Last Night At Dinner

                 Bring back Paula!

Eldest:  Ellen DeGeneres is taking over for Simon?
Me:  Where have you been?
Eldest:  College.
Me:  She just quit the show.  Simon's gone, too.
Eldest:  Oh.
Youngest:  How do you not know that?
Eldest:  I don't give a @#$% about "American Idol."

The Beauty Team

The SJG gets some work

The quest for beauty: does it ever end?  Based on my own scientific research, uh, no.  It's on-going.  Luckily for me, I have my own beauty team at my beck and call.  Sadly, the numbers have dwindled.  There used to be four involved with the maintenance of the SJG.  A while back, my facialist quit in a huff.  "I can't deal with these pores any longer," she said.  "Plus, it would be nice if you paid for my services." 

When Lenny Met Woody

Here's a version of "Inception" I can get behind, not to mention, understand.  Double click for full image:

What's She Doing Here?

The news that Daniel Schorr, the legendary political journalist, died on Friday at the age of 93, sent me back in time to my days as a cub reporter on the Daily Bruin.  It was 1975.  I was a freshman at UCLA when Daniel Schorr made an appearance at Royce Hall during the height of his fame.  He'd landed on Nixon's Enemies List and had much to say about the matter.  For some reason, either a clerical error or serious lapse in editorial judgment, I got to interview him after his speech.  Nervous gal that I've always been, I was terrified.  The mere idea of sitting across from this notorious ass-kicker thrilled and intimidated me and messed with my keppie. 

Not for the Elderly

I don't know if it was the chairs squeaking in the old Santa Cruz Theater that threw my concentration, or the long schlep from L.A., or the two glasses of Sangria I embibed pre-viewing, but I found "Inception" less-than-intoxicating.  It was a giant mind jumble of WTF.

Schleppin' It

This weekend, the car will set on auto pilot, and schlep us, once again, to Santa Cruz.  Other than the market and a few other exciting Sherman Oaks locales -- the SJG lives a limited geographic existence -- the car knows Santa Cruz.  It looks and feels its best there. 

So You Think You Can Kvetch

Closed Monday - Friday

"I'm bored," says the eldest.  How can he be bored?  He's only been up for 15 minutes, and it's 1 o'clock.  Since I have nothing else to do, I wade into his bottomless pit of despair.  "What are you bored with?"  "Everything," he says.  "Everybody."  Glutton for punishment, I push ahead.  "What can I do to help?"  "Find me a job," he says.  "But the other day, you told me to stop helping you."  "I did not."  "Uh, yes you did." 

What Would Don Draper Do?

1.  Libate
2.  Womanize
3.  Tantalize
4.  Advertise
5.  Accessorize
6.  Fabricate
7.  Fornicate
8.  Deny
9.  Bully
10. Consume
11. Calculate
12. Reinvent

Friended, Unfriended, Refriended

It's a love fest over here at the home-stead.  It's all about forgiveness and didn't mean to say that.  We're dancing the hora in Sherman Oaks.  At least on this block.  The cloud of dysfunction that settled on various occupants has lifted. 

Wah Wah Wah

Ah, the glazed-over expression, the mechanical head nod, the pretense that the offspring within earshot are actually listening to you,  when in reality all they're hearing is the trumpeted wah-wah-wah, the vexing drone of every adult ever featured in a Peanuts cartoon.  Wah-wah-wah sums up my past few days of parenthood.  "Please don't," when translated into wah-wah speakage, came out, "Please do, and often."  "What were you thinking?" divided into "Good thinking."  "Why would you do that?" converted to "Why don't you do that again?"  "You're not yourself lately," switched over to, "Get down with your bad self."  It's been a tough couple days for the SJG, full of wah-wah-wah.  And yet, I'm certain I got through to them, whether they heard me or not.

My Pottery Barn World

In my Pottery Barn world, I'm very organized.  In my Pottery Barn office, things look neat and crisp and color-coordinated.  In my actual office, things are a hot mess.  It is very chaotic in there.  Careful not to trip.  Starting today,  I'm relocating to the Pottery Barn Catalogue, where I plan to go page to page, living a casual yet elegant and well-matched life. You may find me on page 10, in the perfectly white kitchen, or you may find me on 25, reclining on the outdoor furniture, sipping a margarita. 

Run, Levi, Run!

Armed & Dangerous

Levi Johnston, the text-messaging, hunky Playgirl centerfold, was spotted earlier today on the Alaskan interstate, running for his life.  Eyewitnesses reported seeing a "super hot" woman with brown hair and stylish glasses chasing after him, flailing a rifle in the air and yelling, "Forgive and forget?  Eff that!"

Mazel Tov!

               Reunited and it feels so good!

If you're anything like the SJG, you did a little dance this morning when you heard the news:   Bristol and Levi are back together.  Woo-hoo!  And they're engaged.  (Again).  And they're practicing abstinence (unlike before).  I'm so delighted, just thinking about Sarah Palin's mounting level of aggravation, the overall WTF rolling off her folksy tongue, that I don't know what to do with myself.  I'm way past giddy.

Ding, Ding, Ding

     Shofar, You Have 18 Text Messages

All day long, we hear ding, ding, ding.  Upstairs, downstairs:  Ding, ding, ding.  This tells us that the youngest has just received a new text message.  Ding, ding, ding.  Here comes another one.  It drives us somewhat insane.  "Turn it off!"  "Turn it down!"  "Put it on vibrate."  He does none of the above.  Last night, as we watch a rerun of a rerun, three of us take a vote.  We can't take another ding, ding, ding.  The eldest feels particularly adamant.  "@#$% that ding!"  The youngest smiles.  "You want me to change it?"  "We want you to make it stop." He starts fiddling around, and a minute later, instead of ding, ding, ding, we get this:  Aooooga!  Aoooga!  Aooga!  Gevalt.  That's much worse than ding, ding, ding.  He fiddles around more, just to eff with us.  With each text alert comes new aggravation.  Ding dong.  Ting ting.  Drip, drip.  Beep, beep.  Buzzzzz, buzzzzz.  Boing, boing.  Tick tock, tick tock.  "How about something nice, a little intrusive, like a shofar?" I suggest.  Sadly, a shofar text alert doesn't exist.  But in my opinion, it should.  Hmm.  Maybe in time for the High Holidays?  Ca-ching!

Write, Wrote, Written

Carol can write.

She can put words on her computer.

She is writing a novel.

She wrote one page yesterday.

She has written 122 pages.

Her computer keeps them in a file.

The doctors keep her medicated.

Desk Watch: 2010

                                 A Moveable Desk

Today we awoke to a puzzling sight.  The desk that had once dwelled in a scenic college town had magically relocated, without asking permission first.  It seemed that the desk had decided:  "Screw the dining room, I've had it.  I'm moving to the hall."  At first we were visibly perturbed, and who wouldn't be?  The desk hadn't bothered to consult us, which we found rude, indeed.  But ultimately, we concluded that the recent resident of Santa Cruz had made a wise choice.  There's no denying that the desk looks better in the hall than it did in the dining room.  Even so, as much as we'd like to disguise its original intent -- to serve as landing pad for the eldest's assorted scholarly crap -- and reinvent it as a multi-purpose buffet table/tschotke console, we must agree with Siggy Freud, who put it so succinctly:  "Sometimes a desk is just a desk."  That said, we will do our best to convert the damn desk into something slightly more spectacular.

Gone At Last

Mid-way through boot camp, I walk over to Gene, and tell her the big news.  SJG:  Guess who got evicted?  Gene: Where are you going to live?

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Good things come to those who kvetch.  For the past four months, I kvetched plenty.  I scolded.  I swore.  I over-emoted.  I threatened.  I warned.  I whined.  I yelled.  I pleaded.  I confronted.  I played the good neighbor card.  I played the dog rescue card.   I played the reverse psychology card.  In return, I received blank stares and smirks and the occasional "sorry." 

No Bragging Zone

I'm lost in a haze of indecision, the kind that descends upon me only when I'm at the mall, gift-shopping for others, when I hear the dreaded call from across the clothing rack:  "Billy Schneider's mother!"  This sort of shout-out is never good, people.  This is someone who doesn't know my name, and there's a 100 percent chance, I don't know hers.  This will be a long conversation, one that goes something like this: 

I'm Worried, America

Oh say, where the @#$% are they?

Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,
What black Volvo is that?  Out the window, I'm steaming!
Whose broad smile and bright cheeks parked it curbside last night?
O'er the driveway I watch, for the gray car.  I'm screaming!
And the phone never rings, the text screen remains bare,
Gives proof through the night that my sons are both here!
Oh, say must this worry through my brain yet wave?
O'er nothing do I fret, in my home do I rave!

Fourth of July by Liza!

If you're like me, you're probably wondering what to wear this weekend, as you regale others with your presence at various 4th of July soirees.  It's such a burden, isn't it, trying to top yourself, year after year.   How patriotic must we go?  What could be more predictable than red, white and blue?  I ask you:  where's the element of surprise?  Once you've paraded down your block in your Stars-and-Stripes-Forever hotpants, and been asked not to attend the block party ever again (and there's a court order to keep your distance) you must reach for a whole new color scheme, just to save face!  Luckily, someone has come to my rescue.  I have only to turn to my personal wardrobe consultant, that's right, my very own brother, Mr. John Starr, for guidance.

Take Me With You

                                           Bastards!

Places I'm not going to this summer:
1. Hawaii
2. Hawaii
3. Hawaii

Places I am going to this summer:
1. Self-Pity Cruise
2. Capitol of Resentment
3. Kingdom of Nowhere

Things I will not be doing this summer:
1. Renting a cabana boy
2. Performing my infamous hula dance
3. Surgical bikini prep

Things I will be doing this summer:
1. Pretending I'm in Maui (* alcohol required)
2. Telling people I'm just back from Maui (* fake tan required)
3. Photoshopping (* software required)