Cloudy With A Chance of Humiliation

It's an eye for an eye situation over here in the S.O. It's all about my Ocular Oy Gevalt, my Cataract Catastrophe, my... hang on, I'm thinking of one more... my Visionary Victimization. Let's just say things are cloudy with a chance of humiliation. Take yesterday. Please. I'm in Frieda's kitchen. We've just returned from a construction site, the future home of her darling daughter and son-in-law. White dust, courtesy of what promises to be a spectacular dwelling, now covers my stylish black leather tennies. So I lean over and wipe off the powder with a nice damp paper towel, and suddenly it hits me like a frozen kugel. Oh, dear god, what fresh hell is this? At the bottom of my pants, a hint of black fabric mocks me, something I clearly didn't see when I put them on, because I can't see for ka-ka. My first thought: aha! mine hem has come undone, thanks to a wayward nail. No biggie. I remain calm. I pull on the fabric, just a little even though I shouldn't, pulling makes everything worse, it's right there in my pocket Torah, yet now I can focus, more or less, on what I'm dealing with here. Oh. Okay. It's not an unleashed hem. Oh no, it's so much worse. It's... underwear. You heard me. Underwear. How this has happened, I'll never know for sure, could be a laundry mishap, a static cling issue, but in any event, somehow a pair of black sensible undies latched onto the bottom district of my jeans, and I've been walking around like this for the past few hours. Now Frieda and her hubby Eggy start in with the theories of how the underwear got there, and what would've happened if the underwear had detached from my pant leg and become evidence in a crime scene, and well, the rest of what the three of us come up with in our X-rated version of "The Curious Case of The Underwear" is too risqué to share, I'm just too much of a lady, but I will tell you this: In our naughty scenario, Frieda's on her way to jail to serve a life sentence for doing away with that scoundrel Eggy, on account of my wayward underwear. Stay tuned for whatever dishonor greets your humble, eye-challenged SJG today.

Clear Vision Guaranteed

At the end of the my two-hour visit with the nice doctor who's going to remove the no-so-nice SJG Cataracts (patent not pending) come October, I sat in a tiny office with a nice gal named Anna, aka The Gal Who Takes Your Money. She made so many appointments, pre and post surgery that my keppy continues to spin like a solar-powered dreidel.

"You'll feel no pain afterwards," she promised.
"Can I have that in writing?"
"Well..."
"Have you had cataract surgery?"
"No."
"Then how do you know I'll feel no pain?"
"Trust me, you won't."
"Ok. What about exercise?"
"You can exercise afterwards."
"Can I do yoga?"
"Yoga? Sure. Just don't do any of that... Down Wood Dog."
"Down Wood Dog?"
"You know... that stretchy thing."
"Downward Facing Dog?"
"That's the one."
"So no bending over."
"Right."
"For the rest of my life?"
"No, just... for a week or so."
"Is this the point where I ask you about the Botox?"
"Not necessarily."
"'Cuz there's a sign on the wall that says Ask Me About Botox."
"Are you interested in getting Botox?"
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"I do what I'm told."
"I'll make a note of that on your chart."

Whose Dog Are You?

Dearest Sir Blakey,
Pray tell, why doth your lord and lady callest thou The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage? Methinks tis indeed a slight worthy of revenge.
Your loyal servant,
Seymour The So-Called Shih Tzu

Dearest Seymour,
Who do you think gave ’em the mouse?
Royally Yours,
Sir Blakey

Let's Kvetch

Let's kvetch
Put on your Doc Scholls and kvetch with me
Let's kvetch
To the oys they're blaring on the radio
Let's sigh
While joy drains out of your face
Let's sigh
Sigh while you search for a parking space

If you say kvetch
I'll kvetch with you
And if you say moan
We'll moan
Because I kvetch for you
And each night worry too
That you might fall into the wall
And need a paramedic

Let's kvetch
Let's kvetch
For fear your bones will ache
Let's kvetch
For fear of no tax break
Let's sigh
Big cataracts cloud your eyes
Let's moan
They'll have to remove them, they'll have to remove them

If you say kvetch
I'll kvetch with you
And if you say moan
We'll moan
Because I kvetch for you
And each night worry too
Let’s kvetch
They’ll have to remove them, they’ll have to remove them
Let’s kvetch
Let’s kvetch
Let’s kvetch, kvetch, kvetch

(apologies to David Bowie; I couldn't help myself)

Don't Get Hysterical

No matter the play or the movie, Neil Simon has been making me laugh and occasionally cry, pretty much my entire life. From "Barefoot in the Park" to "The Odd Couple," "Lost In Yonkers" to "The Goodbye Girl," I've worshipped him, so much so that I nearly took a writing class taught by his funny/crazy older brother Danny just to be Neil Simon-adjacent. But two minutes in that moldy-smelling condo meeting room in Brentwood, with the funny/angry lesser-known Simon sent me running. Better I should wait for Neil Simon to teach his own class in a nice-smelling condo meeting room in Brentwood. I waited a long time, and then I gave up. When I found out that one of my Laughing At Lifers appeared in "Broadway Bound" on Broadway, I lost my ka-ka. I went nuts with the questions about Neil Simon. She told me she got the part because he liked her authentic-sounding New York accent. In class tomorrow, I'll give her a condolence hug, whether she wants it or not. Just between us, I'm the one in need of the condolence hug. Meanwhile, here's one of my favorite Neil Simon scenes ever, from "Plaza Suite." Walther Matthau and Lee Grant are the parents. The bride-to-be has locked herself in the bathroom and won't come out, no matter how much they yell, scream and threaten her. I can still remember sitting in the movie theater in Westwood, at 13, laughing hysterically at the perfect blend of schtick and pathos. The fact that Arthur Hiller directed "Plaza Suite" makes it even better. The movie came out in 1971, and who knew that nine years later, I'd be getting married in Arthur's backyard... and no one would have to coax me out of the bathroom. I went of my own free will. And then my parents escorted me across the lawn and the rest is my personal history,

Color Me Sentimental

When I was a wee lil' SJG in my very first bedroom, situated way up in the hills of Beverly in the house my daddy told me he built with his own two hands, a claim no one ever disputed, so I went with it, I had the cutest, tiniest table full of crayons and coloring books. Oh, how I loved my petite makeshift office. I'd sit there and color and dream and stare out the window. I was four. I didn't have a lot going on. 

On a good day, I can see my desk.

But the thing I remember the most was how incredibly disorganized everything was, what with the broken crayons and pencils and dried out markers and overall mayhem. Now and then, my sweet mommy would surprise me and put the crayons back in the box or the plastic cups and arrange my supplies so brilliantly that I'd stare in awe, marveling at the sense of order. The fact that she could color within the lines was magical enough. But this particular skill of putting things where they belonged was on a whole other level of wonderful. I just didn't inherit this ability. But at least I'm consistent. Some days I can see my desk. Some days I can't find a pen anywhere in the general vicinity.

Color me sentimental

This week, I thought of my dear mommy, gone since 1999, when of all things, the ASPCA sent a coloring book calendar for 2019, for no reason other than to remind me that the year was almost over... and it's still August... and after all these years, I'd like nothing better than to sit down at my tiny little table way up in the hills of Beverly and color with my mommy. Wouldn't that be something?

Don't Ask

Dear SJG,
A quick glance at my jammed social calendar -- so many parties!  not enough party dresses!  -- tells me the High Holidays are right around the corner. How did that happen? Didn't we just go through this a year ago?
Sincerely,
What To Wear To Temple

Dear What To Wear,
Another year. Another excuse to buy a new dress. Another reason to atone.

You're Welcome,

The SJG

Dear SJG,
Will you atone for me? I may be too busy this year to stop by the synagogue.
Sincerely,
Overbooked

Dear Overbooked,
I'd be happy to atone for you. Send me a list of your worst offenses, and I'll send you a breakdown of costs.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
Rosh Hashanah makes me nervous.  Is there a therapist for this?
Sincerely,
Afraid of Dry Brisket

Dear Afraid,
There's a therapist for everything.
You're Welcome,
The SJG