wise, it's hard for me to take down 2021. Every month features a fabulous photo of my granddaughter, frozen in time. <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-C_76OGXVn-0/Yc9TCcy8hKI/AAAAAAAAacc/WJGn3jBMAj4xW2Ysd2PqOi6c08UdLJcRACNcBGAsYHQ/time-marches-on.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></a><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dSl4l4qCvVI/Yc9THk8D8SI/AAAAAAAAacg/ZQ-jozjaBHU6YJDxWplFxOUcbRoQzhwmQCNcBGAsYHQ/time-marches-on.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="598" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dSl4l4qCvVI/Yc9THk8D8SI/AAAAAAAAacg/ZQ-jozjaBHU6YJDxWplFxOUcbRoQzhwmQCNcBGAsYHQ/time-marches-on.gif" width="241" /></a></div><p>But time marches on, and so must my calendar, an old school tradition I will never surrender, Dorothy. Never. At the moment, like so many of us, I feel like I'm marching in reverse. Double-vaxxed and boosted, we almost made it out of 2021 without someone in the family catching you-know-what. Then, right before Christmas, four treasured someones got the omnipresent, dreaded It. My eldest, his wife, their toddler and baby boy. Scary doesn't quite cover it. They're much better now, recovered, kina hora. We're incredibly grateful and relieved. If there's ever a time to count blessings, and keep counting them, it's today. </p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gFvV787uU9k/Yc9YjWcxtlI/AAAAAAAAac0/NnYtEzCqYJYNjtBYI9Lneaj4h61KoEsVQCNcBGAsYHQ/895.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1206" data-original-width="895" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gFvV787uU9k/Yc9YjWcxtlI/AAAAAAAAac0/NnYtEzCqYJYNjtBYI9Lneaj4h61KoEsVQCNcBGAsYHQ/w237-h320/895.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So, as my late great Daddy Ben used to say, "Onward!" Let's put one foot in front of the other and try not to trip. Let's keep marching toward the good things that await us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TJs_tViwvFM/Yc9a-flw1wI/AAAAAAAAac8/55hiMa7Wk_g7XbqQEIpQHu76nq4_daPlwCNcBGAsYHQ/0af359ce4d5741a536c76bfeedae20db.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TJs_tViwvFM/Yc9a-flw1wI/AAAAAAAAac8/55hiMa7Wk_g7XbqQEIpQHu76nq4_daPlwCNcBGAsYHQ/w213-h320/0af359ce4d5741a536c76bfeedae20db.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Happy New Year! </div><p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-17450294604458590962021-12-18T07:52:00.002-08:002021-12-18T07:53:33.220-08:00When She Smiles That Smile <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GGcU26sh_GM/Yb4CYqRMwAI/AAAAAAAAabw/wpGKAvOy-k4L6_M9IXW944lH9mT5iZj6ACNcBGAsYHQ/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-12-18%2Bat%2B7.45.58%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="545" height="319" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GGcU26sh_GM/Yb4CYqRMwAI/AAAAAAAAabw/wpGKAvOy-k4L6_M9IXW944lH9mT5iZj6ACNcBGAsYHQ/w320-h319/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-12-18%2Bat%2B7.45.58%2BAM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">When a guy turns thirty he must declare</div><div style="text-align: center;">His plans for the future with utmost care</div><div style="text-align: center;">So he calls up the bar where they first met</div><div style="text-align: center;">Arranges a surprise she won't forget</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Inside Blue Collar a song starts to play</div><div style="text-align: center;">The same song that played on that fateful day</div><div style="text-align: center;">He takes out a ring, gets down on one knee</div><div style="text-align: center;">Looks up and inquires, "Will you marry me?"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The gal he adores wipes some tears away</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's hard to keep her emotions at bay</div><div style="text-align: center;">Her answer relieves him of all his stress</div><div style="text-align: center;">When she smiles that smile, and gives him a yes</div><p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-8522895040794621862021-11-28T13:32:00.000-08:002021-11-28T13:32:31.429-08:00A Latke For Your Thought-Ke <p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v2awhqg7bb8/XfKv9d_1FeI/AAAAAAAAY6A/YYyWE-TXl-w_IqXt5vYnv-syMP5nc1U1QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/phpThumb_generated_thumbnail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v2awhqg7bb8/XfKv9d_1FeI/AAAAAAAAY6A/YYyWE-TXl-w_IqXt5vYnv-syMP5nc1U1QCK4BGAYYCw/s320/phpThumb_generated_thumbnail.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;">Nothing rhymes with <i>latkes</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">In English that is true<br />In Yiddish try <i>gatkes</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Long underwear to you </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Shredded spuds, golden brown</div><div style="text-align: center;">A Hanukkah delight</div><div style="text-align: center;">Grab a plate, sit right down</div><div style="text-align: center;">Menorahs shining bright</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Fried or baked or frozen</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's all delish to me</div><div style="text-align: center;">Some may call us Chosen<br />Ask Judah Maccabee</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yfS6ckowpHI/XfKytBwjFnI/AAAAAAAAY6U/qYequBZu6IgA8ID0OTSEgBs2ZX-_dQT6ACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Judah-Maccabee_blog.jpg"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yfS6ckowpHI/XfKytBwjFnI/AAAAAAAAY6U/qYequBZu6IgA8ID0OTSEgBs2ZX-_dQT6ACK4BGAYYCw/s320/Judah-Maccabee_blog.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-71055332108903865612021-11-24T12:00:00.007-08:002021-11-24T12:19:30.093-08:00The Illusion of Control <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPg9irquArFIi0p8JcMezgCNbQ3rozOJo4j4oig-eYf03CgvFzdIA77gN4OIfJoY7zZcsTqXA5Z0xyl-T3GttKEXo8JQJpIvWiMclq0qeCwj1UyyaZ64aahhPNOK077Sr4pAIJul0SEGJqp8TsL24dC7Mxe8Hkw017waXCa1586If524m6cSPsiplM=s650" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiPg9irquArFIi0p8JcMezgCNbQ3rozOJo4j4oig-eYf03CgvFzdIA77gN4OIfJoY7zZcsTqXA5Z0xyl-T3GttKEXo8JQJpIvWiMclq0qeCwj1UyyaZ64aahhPNOK077Sr4pAIJul0SEGJqp8TsL24dC7Mxe8Hkw017waXCa1586If524m6cSPsiplM=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is not what my table looks like.</div><span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span>"Sometimes, it's important to give people the illusion of being in control." So says Tony Soprano. When it comes to Thanksgiving, this is my mantra. To maintain the illusion of control, I do everything too early. I set the table too early. I overthink every detail too early. And most importantly, I buy the turkeys too early, especially this year. If you threaten me with a turkey shortage, I will respond, accordingly. A few weeks back, I called a guy. It went something like this:</span></div><p></p><p></p><p>"Trader Joe's. Gobbles speaking."</p><p>"Gobbles, hi, it's the Short Jewish Gal."</p><p>"Short Jewish what?"</p><p>"Never mind, Gobbles. I need turkeys. Two of 'em. The brined ones. Capiche?"</p><p>"I got ya. No worries. They're comin' in next Thursday, 9 a.m. Call first. Ask for me. I'll set ya up. "</p><p>"Great. Thanks, Gobbles. You're a mensch."</p><p>Exactly one week later, at 9 a.m., I call Trader Joe's. It goes something like this:</p><p>"Trader Joe's. Cranberry speaking."</p><p>"Cranberry, hi. It's the Short Jewish Gal."</p><p>"Hi. I'm the Tall Catholic Goddess." </p><p>"I need to talk to Gobbles."</p><p>"Gobbles doesn't work here any more."</p><p>"Wait. What?"</p><p>"They canned him."</p><p>"I don't understand."</p><p>"They caught him selling our beloved, highly-coveted brined turkeys off the back of his truck late last night."</p><p>"What kind of person does that?"</p><p>"A guy named Gobbles, that's who." </p><p>"Bastard!"</p><p>"I know, right?"</p><p>"Cranberry, tell me, are there any brined turkeys left?"</p><p>"There might be two in the back. I'll go check." </p><p>"Hurry, Cranberry. Hurry. My Thanksgiving depends on it."</p><p>Two minutes later, she returns.</p><p>"You're in luck. I got two 18-pounders."</p><p>"Bless you, Cranberry. I'll be right over." </p><p>I arrive, and there she is. Cranberry. A crown of red berries in her hair, a beatific smile on her punim. She beckons me forward. "Be cool," she says, and takes me in the back. Awaiting me: the brined turkeys. The only two left. I express my gratitude. Cranberry nods. "You're welcome." I rush home and make room in the fridge. Every day, I look at my turkeys and feel good about my life. Now all I have to do is cook them to total perfection. Or at least create that illusion for 21 guests. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP7nj_13-bEZ6i8HuuqexBy1rK63HKnoyU1LHqya30y33M4dN62YObzoI6kZBaqn3360q-JG0SzQYozjv1Nw1kFX0tmaHqrKCdvTvuMxIkjXxHzvIxRyzhghns3qs7_V6bzT-3fnmt5ABX-8YqbazlxO4YLqgI8Vn4OX8YioSyIaACprZeZti0jHKQ=s567" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="557" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP7nj_13-bEZ6i8HuuqexBy1rK63HKnoyU1LHqya30y33M4dN62YObzoI6kZBaqn3360q-JG0SzQYozjv1Nw1kFX0tmaHqrKCdvTvuMxIkjXxHzvIxRyzhghns3qs7_V6bzT-3fnmt5ABX-8YqbazlxO4YLqgI8Vn4OX8YioSyIaACprZeZti0jHKQ=s320" width="314" /></a></div><p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-86884419151587079872021-10-29T10:58:00.003-07:002021-10-29T12:26:49.422-07:00Oh, Halloween<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJTiPKoxK_IKcLqCU0iAwhxMLxuLxLJU3x5P_olwqmU_WMLHrYBhi2h3ScQYVzh2dqXGCXCShQqpiO9okfbGW4f3iuyeXxDwHAwwXJTE1r-iTmwxkGt6u2JZgY3zAei0N5tghzzZ_c_mUQXheQTPAx-IHZ1UYnpHhwKIifUfIhPxr0Plqb-OQM_kvq=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJTiPKoxK_IKcLqCU0iAwhxMLxuLxLJU3x5P_olwqmU_WMLHrYBhi2h3ScQYVzh2dqXGCXCShQqpiO9okfbGW4f3iuyeXxDwHAwwXJTE1r-iTmwxkGt6u2JZgY3zAei0N5tghzzZ_c_mUQXheQTPAx-IHZ1UYnpHhwKIifUfIhPxr0Plqb-OQM_kvq=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Oh, Halloween, oh Halloween!</span></div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Come dressed as Mufasa</p><p style="text-align: center;">Come to our walkway</p><p style="text-align: center;">We'll hide in our casa </p><p style="text-align: center;">Gather 'round the table</p><p style="text-align: center;">We're giving out treats</p><p style="text-align: center;">Straight from the bowl outside </p><p style="text-align: center;">Some sanitized sweets </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_eZQn6afq-mEPwT1fLCXHyPZQ9-1SEUomlkLXTAoO-vOZvJrI00EMHKMt8IwyzLRiDtJpMqvpDpy1KNyowso2gioTRd1sSHrL7H3nfgkv7oesiFQmALiGkVcmK0EsOd9QMW2O5mSDdeJs1nTpMuwF6eaKspdE12bui-iO5ikyFJbAiDTs6LkEjuyH=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1024" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_eZQn6afq-mEPwT1fLCXHyPZQ9-1SEUomlkLXTAoO-vOZvJrI00EMHKMt8IwyzLRiDtJpMqvpDpy1KNyowso2gioTRd1sSHrL7H3nfgkv7oesiFQmALiGkVcmK0EsOd9QMW2O5mSDdeJs1nTpMuwF6eaKspdE12bui-iO5ikyFJbAiDTs6LkEjuyH=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">And while we are hiding</p><p style="text-align: center;">The pumpkin is burning low</p><p style="text-align: center;">Don't ring our Ring! </p><p style="text-align: center;">We're not answering </p><p style="text-align: center;">To protect us from germs, so just go-oh-oh-oh!</p><p style="text-align: center;">Don't ring our Ring!</p><p style="text-align: center;">We're not answering </p><p style="text-align: center;">To protect us from germs, so just go!</p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-63040016191517465962021-10-19T14:25:00.018-07:002021-10-19T15:09:14.457-07:00The Upside Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FZ85Dv2S-Z4/YW8rFde4kKI/AAAAAAAAaZg/Qx6_9PyAAVkqa8Jq5xB7TbSTFDMVYZleQCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-14.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FZ85Dv2S-Z4/YW8rFde4kKI/AAAAAAAAaZg/Qx6_9PyAAVkqa8Jq5xB7TbSTFDMVYZleQCLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h320/thumbnail-14.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Hey, has anyone seen longtime hubby? Step into the time machine, why don't you, and travel back with me a few weeks. Let's see if we can find him. Oh, wait, never mind, that's him, over at Billy and Chloé's, just hanging upside down, as one does, after our daughter-in-law calls a few hours before she's due at the hospital, and all I can hear is "... water broke." "Your water broke?" I ask, ever-so-calmly, for calmness defines me. Fine. What I really do is scream, "YOUR WATER BROKE?" "No, no," she says, "the water broke on the washing machine. It's flooding the kitchen." At least that explains why longtime hubby is dangling, as he tries to fix a pipe. Ultimately, he calls a... what's that word he hates? Oh, yes. Plumber. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIAVw8I9wGfWGj8OkWDEpGzMT2XtR4_cPVLpvWhaSYwCRadMlyrgTMZK6_fsGa5fJxF3EPTiU6yLRPNQsJQaap5_REAFjyXrf2oyKWQHD5qnHPYnCD8w8TLXxnx650P2h2U30tBVeSq6WHmWlw-xtuzv-mDPjOwsCEFQ-w6kfrZOuIQB_i9MZzwPgC=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIAVw8I9wGfWGj8OkWDEpGzMT2XtR4_cPVLpvWhaSYwCRadMlyrgTMZK6_fsGa5fJxF3EPTiU6yLRPNQsJQaap5_REAFjyXrf2oyKWQHD5qnHPYnCD8w8TLXxnx650P2h2U30tBVeSq6WHmWlw-xtuzv-mDPjOwsCEFQ-w6kfrZOuIQB_i9MZzwPgC=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;">Lucas (The S Is Silent) Who?</div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator">In general, the past few weeks have turned Claire's world upside down. She's wondering, "Who is this brand new human? And when is he going back?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf47TPJ4A2Jl7YJWC5W5S9Tnclxg6QlNFKgcnLGPncdhpqIRHsCn4ZotrTXCWoIfVi14A_icaEyU_vuSjyKB2H4S62BeoVQHcL-Q7OTkhqM2sT_iXL874lA3szmfKVngJ34uKhYVDTHuJuyHYn-RzBE48N_GZlgNHljudyVIXdTKLaokFML7yjqlpS=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgf47TPJ4A2Jl7YJWC5W5S9Tnclxg6QlNFKgcnLGPncdhpqIRHsCn4ZotrTXCWoIfVi14A_icaEyU_vuSjyKB2H4S62BeoVQHcL-Q7OTkhqM2sT_iXL874lA3szmfKVngJ34uKhYVDTHuJuyHYn-RzBE48N_GZlgNHljudyVIXdTKLaokFML7yjqlpS=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;">Sorry. He's staying put. </div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator">Of course, Claire finds her dethronement from Only Child perplexing. But I like to think that underneath the confusion, she's remarkably "oppie" to her new role as Big Sis. "Oppie" is her go-to command, you know. During her luxurious stay at the Palatial SJG Estate, while we awaited Lucas (the S is Silent!), we played a lot of "Oppie! Oppie!" As in Open Something. The door, the drawer, the cabinet, the thing preventing her from getting into mischief. Go on and "oppie" and then stand back and hope for the best. Nothing made Claire laugh more than making me "oppie" the door and walk out, so she could then close it in my face and watch me beg to come back in. "Open Sesame!" I'd say. Nothing. "Oppie Sesame! Please! Please! Claire-Bear!" usually got me in, eventually. I find it's always better to speak her language, an intoxicating blend of French, English and Yiddish. True, her Yiddish needs work, but I promise, I'll have her saying "Oy!" before she's two. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0eYMK5tM-Mfh-7Yg9fLPBZ0Ui0764-8-NVPlrp_-MZqazSH1CCMnbbwKQVMSd0cA9RrKxhFemvy3D6PRgklvBGgdOVU8ZdMuDqaTZRk-lVlU2IAleP01VH6dn7XCuBAP9rze50rWvCYNshGOYnIL8cg_Dgfc52j5aEb7B0AR4Of65-_u1qrA9dEb4=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0eYMK5tM-Mfh-7Yg9fLPBZ0Ui0764-8-NVPlrp_-MZqazSH1CCMnbbwKQVMSd0cA9RrKxhFemvy3D6PRgklvBGgdOVU8ZdMuDqaTZRk-lVlU2IAleP01VH6dn7XCuBAP9rze50rWvCYNshGOYnIL8cg_Dgfc52j5aEb7B0AR4Of65-_u1qrA9dEb4=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;">"Oy!" truly sums up her current mood, a grab bag of emotions. The arrival of Lucas (did I mention the S is Silent?) has left our favorite toddler somewhat farklempt. She'd rather squeeze into her old Dock-A-Tot or crawl around on the floor, pretending she's the baby, than hear "No!" or eat the fish sticks on her plate. This phase she's in, I believe it's called regression. I've been there a few times myself, and that's just in the past year. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iyQEIkH-utU/YW8uRxnINII/AAAAAAAAaZo/bAV4jmHIAJ0IgtpaO-MeLfYcZU4iqJE1gCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1243" data-original-width="820" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iyQEIkH-utU/YW8uRxnINII/AAAAAAAAaZo/bAV4jmHIAJ0IgtpaO-MeLfYcZU4iqJE1gCLcBGAsYHQ/w211-h320/thumbnail-13.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>Despite the challenges, look how well she's doing with her baby brother in this totally unposed photo. I see good things for these siblings. Great friendship. Unbridled fun. Laughter galore.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEkaQ-V57H8QvW5OXXf_fCvayGMksWFXs-VK9e74IOFL2nz6iFbyW2mENYsAZoxbH1GBWBit99cOhwxiNAmE2VZnpe_EUvv8hRHagmnW7vFfFMVSjlTKBLGfwbYJDQHpWUSI4RhUu0x0R7ZIwtHqxQmwaK0uGtmaihl7rQjj7FuiOT9vGDf7KdyG-Y=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEkaQ-V57H8QvW5OXXf_fCvayGMksWFXs-VK9e74IOFL2nz6iFbyW2mENYsAZoxbH1GBWBit99cOhwxiNAmE2VZnpe_EUvv8hRHagmnW7vFfFMVSjlTKBLGfwbYJDQHpWUSI4RhUu0x0R7ZIwtHqxQmwaK0uGtmaihl7rQjj7FuiOT9vGDf7KdyG-Y=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And look how well I'm doing in this photo. </div><div><div><p></p></div></div></span>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-23226199510695808872021-09-23T10:36:00.004-07:002021-09-23T10:56:26.961-07:00The Shopping Gene <div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1172" data-original-width="1080" height="270" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vg8UAWQWVqo/YUy5ZmtLYII/AAAAAAAAaYs/K5Vtwdr4T9oqzB1N620KG85icu0nNIAvACLcBGAsYHQ/w249-h270/thumbnail-5.jpg" width="249" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">June 1995</div><div><br /></div><div>"Come back friends," my dad would say, whenever my mom and I left to go shopping. The issue was always the same. She wanted me to look stylish. I wanted to blend in. She wanted me to try something new. I wanted to play it safe. The shopping gene didn't kick in for a few decades. We'd stand in the dressing room at an impasse. She thought I looked great. I thought I looked ridiculous. It was hard to compromise. Yet no matter how much I pouted, how much I resisted change, I wanted to please her. Which explains that one time I showed up at school in white Go-Go boots and blue and white plaid knickers, when the dress code called for worn-out bell bottoms. I'd committed a major fashion don't. The look of horror on the face of my junior high crush as I walked by continues to haunt me. Today marks 22 years without my fashion-forward mom. I think of all the things she's missed, the wonderful family additions and celebrations. What I'd give to go shopping with her again. And come back friends.</div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-74043011997251171832021-09-21T10:18:00.006-07:002021-09-23T10:16:01.270-07:00Your Warranty Has Expired <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--tqTo43u5Qk/YUoRO0k2mxI/AAAAAAAAaYk/H56X5EudbQEF4whEJkJuMjJxqE_DNjPggCLcBGAsYHQ/s183/OIP.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="169" height="221" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--tqTo43u5Qk/YUoRO0k2mxI/AAAAAAAAaYk/H56X5EudbQEF4whEJkJuMjJxqE_DNjPggCLcBGAsYHQ/w204-h221/OIP.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>"Good morning, Rapidly Aging Short Jewish Gal. The mensches at Schlepper Auto Services of Van Nuys, you know the place, with the complimentary chocolate babka, a little stale but still tasty, thought we should warn you that your warranty on patience has already expired or is about to expire any second now. But please, don't panic. Or maybe panic a little, we hear it's your specialty. Not that we judge. By pressing 1, you can fix things by signing up for an extended warranty on patience at the low cost of... you have to press 1 to find out. By pressing 2, you can't fix anything and will face the legal consequences. By pressing 3, or worse, hanging up, we'll haunt your phone, not to mention your dreams, for eternity and in terms of patience, you never had much to begin with, so why are we wasting our time? Shana tova."<p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-52564386299055500912021-09-15T11:27:00.006-07:002021-09-15T11:33:18.878-07:00Atonement In Progress<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9AEnqkmEBc/YUI2wyzdiII/AAAAAAAAaXw/dhYADlDIitcVVO2KZeki6GXwfB4ft9VGACLcBGAsYHQ/s589/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-15%2Bat%2B11.08.22%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="589" height="234" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O9AEnqkmEBc/YUI2wyzdiII/AAAAAAAAaXw/dhYADlDIitcVVO2KZeki6GXwfB4ft9VGACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-15%2Bat%2B11.08.22%2BAM.png" width="320" /></a></div>On the eve of Yom Kippur, my atonement list isn't all that long, probably because I've gone nowhere and done bupkis in the past year, other than sit on my tuchas and binge watch darkly dystopian television. Since last Yom Kippur, I've barely yelled at anyone or flipped anyone off. Well, that's not completely true, I did flip off a jaywalker after he called me a bitch for not screeching to a halt and causing a pile-up on Magnolia so he could cross in the middle of a very busy boulevard. Still, I waited till he was out of view to flip him off, so he didn't see my hostile, well-deserved gesture. So it doesn't really count, does it? Of course not. Now, I'm not saying I've been a perfect human, but I've behaved better than other years. If that doesn't get me inscribed in the Book of Life Is Life, what will? Maybe this silly atonement song. Then again, maybe not. <div><div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">You better not cheat</i></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>You better not lie</i></span></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>You better not eat</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I'm telling you why</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Yom Kippur is coming to town</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>God's making a list</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>And checking it twice</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Gonna find out who's atoning their vice</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Yom Kippur is coming to town</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>God knows when you are fasting</i></span></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>God knows when you're a fake</i></span></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">God knows when you've been bad or worse</i></div><div class="verse" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>So atone for kugel's sake<br /></i></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYy1DEkYNbM/YUI6qYVxKzI/AAAAAAAAaYY/0vUr6lMZQeMj2y1b25i6EqGvKKJ-XSK1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s121/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-15%2Bat%2B11.15.48%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="119" data-original-width="121" height="220" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYy1DEkYNbM/YUI6qYVxKzI/AAAAAAAAaYY/0vUr6lMZQeMj2y1b25i6EqGvKKJ-XSK1ACLcBGAsYHQ/w222-h220/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-09-15%2Bat%2B11.15.48%2BAM.png" width="222" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">May you be inscribed in </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Book of Life Is Life </div></div></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-84744415938529346722021-09-06T09:21:00.005-07:002021-09-06T09:32:26.579-07:00Pass The Diapers <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nl-Oe-imPvU/YTY_56FJL4I/AAAAAAAAaXo/9fWPpg-ciKMIF1zz_9PkBRGjJbh7wvl9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1306/thumbnail-7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1306" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nl-Oe-imPvU/YTY_56FJL4I/AAAAAAAAaXo/9fWPpg-ciKMIF1zz_9PkBRGjJbh7wvl9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail-7.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, it wasn't exactly your typical early-bird Shana Tova soirée. The look on Claire's face says it all. Can you blame her for pondering this particular moment? For thinking, "Why is Rosie, the Rescue Pup adopted by Scotty and Meg, wearing one of my diapers?" It's bad enough Rosie and Blakey, only half-pictured here, but trust me, fully engaged, are always trying to steal her toys. But her diapers, too? Where's the justice in that? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-x2_8hzsag7Q/YTY2uCH1VXI/AAAAAAAAaXA/DWtiYIwYk-YbHRNN5-u1lGZDm4GhXy5XgCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-x2_8hzsag7Q/YTY2uCH1VXI/AAAAAAAAaXA/DWtiYIwYk-YbHRNN5-u1lGZDm4GhXy5XgCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-6.jpg" width="180" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Where's my festive doggy-approved diaper? </div><div style="text-align: center;">Answer: In the dryer. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>If there's an easy way to tell a toddler that the diaper-clad doggy, supposedly fixed <i>before</i> her adoption, was, in fact, not fixed, and mere weeks before her scheduled fixing went into heat, I eagerly await your input. I barely understood the situation myself. Sure, a doggy diaper avoids leakage. That part, I get. But avoiding the very amorous Blakey, fixed long ago but still full of certain canine urges, turned out to be impossible. Cries of, "Blakey! Stop trying to hump Rosie!" accomplished zilch. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bxgDnkCDxsE/YTY89A46IZI/AAAAAAAAaXQ/oC_CC9b8jhgau8xM2FCKr4ruFXOQFaVPgCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bxgDnkCDxsE/YTY89A46IZI/AAAAAAAAaXQ/oC_CC9b8jhgau8xM2FCKr4ruFXOQFaVPgCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-8.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">And yet, the nice people in the above photo, and those who preferred to remain off-camera, took the whole diaper debacle in stride. Let's just say it could be worse. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KEg4Z0m8mF8/YTY_ADyf9pI/AAAAAAAAaXY/2r48I0EE7FALRNVc939m-zvvB1scuIfsQCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KEg4Z0m8mF8/YTY_ADyf9pI/AAAAAAAAaXY/2r48I0EE7FALRNVc939m-zvvB1scuIfsQCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-5.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Shana tova! May you have a sweet new year. </div><div style="text-align: center;">And may your diapers stay dry.</div></div></div></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-69241526497597497562021-08-31T10:26:00.012-07:002021-08-31T15:25:47.561-07:00Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TAKZYD1vyVw/YS5lbkcE_NI/AAAAAAAAaWM/4qF5D7MmghMjIrM5NHQdy4hokYxGHmFogCLcBGAsYHQ/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-08-31%2Bat%2B10.22.34%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="538" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TAKZYD1vyVw/YS5lbkcE_NI/AAAAAAAAaWM/4qF5D7MmghMjIrM5NHQdy4hokYxGHmFogCLcBGAsYHQ/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-08-31%2Bat%2B10.22.34%2BAM.png" width="260" /></a></div><br /></div></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;"><i>(A few years ago, I wrote this "Gypsy" spoof honoring the New Year. I don't remember writing it, but then, I don't remember what day it is. What I do know is this. I think of kugel and break into song. Whether I'm making kugel, serving kugel, or most importantly, eating kugel, there's a song in my soul. And here's the evidence.) </i></span><i style="color: #111111;"> </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have some kugel, Mr. Goldstone!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have a napkin, have chop liver, have a chair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have some tzimmes, Mr. Goldstone!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Any tzimmes that I can spare I'll be glad to share!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have a dish, have a fork, have gefilte, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">D</span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">on’t have pork.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Put your feet up. Feel at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have some brisket, have some Triscuit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Would you like to hear a poem? <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Put a kippah on your dome? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have some challah, Mr. Goldstone!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Tell me any little thing that I can do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Rest your tuches, Mr. Goldstone!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Here's a tallis for you!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Everybody give a cheer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Abraham is sitting here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Mr. Goldstone I love you!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have a Goldstone, Mr. Kugel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Tell me any little thing that I can do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Say gut yontif, Mr. Yom Tov.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Have a sweet year, have a few!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Blow the shofar, Mr. G!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;">Mr. Goldstone, I love you!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="color: #111111; font-family: inherit;"><i>(apologies to Jules Styne & Stephen Sondheim) </i></span></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-90693670740230856162021-08-23T09:40:00.004-07:002021-08-23T09:43:05.009-07:00Good Answer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iD8xiBclU3A/YSPD8BrMakI/AAAAAAAAaWA/_IHlTJZj1BABmkYvVqe3aISaY2jdi5nsACLcBGAsYHQ/s1101/thumbnail-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iD8xiBclU3A/YSPD8BrMakI/AAAAAAAAaWA/_IHlTJZj1BABmkYvVqe3aISaY2jdi5nsACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail-3.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>This morning, on the occasion of our 41st wedding anniversary, I'm happy to report that I can still surprise longtime hubby. By now, you'd think I would've already asked him all the important questions. But today, a new one popped into my keppy. As I repositioned his early morning sweatshirt, draped ever-so-casually over his manly executive schlep bag, I asked:<p></p><p>"Honey, are you going to be wearing this sofa today?"</p><p>"Um..."</p><p>"Oh, sh*t. Did I just ask if you're going to be wearing a sofa?"</p><p>"You did."</p><p>"If this isn't early dementia, what is?"</p><p>"It's just your brain processing too much at the same time."</p><p>Let's face it. The man just gets me. For 41 years, I've been posing all kinds of questions. Nonsensical. Rhetorical. Multiple choice. And he always knows the best answer. </p><p>After the sofa inquiry, I followed up with this: </p><p>"Honey? Would you still marry me today?" </p><p>"Yes, I would, over and over again." </p><p>See what I mean?</p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-44238620521494489512021-08-19T11:50:00.009-07:002021-08-23T08:49:33.536-07:00The Way We Were <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDDR3GM-JRgI4j-wfa6e2siddITdzQGhNzXqUtabh5igUX2nIsMVdoiR1a_okHdacFx4liJYs9_nV4p3kzRVd79cKPzLHG_X56dUqtbc6ZwBh5d5pdiE1Ddes1yp0KADHGrvzNq_BmZBLwY9KlnA02E7SO8cTPaopPWSVHO3s6bfrekWHfgAZZ9Ufh=s604" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="385" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDDR3GM-JRgI4j-wfa6e2siddITdzQGhNzXqUtabh5igUX2nIsMVdoiR1a_okHdacFx4liJYs9_nV4p3kzRVd79cKPzLHG_X56dUqtbc6ZwBh5d5pdiE1Ddes1yp0KADHGrvzNq_BmZBLwY9KlnA02E7SO8cTPaopPWSVHO3s6bfrekWHfgAZZ9Ufh=s320" width="204" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">"Oh, Hubbell, remember that time we ate hot wings </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">on </span><span style="text-align: left;">the beach, </span><span style="text-align: left;">and I </span><span style="text-align: left;">dripped sauce all over </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">my nice blouse?"</span></div><p>Well, it had to happen, I suppose. The Hot Wings Place on Van Nuys, the one that made me think, "Why would anyone want hot wings?" has closed. The only time I ever thought about hot wings was when I passed by the Hot Wings Place en route to Gelson’s, my personal homeland, more overpriced than ever before, and not making any apologies. How do I know the Hot Wings Place has closed? The boarded up windows were a giveaway. So many boarded up windows in my general vicinity. At this point, I feel sad when anything closes, even if I never went there. I'm feeling a little sentimental about The Way We Were, not just the movie, but P.C. (Pre-Covid.) I won't miss you, Hot Wings Place, but I liked knowing you were there. It probably didn't help that another Hot Wings Place just opened two minutes away. I won't go there either, but I'll be sad when it closes, a few months from now. Sometimes, change is a good thing. These days, I'm just looking for a little consistency, hot wings or otherwise.</p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-56582549037981556702021-07-31T11:06:00.006-07:002021-08-01T08:33:48.237-07:00Synchronized Worry Circle <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_z0V6hK2Mkg/YQWGCK74QAI/AAAAAAAAaVc/Y7mQOPOS228Ip6sP_pSlTXFI06qpRwVqwCLcBGAsYHQ/s401/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-07-31%2Bat%2B10.16.42%2BAM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="401" height="239" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_z0V6hK2Mkg/YQWGCK74QAI/AAAAAAAAaVc/Y7mQOPOS228Ip6sP_pSlTXFI06qpRwVqwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2021-07-31%2Bat%2B10.16.42%2BAM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Aren't they lovely?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;">(Sherman Oaks) In honor of the Tokyo Olympics, a certain kugel maker will host a special competitive event in her palatial estate, beginning at 2 a.m. this Sunday, and lasting until her pandemic concerns subside. "This could take a while," the SJG warned Sports Illustrated. "Synchronized Worrying is a complicated hybrid of sanitized hand-wringing, mask-wearing and fretting, while performing elaborate choreographed pacing in the kitchen and front hallway. Synchronized Worrying demands advanced over-thinking, gastrointestinal fortitude, endurance, crisis management, flexibility, artistic traipsing and precise timing, as well as exceptional sighing and breath control while bent over, cleaning spots on the floor in perfect syncopation. I can't wait to compete with myself, and of course any other double-vaccinated souls brave enough to take me on. But trust me, you've got your work cut out for you. I've been in training since birth." According to the self-proclaimed international blogger, Delta Dawn and the Variants, currently making waves throughout the U.S.A., will agitate participants and on-lookers with an alarming blend of Acid Rock and Show Tunes. </span></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-79440095905158904492021-07-22T10:34:00.006-07:002021-07-22T10:48:32.252-07:00Tiny Houses, Big Dreams<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-obnbxgqXXl8/YPmhNMMJoWI/AAAAAAAAaVI/Nl3CozU4wpsAPXW5VZtX23eIxTphGKqWgCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-obnbxgqXXl8/YPmhNMMJoWI/AAAAAAAAaVI/Nl3CozU4wpsAPXW5VZtX23eIxTphGKqWgCLcBGAsYHQ/w224-h320/thumbnail-1.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">"Can't you see I'm on the phone?"</span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;">Only 14 months old, and my granddaughter Claire has already moved into her own tiny home. Just between us, it seemed a bit early, but I said bupkis. Rather than ask her parents, "Where's the angel girl going to sleep in this place?" -- too judgy -- I praised my daughter-in-law for realizing her design vision, kvelled over the paint job and offered to stock the non-existent fridge. </span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NM0v2MZP1u8/YPmoXgqetOI/AAAAAAAAaVQ/Ckf79PzOklYU9AONKSDHoAFNQ7Eed3oVwCLcBGAsYHQ/thumbnail-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NM0v2MZP1u8/YPmoXgqetOI/AAAAAAAAaVQ/Ckf79PzOklYU9AONKSDHoAFNQ7Eed3oVwCLcBGAsYHQ/w240-h320/thumbnail-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Claire's first pilgrimage to my personal homeland went well. Every aisle of Gelson's sparked extreme joy, as she reached for this jar, that box, giggling, pointing, and exclaiming, "Dat! Dat! Dat!" Of course, the giant Winnie The Pooh mylar balloon at the checkout stand thrilled her the most, and can you blame her? As first outings go, this one was epic. I'll treasure it forever. I can't wait to cook with her on her new stove. Electricity? Who needs it. Just plug in the imagination and away we'll go. </span></div><p></p>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-77637335975610190362021-07-09T10:43:00.007-07:002021-07-09T21:40:16.480-07:00Cute Is Cute <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nn5I2f_2cKU/YOiLFXNcU_I/AAAAAAAAaU8/ACJP175sVOAfylCy45y6vCukkNTGArnqACLcBGAsYHQ/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="219" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nn5I2f_2cKU/YOiLFXNcU_I/AAAAAAAAaU8/ACJP175sVOAfylCy45y6vCukkNTGArnqACLcBGAsYHQ/download.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>Just the other day, please don't ask which day, because I never know for sure, as I walked the Royal Rescue Dog of Questionable Lineage, I thought I heard Robin Williams calling out to me from the great beyond.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6b9X7PHt3mc/YOiIcUrLRbI/AAAAAAAAaUs/ZMeMmSiSU8Mp7qfvEBazJlxCLjnyhld9gCLcBGAsYHQ/2015-08-13-1439428315-3069964-birdcagegif-thumb.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="495" height="230" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6b9X7PHt3mc/YOiIcUrLRbI/AAAAAAAAaUs/ZMeMmSiSU8Mp7qfvEBazJlxCLjnyhld9gCLcBGAsYHQ/2015-08-13-1439428315-3069964-birdcagegif-thumb.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />And he was saying, "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" just like he does in "The Birdcage." I turned my head ever so gently, careful not to wrench the delicate neck parts, and saw a little unleashed dog. I yanked Sir Blakey, assertively, off to the side, for he's not a fan of the Unleashed, but then, who is? Then I heard it again. "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" A dog named Fosse. How cute is that? Unless the woman chasing the lil dog was actually saying something else. Something along the lines of... <div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IIqnYl3IWo4/YOiJpeGIiJI/AAAAAAAAaU0/VvMpaOiSW0oBOrRLFUYnI9RbBrhN8MtagCLcBGAsYHQ/Anthony-Fauci-Meteoweek.com_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IIqnYl3IWo4/YOiJpeGIiJI/AAAAAAAAaU0/VvMpaOiSW0oBOrRLFUYnI9RbBrhN8MtagCLcBGAsYHQ/Anthony-Fauci-Meteoweek.com_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />"Fauci! Fauci! Fauci!" "You named your dog Fauci?" I asked. "Yes," she said, scooping him up in her arms. "How cute is that?" "Pretty cute." A nice neighborly exchange, and what's better than that? Nothing comes to mind. But then, some days are like that. <p></p></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-49276900175975139732021-07-03T08:26:00.003-07:002021-07-03T08:33:22.511-07:00What Freedom Means To Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G2RN9HPl5n8/UdWPtP-fnwI/AAAAAAAAHVU/uKVqyBZVzU0/s276/aniflag.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G2RN9HPl5n8/UdWPtP-fnwI/AAAAAAAAHVU/uKVqyBZVzU0/s400/aniflag.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">Recently rediscovered essay entered in statewide contest:</recently><br /><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">"What Freedom Means To Me" </recently><br />
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">by Carol Starr, 5th grade</recently><br />
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">Warner Avenue Elementary School<br />
<br />
To me, freedom means that I should get to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without getting grounded ever. If I want to talk on the phone with my friends for more than five minutes, I should get to do that without my mom or dad picking up the receiver and saying, "Carol, get off the phone," which embarrasses me and makes me an instant social outcast. All my friends get to talk on the phone for as long as they want. Why shouldn't I have the freedom to do that, too? I don't get it. What's the big deal? </recently><div><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to=""><br /></recently></div><div><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">To me, freedom means that I should get more allowance every week. A lot more. One dollar isn't enough to buy all those groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers I need to make my life complete. To me, freedom means I should get to go in the cool hippy head shop in Westwood and buy the longed-for groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers without getting caught by my mother and officially grounded till I'm 30. I don't get it. What's the big deal? </recently></div><div><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to=""><br /></recently></div><div><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">To me, freedom means I should get to pout all day if want to, and not be told to smile. Maybe I don't feel like smiling. Maybe I feel like pouting. I should have the freedom to make whatever super-mean facial expression I want. To me, freedom means I should get to whine and complain and refuse to come out of my room for days and not be told I'm acting like a big selfish doody-head. If I want to act like a big selfish doody-head, I should have the freedom to do that. This is America. Happy 4th of July. Whoopee. </recently></div><div><recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to=""><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dtuBADSmc6Q/YOCC51Hd9kI/AAAAAAAAaUc/KaasM0QNHes_afn0ZuafLqHjfd-RNt6ywCLcBGAsYHQ/00c2247cdb7e53f2ea5bf7d533f23564.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="420" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dtuBADSmc6Q/YOCC51Hd9kI/AAAAAAAAaUc/KaasM0QNHes_afn0ZuafLqHjfd-RNt6ywCLcBGAsYHQ/w251-h320/00c2247cdb7e53f2ea5bf7d533f23564.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>Recently rediscovered rejection letter for "Write An Essay About Freedom/Win Cash Prize":<br />Dear Miss Starr,<br />The Committee for Freedom has reviewed your essay, "What Freedom Means To Me." The Committee for Freedom feels you've missed the point by about a zillion miles. The Committee for Freedom hereby bars you from ever entering another essay contest for as long as you live. </recently><br />
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to=""><br /></recently>
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">You should be ashamed of yourself,</recently><br />
<recently 6th="" and="" big="" br="" cash="" contest="" essay="" for="" freedom="" grade="" hat="" me="" means="" prize.="" rediscovered="" statewide="" submitted="" to="">The Committee for Freedom
</recently></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-52666733709320248252021-06-16T09:54:00.002-07:002021-06-16T10:04:34.318-07:00The Empty Driveway<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><href aui="" bfyf0foiuwvfm0n6ojcimhntsg2fzhpgclcbgasyhq="" bp.blogspot.com="" https:="" imageanchor="1" opnng7x0i="" s1440="" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" thumbnail-1.jpg="" ved5bvhbpy0=""><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vED5BVHbPy0/YMopnNg7X0I/AAAAAAAAaUI/SbFyF0foIUwvFm0n6ojCImhntSG2FzhpgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumbnail-1.jpg" /></href></div>Early this morning, longtime hubby wandered into the bedroom, post-walkies, accompanied by Sir Blakey, and updated me on a D.D.D. <div><br /></div><div>A Deeply Disturbing Development:<p></p><p>"Are you sitting down?"</p><p>"What does it look like?"</p><p>"From where I stand, it looks like you're sitting."</p><p>"Spill it. I can take it. I'm one semi-tough SJG."</p><p>"The driveway is empty."</p><p>"Don't tell me that."</p><p>"I can't hide it from you."</p><p>"Are you sure?"</p><p>"I've checked 10 times."</p><p>"Ten times?"</p><p>"Okay. Two times." </p><p>"You're saying there's nothing on the driveway." </p><p>"That's what I'm saying."</p><p>"This is outrageous."</p><p>"It really is." </p><p>"Did you call them?"</p><p>"Um. No."</p><p>"Why didn't you call them?"</p><p>"You're so much better at calling."</p><p>"It's one of my gifts." </p><p>"So you'll call?"</p><p>"Hell, yes, I'll call. They're going to be sorry I called." </p><p>"Go get 'em, tiger."</p><p>With that, he hits the treadmill, and I hit the phone. </p><p>"Is this a delivery issue?" asks the pre-recorded voice. </p><p>"I'm calling, aren't I?" </p><p>"There's no need for sarcasm. Press 1."</p><p>"You press 1." </p><p>"We're sorry for the delay."</p><p>"Sorry, my tush."</p><p>"Would you still like your paper delivered?"</p><p>"Sure. Fine. Whatever." </p><p>"Press 1."</p><p>"Hang on a minute, Missy. When will it be delivered?"</p><p> "Eff if I know. I'm only a machine."</p><p>Click. </p></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-4003816572464436612021-06-08T09:59:00.007-07:002021-06-10T09:37:59.202-07:00The Newly-Revised Dress Code <div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sfM0mAlRFLQ/YL-gvo1GHqI/AAAAAAAAaT4/VCVlp-kHitEfLt4V4nMEt7pFNDS6kyo5wCLcBGAsYHQ/R825a399785f73b5b82334144132138ce.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="431" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sfM0mAlRFLQ/YL-gvo1GHqI/AAAAAAAAaT4/VCVlp-kHitEfLt4V4nMEt7pFNDS6kyo5wCLcBGAsYHQ/w241-h320/R825a399785f73b5b82334144132138ce.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;">"Dinner!"</div><div class="separator"><br /></div><div class="separator">After much deliberation and legal counsel, the Upstairs Management of the SJG Palatial Estate has decided to up its game and revise its long-standing Dress Code. Just this morning, the team informed all occupants to, "Dress for the occasion, or face the consequences. Pretend you're going somewhere, even if you're not, which, knowing you, is generally the case." The list of intolerable attire includes: Drawstring daywear, denim nightwear, infamous footwear, wrong-headed hatwear, inside-out shirtwear, and offensive sockwear. After 4 p.m., formalwear is now mandatory. All occupants, vaccinated visitors and canines must abide by the rules or face immediate expulsion. Children under two are exempt. Thank you for your cooperation. </div><div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RIQrodUTvW4/YL-lJJxlxaI/AAAAAAAAaUA/FkQBTcJn3ggWPRUoj7qE5gkJ0Y85PfAmACLcBGAsYHQ/R5d9b0e04b2bdccd821fb804f8412dea4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="346" height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RIQrodUTvW4/YL-lJJxlxaI/AAAAAAAAaUA/FkQBTcJn3ggWPRUoj7qE5gkJ0Y85PfAmACLcBGAsYHQ/w221-h320/R5d9b0e04b2bdccd821fb804f8412dea4.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"What part of 'bring up the sleeves' didn't you hear?" </div></div></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-28160481199294068722021-05-01T09:51:00.008-07:002021-05-01T10:09:38.457-07:00Skip This Month<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lTlHpuyFhAU/YI2E0gzIwAI/AAAAAAAAaHk/rnKurzSYWzoZyb9GiOlw3C2huvhJXT-hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s750/Skipping-Rope.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lTlHpuyFhAU/YI2E0gzIwAI/AAAAAAAAaHk/rnKurzSYWzoZyb9GiOlw3C2huvhJXT-hwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Skipping-Rope.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span>Today I received the dreaded email that wants to shame me on the first of every month. Sure, I could've unsubscribed from this monthly guilt fest years ago. But God forbid I should miss a big discount on celebrity workout clothes that might make me feel and look celebrity-adjacent. Today I decided to spruce up my attitude, reframe the email's not-so-hidden agenda, make a healthier choice. I called forth the Second Shot Euphoria. I proved that all the therapy I've endured in the past has been worth it. This morning, when the celebrity workout website asked me if I'd like to buy some super slimming, life-changing, discounted body-hugging leotard, I didn't even hesitate. I clicked,"Skip this month!" And when the second opportunity to rethink my dumb decision appeared, complete with photos of highly-toned gals who look good in anything tight, and asked, "Are you sure you want to skip this month?" I clicked again, damn it. I clicked with unbridled glee. Embedded in my two-step clickery is my own empowering message. This isn't just the chance to skip this month, bitches! By clicking skip, I'm skipping the guilt, the </span><i>tsuris, </i><span>the </span><i>chazerai </i>that comes with the package.<span> I'm </span><span>making a bold statement here, not just to the celebrity workout website, but to myself. I'm immune from the shaming, the fear, the uncertainty of a missed discount I may regret, and so much more. One day, I may work up the courage to unsubscribe from the celebrity workout website. But not yet. Not when I've just discovered the joy of clicking, "Skip it!" Not once, but twice. </span></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2126955231302227158.post-28905366021504216732021-04-24T09:08:00.006-07:002021-04-24T09:16:39.156-07:00Double Jeopardy!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e-PNG72q9yw/YIQ-dxTwYaI/AAAAAAAAaHQ/Mjwmkx0moN4CZ2A3XW0Mpq0EhwAOcJP2gCLcBGAsYHQ/s265/th.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="265" height="217" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e-PNG72q9yw/YIQ-dxTwYaI/AAAAAAAAaHQ/Mjwmkx0moN4CZ2A3XW0Mpq0EhwAOcJP2gCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h217/th.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The other night around 7:12, I asked the cute guy in the nice leather recliner, "Did you see that?" "See what?" "Oh my God! You didn't see it?" "Can you be more specific?" "I don't think it's ever happened before." He nodded, supportively. His longtime wifey was in the midst of processing. It might take me a while to form a declarative sentence. This is the newish me, Pandemic Version. Most stories start off well: "Honey, I wanted to tell you..." Then I drift off. Sometimes I reclaim whatever it was I wanted to tell him. Sometimes I don't. But the other night was different. I hadn't forgotten. I was just dragging out the suspense, waiting for Anderson Cooper, the guest host of "Jeopardy!" and my personal favorite of the guest hosts in rotation, to acknowledge the typo on the big blue board. That's right, you heard me. The Typo. The answer in Potpourri for $200 began: "Aafter..." Two A's. Come on. If that's not Double Jeopardy! what is? But Anderson said nada. On a rare occasion, the "Jeopardy!" host comes back <i>aafter</i><span> a boo-boo, and says, "Hey, viewers, listen, we really eff'd up, it happens, and we're sorry." Not this time. There was no oops, no shout out to the SJG, possibly the only human in the known universe to have caught the afore-mentioned "Aafter." I can picture the legend himself, A. Trebek, looking down from his heavenly perch in dismay. As you can see, I'm still not over it. I may never be over it. Anytime I make a typo, it hurts my soul. But a typo on "Jeopardy!" is a whole other kind of personal trauma. My spouse, however, has moved on. Which is why, from this point on, I'll keep reminding him of the typo. But only every time we watch "Jeopardy!" </span></div>Carol Starr Schneiderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05724433226951301598noreply@blogger.com2