I Feel Bad About My Lawn

I feel bad about my lawn. Truly, I do. If you saw my lawn, you’d feel bad about it, too. You might not say anything, because you’re too nice, but you’d be thinking bad things about my lawn, I just know it. Before water restrictions, my lawn used to be pretty and green, but now it has ugly brown age spots and dead patches. My lawn looks thirsty and depressed all the time. If my lawn could talk, it would say that twice a week just isn’t enough. My lawn has needs, too, you know. It wants what it can’t have – more water. But if I give it more water, I’ll be fined by the DWP. So I must suffer.

Make It Stop

Vuvuzela!  Vuvuzela!

There's no rhyme to explain

How I dread you!  How I dread you!

Every day I complain. 

Make it stop, now!  Make it stop, now!

I am going insane.

I can't take it!  I can't take it!

A hater, I remain.

When's it over?  When's it over?

Will the horns ever quit?

Crazy making!  Crazy making!

England just played like sh*t!

Where's The Love?

There were hugs and OMGs, wine and hors d'eouvres, valet parking and what-year-did-you-graduate?  And one jaw-dropping confess-ion:  "Oh, Carol, I feel so terrible.  All these years, I've wanted to tell you something."

Dream-Crusher

Dang!  I hate to be a dream-crusher.  Dream-crushing goes against my core belief system.  I prefer to holla and "rah rah" on behalf of my boys.  I'm more of a "go out there, baby, and kick some butt" kinda mom, even when their goals may be slightly out of reach, ridiculous, delusional.  Such sentiments as, "Like that'll ever happen," or, "Are you out of your freakin' mind?" those, I keep to myself. 

Zen Judaism

For you, a few excerpts from "Zen Judaism" by David Bader:

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Be here now. Be someplace else later. Is that so complicated?
Drink tea and nourish life; with the first sip, joy; with the second sip, satisfaction; with the third sip, peace; with the fourth, a Danish.

Next Fall: L.A.?

The humidity-coiffed SJG at Sardi's

This morning, I woke up to the bummer news that "Next Fall," nominated for two Tonys (Best Play, Best Director), will shut its doors at the Helen Hayes on July 4th.  I've had the great honor of seeing my dear friend Connie Ray and the gifted cast perform "Next Fall," just for me (and maybe a few others) on two joyous occasions: once off-Broadway, and once on.

Stuck In The Middle

Skincare is so important, especially if you're a dog allergic to everything (much like the SJG). This explains why Dusty has his very own animal dermatologist, to make sure his fur retains its luster and elasticity well into middle age.  Plus, we can't have him scratching and licking himself, 24-7, now can we?  (The SJG conquered this urge back in junior high).  Today's visit to the spa office presented a few unforeseen  challenges, however.  Two seconds in the door, Dusty, a canine capable of shockingly quick paw maneuvers -- just ask anyone who's ever attempted to eat a meal at my house -- spotted a plate of  cookies set out on a small table.  One swipe from the original counter surfer himself and those goodies would be gone. 

Hire Me

I'm Back.  Hire me.

On Mother's Day, I received accolades.  On Father's Day, the Hallmark moment dimmed, the praise, the glory, went that-away.  I stared into my bagel of cream cheese and lox and asked, "Why, bagel? Why must my favorite cuzzy and his stunning wife, a gal I adore on such a level, I actually call her Sis (no more, Sista!) bring that up again?"  My bagel remained tight-lipped, I'm sorry to say. 

I Am Not A Pleasure Unit

                        

Bragging Rights:  A poster from "Our Man Flint," the hilarious James Bond spoof, co-written by the one, the only, Mr. Ben Starr.  Happy Father's Day, Dad.  Thanks for making me laugh for over five decades!  Enjoy the clip; double click on screen for the full image.

Where Do You Want It, Ma'am?

Late afternoon, a Friday, mid-June

Up backed a truck, it was yellow.

"Where do you want it, ma'am?" he said.

"Public storage," I replied.  "Oh, please?"

Move Your Balloon

It wasn't quite as vicious as last night's Laker celebration outside Staples, no car windows were smashed, no trash cans set on fire, but over in Tarzana, the festivities did get a bit heated the other evening.  One short gal in particular turned testy, when various oversized and shiny inflatables, sun umbrellas and expansive back-sides blocked her precious view of the proceedings.

No Tennis Shoes

Today the youngest graduates from pre high school.  The dress code for this occasion carries a serious mandate, repeated often via scary bulletins sent home and lengthy recorded messages:   No. Tennis.  Shoes.  In case you missed that:  No. Tennis.  Shoes.  Don't even think about it.  When it comes to appropriate graduate footwear, a pair of Vans could undue years of hard work in an instant.  "Anyone caught wearing tennis shoes to graduation will not be allowed to participate in the ceremony!"  So sayeth the sternest assistant principal on the planet.  This guy means business. 

Dear Attendance Office

              Never sick, eh? 

I thought we were all clapped out after the eldest's graduation, but last night, hubby and I clapped our way through Senior Awards Night.  We applauded mostly for other people's offspring, and it left me some-what bitter, watching all the uber-smarties parade by, the highly-accomplished, the freaks of nature with perfect attendance records since fourth grade.

Dare To Be Bare

             In Front:  SJG & Billy 

         In Back:  My Bro' John & Tim

The theme of the past few days:  Why, it was all about getting naked, of course. Getting raw with our emotions. Getting nostalgic over, well, everything. Exposing our hearts and souls, not to mention our tender shoulders and necks and any other available skin to the harsh rays of the Santa Cruz sun. We slathered on the SPF 50. We did our best to pay attention to the lengthy speeches. We hydrated like crazy and managed not to plotz from the heat. The SJG even wore a hat. I never wear a hat. I look dumb in hats. Always have, always will. And yet somehow, for my son's college graduation, I kinda pulled it off. Wasn't I just a tad fetching in my straw hat?

Big Plans

    Schlep!

   Clap!

    Kvell!

Not My Stuff

Where do these go?

Space your kids four years apart, and prepare for a grand collision of milestones.  The older one graduates college on the same day the younger one goes to prom.  The younger one graduates high school on the same day the older one packs up his apartment to come home.  It's too much for my brain, my heart, my closets.  Could someone (other than hubby) please tell me how an apartment full of furniture and stuff could possibly fit in a house already stuffed to capacity?  Not to worry.  Hubby has it all worked out, like some freaky mathematical equation.  It's all about angles and stacking and taking things apart... things that took hellish hours to put together.

Good Advice

Dear SJG,
This morning I stepped on the scale and assumed that a truly hideous error had occurred.  The amount of tonnage flashing back at me, digitally, struck me as just plain cruel, not to mention, grossly inaccurate. There's no way that a large vegetarian burrito, margarita, guacamole and chips could have done that much damage to such a petite gal.  I'm thinking of suing:  Baja Fresh or the manufacturer of the scale?  I can't decide. 
Love,
Porky in Sherman Oaks

How Did That Happen?

                    Done.  Now What?

Don't cry, sweetie.  Let go of my leg.  I'll be back soon, I promise.  I always come back.  See, here I am.  How'd it go?  Did you have fun?  You made that picture for me?  I love it.  I love you.  Take a cookie.  One cookie.  Okay, two.  Take a nap.  Take a bath.  Sleep tight.  She's a nice teacher.  It's a nice school.  Look at the playground.  You'll like it here.  I'll be back soon.  Stop screaming.  Stop crying.  Get out of the car. Don't forget your lunch.  Don't forget your homework.  Don't talk in class.  Don't forget to pee.  Don't throw that at me.  Come back here.  Go to your room.  Go play outside.  Go back and say you're sorry.  Did you have to make that face when they took the photo?  Did you finish your homework?  Did you brush your teeth?  Did you remember to say thank you?

The Mosquito

This morning I find hubby in front of the computer, determined to buy a device that would drive the party boys next door out of their minds.  It's called the Mosquito, and it sends out a high-pitched signal that only teenagers and people in their mid-20s can hear, leaving all other adults totally unaffected. 

Don't Worry, Sweetheart, Mother Is Here

Today she would've been 83.  I can't take her out to lunch or give her a gift or call her up and sing "Happy Birthday."  But I can celebrate her in other ways.  Here's my mom's favorite routine from "You Don't Have To Be Jewish."  In under three minutes, Arlene Golonka and Betty Walker sum up motherhood. 

An Abba-Zaba Situation

"Scotty, can you come down here a sec?"  The youngest appears, hair rumpled, outside his bedroom door.  "Am I in trouble?"  "Just come here."  He makes his way down the stairs.  "Open your mouth," I say.  He gets a look.  "You know?"  "Of course, I know."  "But how?"  "You posted it on Facebook:  Chipped my tooth on an abba-zaba for the second time. C'MON MANNNN." 

Worst Haircut Ever

The stylist will see you now

All week, the "Today Show" is running an on-going segment about hair, and what we gals go through to make it look nice.  To this day, I still cringe when I think about the most harrowing haircut I ever received. My mom had heard about some big deal hairdresser who worked out of his house.  Movie stars made up most of his clientele. She was lucky to get me an appointment, she said. At 15, I wore my baby-fine brown hair like every other girl at school:  Long and parted in the middle.  But Mom had a new style in mind for me, one she kept to herself for the time being.

Orange Toenails for Eternity

             A gift that keeps on giving

A few days before she went into the hospital, and right before her voice gave out for good, we talked on the phone, pretending everything was normal.  Somehow she remained slightly optimistic, based on what, I’ll never know.  In what would be our last conversation, she told me her long-time manicurist had come by the condo that afternoon. She wanted her acrylic nails removed.