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.

Thinly-Sliced

"I went to the market today, honey.  I got all sorts of yummy Boar's Head."
"Like what?"
"The usual.  Turkey, turkey pastranomy."
"Pastranomy?"
"What?"
"You said pastranomy."
"I did?"
"Yeah.  Turkey pastranomy."
"I meant pastrami.  But pastranomy is more fun to say.  It sounds like a college course.  'Intro to Pastranomy.'  The study of overpriced, thinly-sliced deli meat."
"I wish I could take that, instead of Environmental Studies."
"You'd get an A for sure."

The Next Mayor

(Sherman Oaks) The next mayor of the humble abode she occupies with various members of her family, a fluctuating number that depends on who's still in college and who broke her heart and moved out after college, will be the Short Jewish Gal.  In a tight race in which the two top contenders were both equal-opportunity banana-lovers, the 55-year-old SJG, a UCLA graduate, took a narrow lead over the 11-year-old Dusty, a poorly-trained canine.  Early this morning, the disappointed dog conceded the race by furiously barking at the SJG, which, as usual, she took personally.  Why should today be any different?  Soon after, the SJG blogged her thanks to her hubby, her gardener, and several imaginary live-in friends whose votes pushed her to victory.  "Thanks, guys -- and now the hard work begins.  Do I make dinner tonight or order take-out?  Do I do the laundry this morning, or wait till the afternoon?  Do I forgive the young man in college who voted for the dog instead of his own mother, or guilt him till the end of time?  These are the tough decisions I face as mayor.  But you won't find me sweeping dog hair under the rug, like some other candidates who went down to defeat.  I'm going to clean up this mess, starting with the dirty plates in the sink.  Seriously, is it that difficult to put stuff in the dishwasher?  Resentment aside, I'm honored to lead this house for the next four years.  Let's make this place livable again."

Quote, Unquote

"If I knew where I was going, I'd already be there."

Pardon me, but what exactly does that mean?  It sounds like a country western lyric, probably because it is, but honestly, I thought I'd made it up until I Googled and found out, others before me have said it.  Damn.  I could've sworn it was an original SJG.  Still, I love it so.  It could apply to anything, anytime.  It would look nice on a bumper sticker, or the side of a bus.  Yes, especially a bus.  But then it might frighten the passengers, who need to believe the driver will get them wherever they're going.  Only, here's the thing.  Sometimes the driver gets lost.  Sometimes the driver has no clue where the eff he's going.

Where Freud and the SJG Collide

"I'm reminded of a quote from Sigmund Freud."

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."  -- Siggy Freud, Vienna
"Sometimes a cigar gets your ass canned."  -- SJG, Sherman Oaks

Cigars.  Not a fan.  Why do I hate them so?  I find them stinky and icky and ugh-worthy.  I don't care where they come from:  Havana or  Hava Nagila.  In NYC, a dude in a pink Polo shirt left a trail of cigar smoke wafting down swanky 5th Avenue.  Hubby and I had the misfortune of walking two peeps behind him.  "Let's lose this putz," I commanded.  "I can't take it.  Turn left at the light."  From where does this hatred stem, you ask?  It goes way back.  Back to 1980, a time when smoking was allowed in office buildings.  And yes, even cigar-smoking was allowed.  Of course, there weren't too many a-holes bold enough to smoke a cigar in an office.  As luck should have it, I happened to work for a big a-hole at the time, the executive producer of an early reality series.  Perhaps you missed it?  "Those Amazing Animals."  This was during my first foray into show biz, a stint that lasted all of one month. I quit my first show bizzy job after three weeks, mainly because my feet couldn't touch the pedals of the Cadillac I was ordered to get washed.  "Ba-bye," I said, and ran screaming out the door.

Abandonment Issues

Dusty seemed a little resentful when we first returned home.  But a quick trip to his K-9 psychologist cleared up some of his abandonment issues. Dr. Chewstein reminded Dusty that he hadn't been abandoned at all. He'd spent the week with the youngest son, who catered to his every need, spoiled him rotten, gave him constant treats, let him sleep wherever he wanted and threw all of the SJG's rules out the window.

Nice View

Bye bye, New York.   We had some laughs, didn't we?   We had some fun.    We saw some pretty people. We saw some shows.   We drank a lot.   We ate too much.   Why do you do that to us, New York?   Why do you make us lose control?   Who knows.   But this is why we love you, scaffolding and all.   You didn't rain on us, New York.   Not once.   Not even a drizzle.   We thank you for that.   The first trip without rain in years.   The first walk to the Met without getting drenched.   The first time we were umbrella-free.  Not that we didn't pack umbrellas.   Of course, we did.  We're not idiots, New York.  We're from Sherman Oaks.   We're smarter than you think.  Still, big hugs, New York.   Hugs and kisses.  Take care, New York.  Don't be a stranger.

Get Up, Get Down, Go Home

Ian Somerhalder:  Boone on "Lost"

Oh, the life of the SJG. Does the excitement ever end? Yes, thankfully. There's only so much glam and celeb hobnobbing I can take.  Yesterday I went to the CW upfront.  Upfront? What the what?  It's a network thing for advertisers and affiliates.  The fall schedule is revealed, the gorgeous actors come out and wave, and later, they go to a big party just so they can meet me.  Fine. They're not that interested in meeting me.  But I pretend they are and it's more fun that way. Hubby introduces me to the pretty people and I try to say something, anything, instead of just standing there, looking like lox in search of an onion bagel.  Last night, I scored three times.

Ian:  Damon on "Vampire Diaries"

To Ian Somerhalder, I said, "You'll always be Boone to me."  He hugged me.  Score!

Paige Turco:  Laney on "All My Children"

Paige Turco:  "The 100"

To Paige Turco, I said, "You'll always be Laney to me." She kissed me on the cheek.  Score!

Peyton List:  Jane Sterling on "Mad Men," the LSD scene

Peyton List:  "Tomorrow People"

To Peyton List, I said, "How's it going with the LSD?"  She laughed and said, "I haven't taken any this week."  Score!  I can now return to my regularly-scheduled life in Sherman Oaks.

Hustle Your Bustle

Strolling through the Metropolitan Museum's "Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity" exhibit with the tall, elegant Connie Ray, the SJG couldn't help but notice the accentuation of the backside in the 19th century.  Good to know they appreciated the booty.  "I wouldn't have needed a bustle had I lived back then.  I've got a built-in bustle," I said, smacking my tush.  An inappropriate gesture in a serious institution of art?  Perhaps.  I'll let you to decide.  Connie weighed in on the matter, a little too quickly for my liking. "You'd be the Kim Kardashian of the 1860s." "Should I be offended or flattered?" "Flattered." "Hmm.  In that case, thank you, Connie.  Kim is my personal fashion icon."  "I know."

Not So Famous Quotes

"I got blisters on me feet.  I've never walked so much in me life." -- Short Jewish Gal

"I give 'Lucky Guy' three and a half out of five bagels on the bagel scale." -- Short Jewish Gal

"I can't believe I saw the Short Jewish Gal.  
A personal high point for me." -- Meredith Viera

"I saw Meredith Viera as I was leaving 'Lucky Guy.'  Perfect New York celebrity sighting." 
-- Short Jewish Gal

"Does anybody really know what time it is in me body?" -- Short Jewish Gal

Costume Party

" 

The beautiful, ornate door to the Plaza Hotel.  Why can't my front door in Sherman Oaks look like this? Why can't I have a golden revolving door?  Because it would look dumb and out of context in suburbia, that's why.  Thus ends the Q & A portion of the blog.

"There is no confusion like the confusion of the simple SJG.  The other day, as she stumbled aimlessly through the city, directionless, not knowing north from south, east from west, she came upon the Plaza Hotel, the sort of rich establishment Gatsby once frequented, until that fateful day the concierge took the clothes off his back and put them on exhibit by the tea room." Thus ends my noble attempt to write like Fitzgerald. But check out these pretty costumes from the just-released "Great Gatsby."  Me likey. Me likey very much.

I told hubby he needs a pink suit.  He disagreed.  I bought him one, anyway.  Shush.  It's a surprise.   

Driving Miss SJG

A long day of travel.  Incident-free.  Oh, except for the pat down at the airport.  It was my first time.   Clearly, I must've looked suspicious... of extreme silliness.  As the security gal ran her gloved hands over my torso and tush, telling me to turn this way and that, all I could do was giggle.  "Oooh, that tickles," I said.  "She's laughing," the security gal said to the security guy.  Guess they don't get gigglers that often at LAX. But what else was I supposed to do?  Bark?  Sing?  What's that?  Stand there and be all serious?  Behave?  Oh.  Okay.  I'll do that next time.

Driving Mss SJG

At JFK, hubby and I were greeted by our driver.  How often do I get to say that?  Only when I travel with the big shot TV exec I wed a while back.  "Hi, I'm Josh," the driver said.  "Hi Josh, sorry about my headphone hair.  I wore headphones on the plane, to block out all the annoying people." "Your hair looks fine," Josh said.  "You're nice," I said.  Out came his life story.  It made the long ride into the city more enjoyable, not to mention, educational. Josh had been a musician, sold encyclopedias, and worked in the horse race business, before settling on schlepping people back and forth to the airport.  When he mentioned growing up in Stockbridge, Mass, I sang a little "Sweet Baby James." "... Now the first of December was covered with snow/And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston..."

Wonderful book.  Stop what you're doing and read it.

"Funny you should mention that," Josh said.  "I've got a story about Stockbridge."  "Spill it," I said.  Out came the tale of his father, Mordecai Bauman, a Julliard-trained singer/cantor who started Indian Hill, a summer camp dedicated to the arts.  Many famous types passed through Indian Hill, including Carly Simon as a counselor, and Arlo Guthrie. "Hang on, I just read Meg Wolitzer's book, 'The Interestings.' It's all about that camp." Meg Wolitzer went to Indian Hill, too, and wrote a wonderful book about a fictional camp based on the original.  And there I was, talking to the son of the founder.  Now, if that's not a cosmic coinky-dink, tailor-made for the SJG, what is?

Better Not To Know

Mid-70's, with Mom.  At some point, she gave me this funky
kaftan and I started wearing it.  She was always giving me things.

You never know, you know?  And maybe that's a good thing.  Because if you knew, you wouldn't want to know.  You'll find out soon enough, anyway.  Better not to know.  Much better.  Because if you knew, you'd want to change what you can't.  In fiction, you can.  But not in real life. Real life doesn't work that way.  So.  Better not to know.  Better to enjoy the time you have together while you're having it.  If only you were that smart.  If only you could hit pause and freeze the moment forever.  But you can't.  You're too busy living to remember to hit pause. But that's okay.  Later, you'll remember.  Later, you'll remember all the details, all the laughs you shared, and how silly you got talking on the phone together.  You'll remember the last time you said, "Bye, Mom. Love you. Talk to you tomorrow."  You'll remember that and more.  You never know, you know?  And maybe that's a good thing.  Because if you knew, you wouldn't want to know.  So.  Better not to know.  Much better.

Not Enough Room For My Stuff

Packing.  What is it about packing that I find so overwhelming? Everything.  Every time I pack, I think of George Carlin's routine about stuff.  This is why I hate packing. I've got to figure out what stuff to bring.  What if I bring the wrong stuff?  Then I'll have to buy more stuff. I don't want to buy more stuff.  I have enough stuff as it is.

1-800-ENTITLED

It's true, sometimes the SJG gets a little testy, especially with people who test my low reserve of patience.  Why these people appear out of nowhere, why these people are planted at the mid-point of an otherwise lovely day, I can't tell you, but I assume it's all part of a right-handed conspiracy:  "Let's eff with the lefty's equilibrium."  Take yesterday's mid-point disturbance, which naturally, I'm choosing to take very personally, mainly because it happened to me.  I parked my car in a residential neighborhood near an elementary school.  Finding parking in this particular crowded neighborhood is nearly impossible.  On the rare occasion that I do find a parking spot there, I tend to get out of the car and dance in celebration and gratitude.  "I found a spot, bitches!  I found a spot!"  Then I check every sign, read every restriction, call 1-800-LAWYER to make sure my car won't be towed or ticketed while I'm getting my hair cut, and proceed to my destination in an legally-endorsed way.

Life in suburbia.  Such a challenge for the SJG.  What happened next? I'm so glad you asked.  Spoiler alert:  An exchange of unpleasantries. See what I did there?  I hooked you.  Keep reading.  This blog is over soon.  I have things to do, like plan what to wear for my court appearance.  Just kidding.  Or not?  So, I got my hair cut by the leader of the SJG Beauty Team, I paid at the front desk, and schlepped back to my car in the residential neighborhood where, as I was soon to learn, bitchy gals roam free, and I'm not just talking about myself.  The school was getting out early, which meant swarms of little people and parents and cars on the streets, the sort of situation the SJG loves to avoid.  I've done carpool.  I've done the school thing.  For years and years.  I don't need to revisit the commotion of afternoon pick-up.

But in this frenzied moment, I just had to suck it up, swear a little under my breath -- there were children present! -- and hurry to my vehicle.  At the end of the hill, where I'd parked, however, my vehicle had vanished. This, I took as a very bad sign.  Where I thought I'd parked, was a suburban vehicle, instead. Momentarily, I assumed I'd lost my mind. Had I parked on another street?  I kept walking, bravely, hoping the mirage would clear and there would be my vehicle.  I was just about to call 1-800-LAWYER when I realized the source of my confusion. The big-ass van was double-parked in front of my car.  Oh!  No wonder I couldn't see it.  In time for Mother's Day, a youngish mother had blocked my car, offering her children an important lesson in entitlement.  At this juncture of relief and WTF, I blurted out, "You can't park there.  I can't get out."  I know, I know.  I could've said, with a proper English accent, "Excuse me, mum.  Might you move your big-arse car?  Ta!"  But I didn't.

Calgon, take me away from this situation

The driver came back with the kind of sarcasm I'm not used to, and I know from sarcasm.  It was a New Age banter of, "Oh, really?  I'm not allowed to park here?  I'm not parked.  You are."  I gave her my signature look of what-a-bitch, got in my car and waited for her to leave, since I couldn't until she did.  As I sat there, she kept waving at me, another strange gesture, not the one I was tempted to offer her in exchange.  She appeared to be spouting all sorts of empowering messages at me, but I didn't hear them.  Wisely, my windows were up. And she continued to wave at me!  Before she drove away, and as she drove away.  More waving!  As if to say, "Bye bye!  Now you can leave! Was that so terrible?  Waiting two seconds?  Do you feel good about the negativity you just spewed into the universe while I picked up my children?"  Hmm.  Let me think about that.  All I felt was annoyed and baffled by her passive-aggressive behavior.   Next time, I'll just park in the lot and pay the seven dollars.  Aggravation like this, I don't need.

May We Have Your Attention, Please?

"Ladies and gentleman, please turn off your cell phones before the show you paid a ridiculous amount of money to see begins.  The actors on stage who trained for years to appear on Broadway would prefer not to hear your eff'n cell phone.  If your stupid cell phone goes off during the performance, you will be physically removed from the theater.  We also recommend that you don't attempt to text the actors on stage during the performance.  They're too busy acting to text you back.  Should you choose to unwrap a cough drop during the show, to cough, sneeze, pass gas, or, the worst offense of all, talk to yourself, talk to the person to your left, talk to the person to your right, you'll be ejected from the theater.  This is Broadway, people, not your high school production of 'Phantom of the Opera.' And, as a final note to the Short Jewish Gal, who thinks she belongs on Broadway, we're here to inform you that, alas, you do not.  Once again, you're delusional in your thinking.  You may walk on Broadway.  You may not be on Broadway.  That means: no singing along during the performance.  No dancing in the aisles. Control yourself, SJG, unlike the last time you visited the city that never sleeps.  Unless you'd like to spend the night in jail, please use the seat belt we've installed to keep you exactly where you belong.  In the audience, not on the stage."

What To Bring

The March of the Rugelach

"What should I bring for Mother's Day?"

"Oh, you don't have to bring anything, Daddy."

"I want to bring something.  How about a nice bottle of wine?"

"Can I be honest?"

"When are you not?"

"I don't need a nice bottle of wine."

"Then what should I bring?"

"How about some rugelach?"

"I used to get that at Junior's."

"Junior's is Lenny's now."

"It's not Junior's."

"You can get rugelach at the market."

"Where?"

"The bakery section."

"Does my market have a bakery section?"

"Every market has a bakery section."

"Does Trader Joe's have rugelach?"

"I'm not sure.  But don't make a special trip there.  You really don't have to bring anything, Daddy."

"I'll bring rugelach."

Why, Guacamole? Why?

Why. guacamole?  Why?  Why must you be so yummy, guacamole?  So tasty?  So delish?  Why, guacamole?  Why?  Why did hubby bring a platter of you home on Cinco de Mayo?  Because you were there, guacamole.  That's why. Still, I asked him:  Why, hubby?  Why?  Why did you do this me?  You know I have no self-control when it comes to guacamole!  Why, hubby? Why?  Why didn't you leave the extra platter at work, where it belonged?  Why did you bring temptation into the house?  Surrounded by chips?  And not just any chips.  Homemade chips.  Why, guacamole?  Why?  Why not fresh fruit?  Why not carrots?  Why not cucumbers?  Why not, God forbid, quinoa?  Those, I could've resisted, easily.  Those, I could've nibbled on, briefly, without losing complete self-control.  Why, guacamole?  Why?  Why must you be so yummy, guacamole?  So tasty?  So delish?  I'll tell you why, guacamole.  I'll tell you why, right now, guacamole.  Because if you didn't make me lose my mind, you'd be something else.  You'd be a platter of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies, and then, guacamole, only then, would it be even harder to resist you.

It Could Be Much Worse

"So, how's the retina look?"
"It's not much worse."
"So, it's worse?"
"No."
"But you just said it isn't much worse."
"It isn't."
"So, then, it's a little worse, but not much?"
"No.  It's not worse."
"So, it's not better, it's not worse?"
"That's correct."
"So, it's the same."
"Yes."
"So, maybe next time, just say that."

The Attack of the Killer Bougainvillea!

Look out!!!  It's coming for you next!!!

It comes from a backyard that is not your own!  It sneaks over your fence!  It invades your private property! It strangles your innocent greenery!  It tricks you with its pretty leaves!  It takes over your landscaping!  It is unstoppable!  It is thorny!  It is evil! It is uninvited! It creeps over your lawn!  It enters your house without knocking!  It is coming for you next!  Run!  Run from the killer bougainvillea!  What part of this aren't you getting?!  Don't say I didn't warn you!  Run!  Or die!