He Was Her Boyfriend!

A conversation at the no-longer-all-gal gym:
"I'm so sad about my boyfriend."
"Your boyfriend?"
"The Champ."
"Back up. Your boyfriend?"
"We dated."
"You dated Muhammed Ali?"
"For a month."
"When?"
"1967."
"Wow, honey."
"I know."
"Don't hold back. Tell. Me. Everything."
"We met through a friend. The Champ didn't drive. So I drove us around. We'd go to the beach and recite poetry to each other."
"Oh. My. God. What did you recite?"
"The Raven."
"The Raven? Not romantic, Shakespearean sonnets?"
"No. I went with Poe."
"Not 'shall I compare thee to a summer's day'?
"We were platonic."
"You might not have been if you'd recited love poems, instead of quothing the Raven nevermore."
"It was sweet."
"Sweet? How far can you get with sweet?"
"Stop."
"Unless..."
"I gotta go."
"No, wait. I get it now. You came up with the 'float like a butterfly' line, didn't you?"
"No, Carol."
"Don't be shy. Take some credit here. I can see the whole scenario. You and the Champ in the car, a butterfly floats by, you make up a poem on the spot. 'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.' Muhammed Ali looks at you and says, 'That's good. Mind if I use it?' "
"That didn't happen."
"You could've married Muhammed Ali."
"That's enough."
"You could've been one of his wives!"
"I never should've mentioned it."
"It's too late now."

Go Ahead, Open A Vein

"She says her blood type is coffee."

"What do you want? Blood?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Fine, go ahead. Open a vein."
"Left arm or right?"
"Will it hurt more on my left or right?" 
"Probably the same."
"Then take a little from both."

Potato Chips Help

Dear SJG,
How do you mend a broken heart? I'm not a cardiologist.
Thanks,
Not A Doctor

Dear Doctor Not,
You mend with a nice sandwich, maybe a cookie or two. Potato chips help. You mend with your ears. You listen. You advise a little, but not too much. You try to say the right things. Maybe you mess up a little. You're human. You hug, probably too much. But you can't help yourself. You promise that this too shall pass, because it will. That's one thing you know for certain. It will pass.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

The Last Birthday

Kiddie Park with Mom

Her birthday. The first one she missed was the hardest. The first time I couldn’t sing to her, take her to lunch, buy her a gift she didn’t need. I knew it would be hard. I braced myself, preparing for it months ahead. I had it all figured out. I set the day she would've been 73 aside. I thought of how we'd spent her last birthday. Her 72nd. Lunch at the Bel Air Hotel with her best friend, also named Gloria. She could barely eat. She was just happy to be with us. Nancy Reagan showed up in red. Secret Service agents everywhere. We had a good laugh over that.

I thought about all the questions I'd managed to squeeze in toward the end. About her childhood and the day her father died.  About the time she saw Frank Sinatra and her first apartment with Dad and that ugly wallpaper she hated so much. The wallpaper that showed up again in New York, in their next apartment, the one Dad picked out. What did she do when she saw it?  Laugh, cry, scream? About the day I was born. In an Oldsmobile. In the parking lot of County General. How exactly did that happen? And did it explain my own tendency to be overly-dramatic at times? I asked, she answered. The closer she got, the more I wanted to know. She didn’t mind. She sat there, smiling through her pain. No question was too personal. Nothing was off-limits. My whole life, she told me whatever I needed to know.

After she was gone she kept telling me, in my dreams. I asked, she answered. In her own way. Sometimes wordless. I summoned her forth. I begged for a visit. A sign. Anything.  A peaceful smile. Otherworldly. Pain-free. It's been a while since she's made a guest appearance.

Each birthday got a little easier. Eventually, I'm not sure when, exactly, I stopped keeping track of how old she would've been. An age she never attained took on less importance. It seemed neither here nor there. And no matter which birthday today would've been, I still miss her just the same.

(I wrote this in 2000 and continue to tweak it every year.)

Donuts For You, But Not Me

In honor of National Donut Day, something I have never marked on my calendar, I plan to eat zero donuts. Why? I'll tell you why. When my grandparents and Future Daddy arrived in Los Angeles in 1938 -- as a student of the SJG Oeuvre, maybe you know this story, but here it is again -- Grandpa and my Daddy-to-be worked at a donut factory. Grandpa drove a donut truck without brakes, and Future Comedy Writer Ben Starr made donuts. He ate so many donuts, he vowed to never eat one again. A man of principle, he kept his word. I never saw him eat a donut. He felt strongly about it. My mother, a smart woman, never bought donuts. So why would I eat a donut today? I never eat them. Well, that's not entirely true. If someone brings a donut into my house, I may take a nibble. Work-wise, hubby is the designated donut-bringer. He brings donuts to work every Friday. He is beloved for his donut-bringing. If he forgets to bring donuts on Friday, the workplace erupts. People openly weep. Some pound the floor in despair. It's a whole thing. So today, hubby will celebrate National Donut Day with a big pink box. Donut-wise, the SJG will abstain, in honor of my donut-disliking Daddy. But please, don't let that stop you. Go have a donut. Have two. Why should you deny yourself just because I am?

He Makes Me Feel Like Dancing

Hips come and hips go and my beloved dance teacher Doug Rivera has now had both of them replaced. His latest hospital outing brought him bionic hip number two and the requisite helping of pain.  After six weeks, he’s dancing like a pro again. He’s Gene Kelly meets Iron Man. He may be 70-something but he still sports the wide and mischievous grin of a naughty teenage boy.  Doug’s jazz class caters to middle-aged (and beyond) dance devotees who’ve been twirling around in search of our inner Isadoras since puberty. We’ve got our Bob Fosse moves down, more or less. We’ve done our fair share of questionable double-turns and lopsided leaps.

Oh, yes, we’ve been there and done that with more ego-deflating teachers than we care to recall. Now we just want to groove at our own decelerated pace. We don’t want to be judged anymore, thank you. The days of tyrannical instructors disparaging us are well behind us. Doug praises us for simply showing up. “You made it!” he calls out, excitedly, even if you’re a few minutes late. He tells us we’re limber if we manage to bend down and touch our toes. He tells us we don’t have to get the routine right as long as we smile. He tells us we’re wonderful… amazing… beautiful. We tell him he’s delusional. Still, you can’t put a price tag on that sort of crazy unconditional love and non-stop encouragement. At this stage of the game, it’s just what the doctor ordered.

Cuckoo For Couscous

A copious heap o' couscous

"Why did you buy two boxes of couscous, honey?"
"I thought one wasn't enough."
"It's enough."
"Are you sure?"
"Unless you're really in the mood for couscous."
"I am."
"So you want me to make both boxes?"
"Yes."
"Okay, but I'm pretty sure it's too much for the three of us."

A son's reaction 

"Ma! Holy sh*t! This is an insane amount of couscous."
"I know."
"Why did you make so much?"
"Daddy made me do it."

A hubby's reevaluation 

"I guess we didn't need this much couscous."
"Not so much."