Hair Emergency

Super Cut

"Good luck. It'll be fine.  Don't worry,"  I tell the eldest.  He needs calming down.  He's moments from entering a hellish place he's never been to before -- yet another untested hair salon.  "Dan recommended it."  "Uh-oh," I say.  His oldest friend since pre-school, Dan has the kind of hair that can withstand any disaster.  It's curly and thick and looks decent, no matter how badly someone scissors it. When they were 10, Dan let Cooper cut his hair in the backyard (for fun), as Billy and the rest of their roller hockey team cheered them on.  Dan's fearless, that way.  Other ways, too.  But Billy, sadly, inherited my hair, once eloquently described by a former stylist (there have been so many) as "baby fine, thin, ka-ka hair."

CSI: Sherman Oaks

Product Placement

CSI: Sherman Oaks.  Carol's Stink Investigation.  Lead odor detective:  Hubby.  Source of Stink:  Canine P.P.  Suspect:  Yellow lab.  Location of stink:  Back seat.  Result:  Inconclusive. 

Update from Detective Schneider:  Odor still present, slightly dissipated.  Product endorsement:  iffy. 

Who's Stalking Me Now?

Snap, snap, snap, everywhere I go. It's such a nuisance, you have no idea. I can’t even leave my house without someone taking my photo. I go about my day, I hear that sound embedded in my brain. Click, click. I look around, I know they’re there, somewhere, hiding in the bushes, lurking behind shopping carts, balancing from telephone polls, hoping to steal a shameful shot of me, maybe make a few million bucks in exchange.

The Old Gal Had Let Herself Go

Do something.  Don't just sit there.

                                                                    
Not to be harsh, but honestly, the old gal had let herself go. That kind of extra tonnage is unhealthy. You’d get a hernia trying to lift her.  I warned her. I dropped a few hints now and then. Lighten up, I scolded. Do some sit-ups. Do something. Don’t just sit there. You’re a heart attack waiting to happen. Did she listen? No. Every night, she indulged in a wide caloric array. Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Jack in the Box, Carl’s Junior. Fast food made her sing upbeat, catchy ditties like, “I’m luvin’ it!”  Come to think of it, she had a nice voice. Girlfriend could carry a tune. High, low or in between, her volume control was impressive. And let’s not forget her other attributes. She put colors together like a pro.  Okay, so now and then her forest greens went suspiciously lime, her blues lost luster, her reds turned orange, but most of the time, everything matched. Call her old-fashioned, maybe even a tad outdated, but on her, it worked.

Who's the U-boat Commander?

    Storm Watch:  My street in Sherman Oaks
during yesterday's downpour. 

The Ladies Who Lunch

The Ivy on Robertson

Twice a year, for so many years I've lost track, the four of us go to the Ivy to celebrate our birthdays.  Val and I take first position in January.  Kyle and Elena come next in March.  We order the same thing every time:  grilled veggie/chicken salad.  We sit among the rich folk, the occasional celebrities.  One year there was Meg Ryan lunching with George Clooney.  Another year, Mary Tyler Moore.  Some years we hit it big, some not at all.  Now we forget names.  "There's that French guy with the ponytail... he's on Top Chef a lot."  We look over quickly, return to our warm bread rolls.  As the years go by, the famous ones matter less.  It's our own lives we'd rather dissect.  We talk and talk, we laugh and open gifts.  We go home happy and full. We met in junior high, the four of us.  Emerson Jr. High.  The early '70s.  We started 7th grade together, the first year girls were allowed to wear jeans to school; the first year of busing.  The four of us, we got through it all, somehow, thanks to each other.  The early disasters, the growing pains.  We've been there and done that a few times over: 

B'day Girl

Put another Kindle on the birthday cake
The birthday cake
The birthday cake
Put another Kindle on the birthday cake
You're another year old today

                                             For me?

My (Vicarious) Broadway Debut

                        Hmm... they forgot my name on the marquee

I'm excited, and of course, humbled (as is my nature) to announce that come March, I will make my debut on Broadway, in a fantastic play called "Next Fall."  This is a big moment for me, people.  I've worked hard my whole life to get here, I've learned my lines and perfected my craft, and words can hardly do justice to the thrilling way I feel.  Why, it was only yesterday that I feared I'd -- hang on, the phone is ringing.  It's my close friend, Connie Ray, calling from NYC.  I better take this.

PANTS ON THE GROUND

This is screamingly hilarious.  One of the biggest laughs courtesy of "American Idol" ever.  An instant classic. You'll be sick of this in no time.  But first, enjoy:

Cupcaking

When the college boy was in middle school, he zoomed through his weekly vocabulary assignment, trying to squish all twenty words into one or two sentences.  His strategy was rather ingenious. Fewer sentences meant less time inside and more time outside skateboarding at high speeds through on-coming traffic.  I wasn’t a big fan of his homework assault.  I tried to rein him in, without success. Week after week, his mission to underline and clump together as many random words as possible, whether or not they made sense, drove me crazy:  The precocious, malicious, arrogant, putrid adolescent with sapphire hair meandered efficiently down the street, where he met an antique tyrant who embezzled hors d’oeuvres.

Where the #@%&!!! Does This Piece Go?

In the new Santa Cruz digs of the eldest, furniture assembly took just a little longer than we'd hoped.

                                        A father and son moment

The instructions in Chinese did us no favor.  Neither did the toothless delivery guy we paid $30 to help us along.  Dude left midway through the job, after putting the wrong size legs on the coffee table.

Up

          Just two bros chillin, Santa Cruz-style, atop the Sunset Tree

One week was all we got.  The eldest flew in from Denmark, slept in, partied with friends, ate a bagel or two, some nice chicken, and off he went to Santa Cruz.  No more Danish Culture.  No more papers that explore Viking weaponry.  (Still not sure how he pulled that off.)  No more pub crawls.  No more tall, blonde, Copenhagen shiksa goddesses.  No more of that.  Done.  Back to work now.  Two more quarters and then, a college grad.  Onward. 

So Far, So So

                                         New Year's Eve

A few days into 2010, I've learned a valuable lesson.  Apparently, cursing out 2009 in verse (see clever Oh-Nine ode below) was a baad idea.  The powers-that-be who determine what sort of year awaits you (see Raging Greek Gods, Wikipedia) had a little something in mind for yours truly.  "We'll show her," they said, in Greek.  (Translation unavailable at this time.)  And so, on the last day of Nine, Mr. Innocent, aka Dusty, ate something toxic.  What?  Well, eight-hundred dollars later, we still don't have a freakin' clue.  After all, we're talking about a dog that thinks he's a cow. When the mood strikes, which is often, he eats grass just because it's there.

                                                 Moo?

Oh, Nine!

Adios, Nine.  Guess you meant well. 
See ya later.  Ba-bye.
Leave a message.  Keep it real, dude.
Call my cell.  Drop a line.
You can text me.  Or Facebook me. 
Spellcheck me, if you like.
You can Google me.  Speed dial me.
YouTube me.  Be nice. 
Then again, Nine, never mind, man.
You came up short this time.
Gave me bupkis.  Broke my heart some. 
Made me cry late at night.