Random Acts of Silliness

"I've asked you never to call me that."

Yesterday I was standing on the corner, talking to my neighbor Joe, while Dusty, the elderly pup, rested on the sidewalk, worn out from our one-block walk. As Joe and I discussed movies, as we often do, and the Golden Globes, and other highly intellectual, important cultural stuff like that there, an old guy drove up and stopped. Long white hair. Long beard. Looked kinda like a mall Santa out of uniform. The old guy rolled down the window, and yelled, "What do you call a smart blond?" In unison, we said, "What?" The old guy yelled, "A Golden Retriever!"

Dusty looked up at me, as if to say, "Hey! I'm a Yellow Lab, not a Golden Retriever." I could've pointed that out. I could've said, "What a lame sexist joke!" But all I did was laugh like it was the funniest joke ever. I needed a good laugh, even if the joke was dumb. Joe and I both laughed at the random silliness of it all. It's not often someone yells a joke out the car window. They might yell other things that tell you where to stick it. They might flip you off in traffic. But a joke? That's pretty rare. On top of which, the old guy's timing wasn't half-bad. He gets extra points for that. Now he just needs to work on the material.

Jack, Say Hello To The Kids

"Age is strictly a case of mind over matter. 

If you don't mind, it doesn't matter."

This week, I'm getting older. Well, every day, I'm getting older. This week, the calendar makes it official. This week, the memories are popping up, the reminders that you keep getting older until one day you land at, God willing, a ripe old age and that's all, folks. This week, I'm thinking non-stop about my dad. A very considerate man, pretty much a full-time mensch, he never would have made my birthday a sad day. At least, not intentionally. So he waited three more days. Still, this Friday will feel sad, anyway. No way around that one. To cheer myself up -- he wouldn't want me to indulge in the sadness -- I'm thinking of happy things, including Jack Benny. Jack Benny gave my dad his first break in radio. And one day, years and years later, my parents took us to Trader Vic's. We only went there on special occasions. We always sat in the Captain's Room. On this occasion, John's high school graduation, we noticed that Jack Benny, a very old man by then, was sitting in the corner with his wife Mary, and Gregory Peck and his wife Veronique. Jack Benny was the last one to leave the table. As he passed our table (at a snail's pace), my dad said, "Jack, say hello to the kids." Jack Benny looked at us, and in a classic deadpan, said, "Hello, kids." My dad introduced himself: "I'm Ben Starr. You gave me my start in radio." Jack Benny nodded, whether he remembered or not. The Jack Benny story always makes me smile. The Jack Benny story reminds me that my dad was fearless. Once you've flown missions over Nazi-occupied France, what could be scarier than that?

My Calgon Escape

George and Amal and her white gloves... Julianne and Kate...
JLo and her Golden Globes...and Jennifer, too.

I can't help it. I love it. I love "The Golden Globes." So much love. As if I even had to remind the eldest when he called from up north to ridicule my Calgon escape.

Or in my case, in front of the TV

"Ma! Are you watching this sh*t?"
"Shush! I just started it."
"Wait till you see what -- "
"No spoilers! I recorded it."
"But Ma!"
"I mean it!"
"Can I just tell you this one stupid -- "
"No!"
"Oh, come on! Please!"
"Zip it, you."
"It's just a dumb --"
"Don't you call it dumb, mister."
"Ma!"
"I'm hanging up."

Amal may look bored, but I live for this crap.

The Bagel & Lox Diet

The SJG proudly announces the all-new Bagel & Lox Diet Plan (trademark pending). In an exclusive interview with The Sherman Oaks Tattler, she explained why her diet is better than all other diets in the universe. "Listen," she said, dabbing a drop of cream cheese off her upper lip, "I've tried many diets. I've lost and regained the same five, six, seven, okay, fine, eight or nine pounds since I was a radical feminist freshwoman in college. I've counted calories and points. I've weighed myself. I've not weighed myself. There's only so much punishment I can take. Finally, I came up with the meal plan that works for me. For breakfast, I eat a bagel with cream cheese and lox. It's so delish I feel grateful just to have teeth with which to bite into this masterpiece. What kind of bagel depends on whatever greets me at eye-level in the fridge, although I'm partial to sesame. I don't like to over-reach in the morning. I might pull something. And make sure the lox is good lox.

"Cheap lox ruins the whole deal. Go imported. Local lox is disappointing, in my personal opinion. Toast the bagel first. That goes without saying. For lunch, I have another bagel. Maybe an onion, maybe a plain. By now I can bend and stretch and find a decent bagel just about anywhere. Sometimes I find them hidden all over the house. Whoever is doing this, stop eff'n with the SJG. For dinner? You guessed it. Another bagel, cream cheese and lox. This diet, while a touch pricey, keeps me satisfied till the moment I put my keppy down on my fancy Tempurpedic pillow. With this diet, I want for nothing, expect maybe a piece of chocolate rugelach or a nice slice of Halavah.  Sure, it's carb-centric. Sure, there's plenty gluten and a distinct lack of quinoa, kale and antioxidant-rich what-have-you. I don't necessarily lose weight on the SJG Bagel & Lox Diet, but at this point, I'm just trying to be happy and fit into some of the items in my closet."

Zoomer Girl

How do they expect me to read this? 

The rumors are true. The SJG must indeed fess up. I'm a zoomer. A Zoomer Girl. You heard me. I like to zoom. "Who's zooming who?" the great Aretha once asked. The answer, plain and simple: I am. I'm zooming as much as possible. To zoom is one of the greatest benefits of the modern page. To zoom allows me to do what I can no longer do well: See. To zoom in on the fine print is my ultimate joy. To enlarge the letters on a screen... this is my nirvana. I just zoomed while I was writing this. Bumped it up to 200 percent. I bet you didn't even know I was zooming.

Zooming is a private matter. Or a public one, if you're an over-sharer like me. I'm not sure when I first discovered the zoom feature, it may have been a revelation courtesy of one of my tech-savvy sons, but once I did, I couldn't stop with the zooming. I was hooked. Anything that lets me see better is a good thing. Why should I squint and strain and add wrinkles to this rapidly-aging punim? Why should I suffer the slights of the visually-impaired? I zoom because I can. Whether I'm writing, whether I'm reading, I'm Zoomer Girl, capable of reading the smallest print with the greatest of ease. Who cares if one sentence fills up the entire screen? I have no pride when it comes to zooming. I will continue zooming. You can't stop me.

My new glasses: chic and clunky 

But like all of your finer addictions, zooming has a downside. I want to zoom in on everything. I want a zoom feature in my life. I need a portable zoom lens embedded in my keppy. I want to zoom in on what's waiting up ahead. I want to zoom in and overanalyze the situation. I want to zoom in and over-magnify my life and then reduce it to what's really important, and what isn't. For I am Zoomer Girl. I am my own super hero.

(with a nod to my daily inspiration, my co-conspirator: Cathy Hamilton, the original Boomer Girl.)

Then & Now

The eldest son, 13, on the eve of his Bar Mitzvah.

The eldest son, 27 today. A mensch then. A mensch now.  I'm one lucky SJG. Happy birthday to the San Franciscan. I'm so proud of him, I could scream. But instead, I'll just sit here, rest my voice, and kvell over everything he's accomplished.

Every Cartoon...

... tells a story.

Satirical. Political. Religious. Ethnic. 

In Paris yesterday, the story changed...

... to terrorism and tragedy, horror and disbelief.

Condolences to those who raised their pencils... 

Demonstration in Paris last night

... in the name of free expression.