Teenage Mutant Ninja Mother

Despite my best efforts, my sons are fully grown.  I've done everything in my power to turn back time and keep them little boys.  I've offered to read them bedtime stories, sing them lullabies, and rock them to sleep. I've offered to quiz them on their spelling words, teach them how to tie their shoes and zip their jeans.   I've offered to comb their hair, brush their teeth and wipe their tushies.  I've offered them juice boxes, Teddy Grahams and Ritz Bitz.  I've coddled, smothered and enabled.  I've scolded, whined and threatened.  Nothing seems to be working.  Not a single thing.  They just keep getting older, smarter, wiser and funnier.   It's time to face reality.  Time to return the Where's Waldo sheets, the Winnie the Pooh backpacks, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Velcro sneakers, the Pokemon trading cards, the Power Rangers swords, the WWF wrestling action figures.   My sons are fully grown.  My work here is done.

Early Morning Amnesia

Doctors are looking into the mystery of a Sherman Oaks woman who awoke this morning speaking only Yiddish, with no memory of what caused all the aches and tsouris and basic deterioration of assorted body parts, including, but not limited to, her right knee, her left quad, her gluteus maximus, her upper torso, her lower back, and her perennially clogged proboscis.  As the notorious over-exerciser attempted to get out of bed, she was heard moaning, "Oy... oy veysmere... oy gevalt."  The U.N. interpreter called in to translate shared his thoughts with concerned medical personnel.  "What she's saying comes down to this:  Oh, pain, oh, agony, oh, woe is me, oh, poor poor pitiful me."

On The Market

It's true, I get a little too attached to places that treat me like a human being.  Give me a place where the people smile and act happy to see me and I will keep coming back.  I like to feel special.  I like to feel loved and adored and worshipped on every level, especially when I go to the market.  I spend a huge portion of my life looking at produce, evaluating the merits of a decent banana or a nice melon.  I study the strawberries and wonder when they're going to turn on me.  I take my time with the tomatoes.  I hover over the poultry like a mother hen.  I research my options.  Bone or boneless?  Tender is the chicken?  These are the questions that define my existence.  I need a pretty environment to do my work in, people.  I'm not talking about my office.  Please.  It's the Bermuda Triangle in there.  Enter with caution.  I'm talking about my market.  My Gelson's, the fancy-schmancy market I frequent for very personal reasons.  Fine, maybe they're not so personal.

I can't deal with other markets.  I require spiritual guidance and life coaching before I step into Crappy-Ass Pavilions.  This is a market you don't want to know from.  I get agitated in Crappy-Ass Pavilions.  I need a pep talk before I go to Trader Joe's.  I need a tranquilizer to negotiate the parking lot and the lines and the fact that nothing is ever where I expect it to be.  I need to channel my hippy place before I go to Whole Foods.  I have to act healthy and centered and Zen-like in there. I'm none of those things.  I have to pretend I care about organic food.  I don't.  But if I want the grilled salmon that's to die for, I have to go to the place hubby calls Whole Paycheck.

Aw, but Gelson's.  My Gelson's.  I don't get nervous in Gelson's.  I get hap-hap-happy.  I feel peace and tranquility.  So what if things cost a little more?  I'm worth it.  I'd rather go to Gelson's than back into therapy.  Gelson's is a mental health requirement.  What part of this rant aren't you getting?  There's only so much aggravation the SJG can take in one lifetime.  In Gelson's, I'm a celebrity.  In those other markets, I'm nobody.  So.  Why am I telling you this?  The world is falling apart, as we speak, and I'm worried about a market.  Did I say worried?  More like panic-stricken.  This morning's news informs me that my beloved, overpriced Gelson's may be on the market.   As in up for sale.  As in adios, nice market.  Hello, sub-par replacement.  This can't happen.  To me.  I get a little too attached to places that treat me like a human being.  But then, you already know that.

The SJG Greeting

Some people say hello.
Some say hello dere!
Some say hi.
Some say hi-yo!
Some say what up?
Some say whassup?
Some just say 'sup?
Some people say what's new?
Some just say nu?
Some say hey.
The SJG says something else.
The SJG says hellody!
Why do I say hellody?
I have no idea.
I think I made it up.
Or maybe I didn't.
Maybe I heard it and made it my own.
Either way, I always say hellody.
And so does my family.
Hellody is our family greeting.
You walk in the door, you do not say hello.
You say hellody.
You call on the phone, you do not say hey.
You say hellody.
It's the way it is.
It's the way it's always been.
I don't know why.
Why do I say hellody?
I can't say.
I just do.
You're welcome to try it, too.
Open up a window.
Call up a friend.
Send a text.
Send an email.
Send a gorilla gram.
Say hellody.
You'll be glad you did.

My Son, The Decorator

In the end, the eldest totally ignored the advice of the Short Jewish Mother.  This wouldn't be the first time, and won't be the last.  I counseled mocha.  He went with a smooth Belize green for his accent wall.  He turned his quest for a pop of color into an important bonding moment.  Smart boy.  Who better to handle the majority of the painting than his own father?  Nice work, men.  What's next?  I know some carpet that needs replacing.

Note To Self

Dear Self,
What are all these strange notes you leave yourself?  Upstairs, downstairs.  Bedside.  Deskside.  Kitchenside.  Illegible, incomprehensible scribbles.  Random phone numbers attached to names of people you don't remember.  Did you know them at some point?  You must have.  Case in point:  "Call Janet."  Who's Janet?  And why were you supposed to call her?  She must have been important.  You wrote her name at the bottom of the calendar on the fridge.  A coveted spot.  In ink yet!    Did you even call Janet?  Knowing you, you did.  You called and said, "Hi, Janet."  And Janet said, "Hi.  Who is this?"  And you said, "It's me."  "Why are you calling?"  "I have no idea.  I left myself a note to call you."  "I never told you to call me."  "Then why did I write your name and number down?" "I don't know."  "I don't know, either."  "Don't call me again."  "I won't."  "Bye."  "Bye, Janet."

An Accent Wall

A phone call from the eldest:
"So I'm thinking of doing an accent wall."
"That's an expression I've never heard you use in your entire life."
"Paul and Monty did it in their apartment."
"An accent wall?"
"It's changed the whole look."
"Is this my son?"
"I'm tired of all the walls being the same."
"You've only been there a few months."
"I need a pop of color, Mama.  Beige is boring."
"Are you allowed to paint in the apartment?"
"I don't give an eff if I'm allowed to paint.  It's my apartment.  I'll paint if I want to."
"You feel strongly about it."
"They're just going to paint over it when I leave."
"They may charge you for the paint."
"I don't give an eff."
"Okay, then.  What wall are we talking about?"
"Where the table is.  I want it to be its only little area."
"A designated spot for eating."
"That's the idea, Mama."
"What color?"
"Ice coffee."
"With cream, though."
"Yea.  Mocha."
"That could work."
"Or green."
"Green?  I don't know, hon."
"Not a dark green.  A light green."
"Green says hospital waiting room."
"Oh.  I don't want that."
"Get a few samples from the paint store, and see how they look."
"I'm painting on Friday.  I have the day off."
"What's the rush?"
"I want to do it."
"I'd stay in the mocha category."
"I can't wait for you to see it."
"How would that happen?"
"I'll have you over."
"You said that when you moved in."
"You're welcome any time."
"I'm free on Saturday."
"I want to wait till the paint's dry."