Spell It This Way, Or Maybe, This Way

Hmm.... 

Courtesy of my friend, Pilates maven Anne Rainer:  "Your next story is right here, knaidel on a silver platter from Bayside. NY. Does not , repeat, does not get much better than that. Zeigerzundt."  Or does it, Anne?  Does it?  Some spell it "kneidel." Can you spell scandalabra?  Double click for double dumpling pleasure. 

Beautification Begins In Sherman Oaks

... starts at home, one home, in particular. 

(Sherman Oaks) Newly-reelected representatives from that place called the Valley have found extra funds in their annual budget and have voted, unanimously, to throw some love in the direction of the Short Jewish Gal.  "The beautification of the Short Jewish Gal is an expensive, on-going, never-ending project.  What it takes to keep her looking presentable and lovely, 24/7 -- you have no idea," said Rep. Sarah Jackman.  "What it costs just to keep those highlights in her hair, you don't want to know.  The makeup, the wardrobe needs, the self-pampering she indulges in, daily, we're tired of hearing her ask for more, more, more.  Last month, she made a heartfelt plea and we decided, rather than put up with her endless kvetching, we'd just cave and write her a check and shut her up.  We gave her a choice.  You want money to repair your street, or your hair? It's up to you.  Without missing a beat, she opted for self-beautification, and threw her own street under the bus."

Five Stages Of Waking Up

Stage 1:  This is the transition phase, the nicest stage of waking up, when you remember what you were just dreaming about, and it was really fun, so you tell yourself, hurry, go back to sleep, before someone asks you to do something for them.
Stage 2:   Your brain activity starts to crank, you feel groggy and can't focus.  You're half-awake, you need to pee, but you can hold it a little longer.  Stay in bed, silly.
Stage 3.  You're definitely awake, dammit.  A slow wave of dread washes over you, reminding you of all the dumb things you have to do today. You really need to pee now, don't you?
Stage 4:  You make a move to get up.  You become aware of all your aches and pains.  You feel about 180 years old.  Who are you kidding? You may be awake, but you're still immobile.
Stage 5:  Also known as O.S.I.G.G.U. (Oh, Sh*t, I Gotta Get Up).  If you wait one more second, you're going to wet the bed.  So you limp and weave your way to the bathroom.  You give a good flush, and then another.  Low-flow toilets.  Don't get me started.  Then you glance at yourself in the mirror.  A look of horror comes over you.  Who is that staring back at you?  You don't know that person with the wrinkles and the bags under her eyes and the crazy hair. You hobble back to bed and hide from reality just a little longer.

Bonsai Sitter

Don't worry, little bonsai, the SJG will give you TLC. 

"Come to Grandma."
"It's a bonsai, Ma, not a baby."
"Hush.  Grandma will take care of you, little bonsai, while your daddy is gone."
"I'm not going anywhere, Ma.  Just back to my apartment."
"Hush.  You're waking the bonsai."
"You're losing it, Ma."
"Hush.  Sweet baby bonsai, your daddy thought he was ready to care for you.  But he wasn't ready, was he?  No, he wasn't."
"Not true, Ma.  I did everything the plant guy on the corner told me to do."
"Hush.  My cute little bonsai.  Your daddy gave you too much water and not enough sun.  He forgot to mist you.  He's not ready for this big boy responsibility, is he?  No, he isn't."
"There's no drainage in the pot, Ma!  No drainage."
"Hush.  There's plenty drainage now, baby bonsai.  Grandpa drilled holes in your tushy.  Ouch!  Hope it didn't hurt too much."
"You think my bonsai has a chance, Ma?"
"Hush, little bonsai, don't say a word, daddy's going to buy you a mocking bird..."
"Ma, I asked you a question.  Is my bonsai going to make it?"
"Hush.  I'm singing to the bonsai.  Look at that!  She loves my voice.  She's coming back to life!"
"No, she... I mean, no, it isn't, Ma.  The bonsai is a goner.  I killed it."
"Hush.  You're scaring the bonsai."

A Gal Named Bubbles

Last night, on the phone with Bubbles, we talk about how things are going.  Why do I call her Bubbles?  I can't remember.  Neither can she. We catch up, as girlfriends do.  Bubbles lives in New York. She was selfishly out of town during my recent visit, doing a show somewhere exotic.  Virginia.  Bubbles is an actress/dancer/ acrobat/QVC spokesperson.  She's multi-talented.  She dangles from very high places. She does crazy sh*t the SJG would never do, in this lifetime or any other.  I prefer to remain upright.  In the past, Bubbles has tried to get me to do stuff, like hang upside from a hammock in her apartment.  A hammock!  Who has a hammock in her apartment?  Bubbles.  At these moments, I've had to say, "No, Bubbles.  No.  I won't do it.  You can't make me."  Somehow, she ends up getting me to do it, anyway.  I'm powerless in her presence.  Bubbles made the Olympic Gymnastics Team but didn't get to go.  It was the year we boycotted Russia.  Why did we boycott the Olympics in Russia and not let Bubbles compete?  I can't remember that either, but I choose to take it personally, on her behalf, and feel deep disappointment.

So, last night on the phone, Bubbles tells me about the show she just did, and all the drama that comes with such creative endeavors.  She mentions a few hiccups along the way.  During the show, she was a guest in someone's home, an old man everyone adored.  Suddenly, he died.  One friend dying is horrible.  But then, back in New York, other friends died, too.  Bubbles is facing a lot of memorial services.  See what I did there?  It's Memorial Day.  I'm weaving it into today's blog.

At the end of our long phone call, I try to cheer her up.  I speak in my thick New York accent.  Trust me.  Everything is just funnier when I use my thick New York accent.  So, when I say, in my uber-NYC way, "Listen, doll, sorry about all the death," we both get hysterical.  Not that death is funny.  But sometimes, you just have to laugh about life's absurdities, it's never-ending gotcha moments.  Then Bubbles comes up with the best text message ever, a message she'd like to deliver to the Big Guy in the Sky: "D.W.D.  B.F.N."  Translation:  "Done with death.  Bye for now."  Bubbles is still waiting for a reply.

Lose Reply All, I'm Begging You

Today our neighbors have organized a block party.  I may not know all of them, but I certainly know what all of them are bringing, thanks to the group email that went out a week ago.  Every day, my inbox fills with exciting updates:   Tish and Marco are bringing three-bean-salad! Rocky and Pia are bringing juice boxes for the kids, and booze for the big kids!  Joey is bringing buffalo wings!  Marlene and Leo are bringing brownies!  Barry and Larry are bringing pasta salad!  Angela is bringing chili!  Steve and Eydie are bringing kreplach!  Fred and Ethel are bringing nothing.  They're out of town.  Morty is out of town, too, on a film shoot.  Louise wants to know what time the block party starts. Jerry wants the block party moved to Monday.  The SJG wants to know why all these nice folks had to hit "reply all" and bombard her with silly random blasts.  Just hit reply, people.  Reply.  Reply.  Lose the reply all, I'm begging you.  And by the way, I'm bringing salad.  Just salad.  No beans involved.

Pillow Talk

Oy, what a neck ache she's going to have in the morning.

This mannequin and the SJG have so much in common, it's eerie. She's resting on a stack of decorative pillows.  Every night, I rest on a stack of non-decorative pillows I've arranged and rearranged about 82 times, in my quest to find just the right elevation.  My hope, my prayer, is that sleeping with my keppy angled perfectly, I won't wake up the next morning with a searing sinus headache.  But something bad happens while I sleep.  Something freaky.  The pillows slip and slide and fall off the bed or get lost under the covers and I wake up with a searing sinus headache.  What I need is one giant-ass, extra-smushy sinus-relieving pillow, a Tempurpedic knock-off kind of thing, retailing at around $18, as opposed to $800.  Oh well, a girl can dream, and maybe one day wake up feeling more or less human.