Blind Optimism

My new look for Fall

My daily challenge:  keeping up the spirits of my job-seeking son.  I put a bright spin on the world.  "It's really not that bad," I say.  "Not everything sucks."  I do my best to counter his morning rants.  They go something like this: "What eff'n bullsh*t."  "How hard is it to reply to an eff'n email?" "@#$% this job sh*t!"  I smile thoroughout, which hurts my face.  I give a rousing pep talk.  I go all Pollyanna on his butt:  "They'll call you back, honey."  "Just be patient." "You shouldn't take it so personally." "Something good is going to happen.  I can feel it."  "Keep an open mind."  "Don't lose your perspective."  "You've got your health."  Or, when I'm really out of ideas, "It could be worse.  You could be in graduate school."

Three-peat

Word has it, the SJG is a notorious name-dropper.  So here I go again.  Congrats to Bryan Cranston, the nicest, most deserving, talented actor, married to my close friend Robin.  I adore him.  I adore his wife.  I adore his daughter.  We screamed and clapped on their behalf last night, during the best Emmy show in years.

Torn Between Three Nominees

There are times when a woman
must say what's on her mind
Even though she knows how much it's gonna hurt
Before I say another word let me tell you, I love all three
Let me watch you, DVR you, view you often as I please
There's three shows that I've needed and I've loved
But that doesn't mean I love one more or less
"Lost" knows it can possess me,
"Breaking Bad" knows it always will
There's just this empty place inside of me
that only Don Draper can fill

In Santa Barbara

State Street, Santa Barbara

In Santa Barbara, we celebrated 30 years of marital bliss.  The less-than-blissful parts, we've edited out for nostalgic purposes.  Who needs to remember the occasional idiotic spats over god-knows-what?  Not us.  That time I got so mad I sat in another part of the movie theater?  Never happened.  That time he got so mad he went to bed early?  Really early.  Can't recall.  Those awkward moments dotting our life together?  All a convenient blur.  The secret to a happy union?  Amnesia. 

Pork Chops & Applesauce

"All you have to do is say to anybody who was a teenager at that time, 'pork chops and applesauce' and they know what you're talking about."  In his EMMY Archive interview, Ben Starr, whose daughter can't stop kvelling about him, talks about writing for such classic television series as "Climax!", "Mr. Ed," "The Brady Bunch," "All in the Family," and "Diff’rent Strokes" and his development of such later series as "The Facts of Life" and "Silver Spoons." Ben Starr was interviewed in Los Angeles CA on November 9, 2009; Dan Harrison conducted the three-hour interview:

http://www.emmytvlegends.org/interviews/people/ben-starr

Let's Go Back

Two kids say "I do"

We met in eighth grade, math class.  Emerson Jr. High.  My friend liked him.  I ghost wrote funny notes for her to give him.  Summer after ninth grade.  Bettina's house.  A swimming party.  We played "keep away" in the pool.  We couldn't keep away.  A chemical reaction.  We dated.  And then we didn't.  A year went by.  And then another.  End of 11th grade, we signed each other's yearbooks.  We dated again.  We fell in love.  "One day, we'll get married."  Before college, we broke up.  During college, we got back together.  Then we broke up.  We were off and on more times than we can remember.  Junior year, he went to Sweden.  I went to England.  We met up in Paris, 1978.  "Let's never break up again." That was that.  We married in Beverly Hills, 1980.

But They Made Such A Nice Couple

Splitsville

On the eve of my 30th wedding anniversary, I got an unexpected call from Heidi Montag.  I assumed she wanted some sort of marital counseling from the SJG, but she was bursting with venom.  "Did you hear what the a-hole I married is up to now?"  "Spill it, hun.  I'm all ears."  "He's shopping a sex tape of us!"  "Tacky."  "I'm so pissed off.  It's probably pre-surgical." She paused here to weep.  "I haven't reached my full centerfold potential.  I'm pre-Bunny." "Bummer.  I'm embarrassed on your behalf," I said.  And speaking of bunnies, Heidi's BFF, Jennifer Bunney, came to her defense.  "No way Heidi would ever put out a sex tape of herself. She's extremely religious and concentrated on getting her life to where she wants it to be." "Listen, Rosh Hashanah's right around the corner.  I'm happy to save her a seat.  Although, technically, we're not supposed to save seats.  For Heidi, we can make an exception.  She'd look so pretty in a tallis." "That's super sweet," said Bunney.  "But she's all about Jesus."  "So?  Jesus was a Jew."  "I'll let her know.  Anyways, I don't think Spencer would ever hurt Heidi.  He loves her even despite the fact that they are getting a divorce. I really doubt the validity of this.  What do you think, SJG?"  "Guilty," I said, "not that I judge."

Janice's Ziti

Janice bakes a mean ziti

Tonight, I'll make ziti.  Not just any ziti.  Janice's vegetarian baked ziti.  Janice, as in Tony Soprano's sister.  It's my mother-in-law's birthday, and she's a die-hard "Sopranos" fan, still watching reruns, still trying to figure out what the hell happened when they cut to black.  Don't stop believing. 

Dear SJG

Dear SJG,
Facebook just reminded me it's my anniversary on Monday.  I'm assuming this means all of my close personal friends on Facebook will be sending expensive gifts.  I need more tchotkes like a kick in the head.  Is it tacky to ask for money, instead?  Hubby and I really need a vacation.  We're thinking Italy.
Thanks,
Registered at Expedia.com

Sleeping Funny

As Jerry Seinfeld might say, what's the deal with sleeping funny?  There's nothing funny about waking up with a stiff neck, sore back or uncooperative knees.  It's a chiropractic situation, not a punchline, wouldn't you agree?  Yet for centuries, loved ones have been examining each other, as if medically trained, and diagnosing what went down, nocturnally.

Nosh Sit Leave

Hi, I'm Liz.  I'm very rich. And you're not.

Today's plan:  Come four o'clock, I will nosh, metaphorically.  I will pray.  I will love.  I will go see the movie and I will adore every minute, whether or not it's an artistic triumph or an exercise in extreme self-indulgence.  I don't care.  I'm going. The reviews are in, and big surprise, they're mixed.  I don't care.  I'm going. I want to spend time with Javier Bardem and James Franco and Richard Jenkins, my all-time favorite actor.  I want to spend time with Julia Roberts, who's never looked more gorgeous.  I want to go to Italy.  India and Bali?  Not so much.  I don't care.  I'm going.  Come join me.  I'll save you a seat.

What Happens Next?

Nothing

I can count the number of times I've met hubby for lunch during his busy work week:  almost never.  Maybe once a year, if that.  Dude's too busy having lunch with other people or sitting at his desk, doing important stuff.  But yesterday, he carved out time and we met our friends Philippe and Carol at a cute Italian place in Toluca Lake.  We talked kids, movies, tv and books.  We shared our mutual hatred of "Inception."  We took a quick detour into real estate.  We asked each other why we weren't all independently wealthy by now.  And then, Philippe shifted gears.  "Let's change the topic.  What do you think happens when we die?"

Let The Sun Shine

Last night, a nice young man paid a visit to the homestead.  We held hands and read the Bible together and spoke in tongues and -- oh wait, that didn't happen.  We talked solar panels and where they'd go on the roof -- "there, there and not there."  Decoratively speaking, solar panels are just plain fugly.  But environmentally, they are hip, they are happening.  Just take some "free" sunlight, convert those rays into energy, spend muchly, and at least five years later, maybe more, save dollars.  There are many options, many incentives, many things to consider before signing your roof away.

Eat Pray Spend

You can look like this, too, but it's gonna cost ya.

Eat. Pray.  Love.  Spend.  It's not enough to read  the book, or see the movie when it opens this Friday.  Now you can look and smell like Elizabeth Gilbert or Julia Roberts-as-Elizabeth Gilbert.  Your call. 

Dress for Success

Time to upgrade the wardrobe

"You've been looking a little schleppy," I tell the eldest.  "Schleppy?" he says, visibly wounded. "Why must you hurt me so, mother?"  I walk over and spin him around.  "For starters, this shirt has three holes in the back." "So?"  "So it sends a message, one that says, starving student, not hire me now."  "Give me some credit.  I wouldn't wear this on a job interview," he says.  "I can't believe you even wear it out of the house."  "What's your point, mother?"  "It's time for an upgrade."  "I'm not buying old man clothes.  I don't want to look like dad." Whereupon hubby takes offense and starts weeping uncontrollably.  "Why must you hurt me so, son?"  "Forgive me, father.  I'm young and stupid."  "Tell me something I don't know."

Funny Bump

                                   

The other day, I was talking to my close personal friend, Lady Babs, and she said, "You know, SJG, I was very flattered that Jennifer Aniston chose to interpret my style with the photos in Harper's Bazaar. She is a delightful person, and I think she did a wonderful job.  If only she had a bump on her nose."

Where's the bump?

"I would've gladly loaned her mine," I said.  "Tell me," said Babs, "what age did you get your bump?" "Oh, 11ish.  The same year I grew a butt."  "Oy," she said.  "Puberty's a bitch."

I Felt Good About My Butt Back Then

Here I am, a year old, leaning against the bath tub, butt-naked, caught for all eternity. A closer look reveals an irrefutable fact: the shape of my tush hasn’t changed much since 1958. There’s no denying that the baby SJG in this photo feels good about her dimply cheeks and plump little folds.  That’s the beauty of being a baby. You’re clueless.

Permanent Bliss

Woo-hoo!  My dad sent me the following video on... wait for it... tantric sex.  He's 88 and knows what's important.  This is hysterical.  Enjoy.  Double click for full image.

But They Made Such A Nice Couple

"It's over. I broke up with him," Bristol Palin told the SJG exclusively, over the phone.
"You dumped the baby-daddy?"
"I sent his ass packing."
"Good girl.  You deserve better.  A nice Jewish boy would never treat you like Levi did."
"Do you know any?"
"I've got two living under my roof.  Three if you count hubby."
"I'm listening."

Squish, Squish

"You're so lucky you're not very big," says the tech.
This is news to me.  I'm still smarting from my 8th-grade nickname. "Hey, flattie!" Better than, "Hey, fattie."  Still, not an ego-boaster.
"Why am I lucky?" I ask.
"The larger gals get tugged and stretched and smashed down.  It's harder to get a clear image."
"So, small and perky is a good thing?"
"Absolutely."
I feel much better now.  But I'll feel better when I get the results.

What A Creepy, Romantic Gesture

On "Madmen," when that icky Glenn (nicknamed "future serial killer" by the eldest) left a lanyard under Sally's pillow, I flashed on all the half-finished key chains and bracelets I attempted at Camp Akela during my youth.  It may have been Christmas in Draper-land, but in my nostalgia-addled brain, all those twisty plastic knots spelled sum-sum-summertime.  Big Bear.  The first moon walk.  The first crushes.  The first smooches.  Tramp-olines.  Archery.  Slow dances.  Campfires.  Hikes.  Mosquito bites.  Overnights.  Horseback rides.  Canteens.  Capture the Flag. "Kumbaya."  "Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho."  "They Call the Wind Mariah." Oh, and one more thing.  Arts & Crafts.  Girls making lanyards for cute boys, and vice versa. 

Nice Hat

"Do you think he is?" I ask.  "Of course," says hubby. Yesterday, we get proof.  Chelsea says "I do" to a nice Jewish boy.  He wears a white tallis and a black yarmulke.  She wears a white veil and a Vera Wang.  Mazel tov!  Any chance she'll convert?