Enabler Spotted In Sherman Oaks

(Sherman Oaks) A short Jewish enabler was found wandering up and down Ventura Boulevard early this morning, mumbling to herself about the unfairness of the San Francisco rental market. "Why won't they rent to my boy?" she asked the parking meter outside of Art's Deli. "He's not asking for much.  A closet, maybe.  A kitchen.  A place to rest his head, his bed and the sectional we bought him for the last apartment.  Why are they torturing him like this?  There's only so much rental rejection he can take. It's not safe for his tender psyche. Don't these people know he's good for the rent?  What's a little unemployment got to do, got to do with it?" The parking meter had nothing to say on the matter, so the short Jewish worrier moved on to someone more responsive.  "Maybe I should fly up there and help him," she said to the homeless man on the bus bench. "What do you think?" "Go," he said.  "Go right now.  Jump on the next plane.  Hide in baggage if you have to.  I hear you've got plenty of it.  You'll fit right in. If my mother had taken this much obsessive interest in me, God only knows where I'd be today." "Thank you.  You're a mensch. Here's a gift certificate to Starbucks." "I prefer cash."  "I'll hit the ATM across the street. Stay put." "Like I have anywhere to go."  

Run, Moishe, Run!

Moishe, a Yeshiva boy, graduates high school and is about to go to college. He was born and lived in Brooklyn his entire life, but he gets a full scholarship to the University of Montana and it is such a generous deal that his parents, who would prefer to keep him in Brooklyn forever, let him go.

Six months go by and they have not heard from him. They're frantic. They call the dorm and are told that he doesn't live there anymore. They call the Registrar who says that he is no longer enrolled. They are about to fly to Montana when a letter comes from Moishe:

Dear Mother, Dear Father,
Sorry I have been so negligent, but I met the most wonderful girl and we plan to marry. That is why I dropped out of school. Little Feather is a Native American, a princess in her tribe, and her father is the Chief. He has made me a member of the tribe. I had to leave school because of the nonsense they teach about Native Americans - the lack of respect, the distortions of history. But now I understand things better. I have decided to take a Native American name which the Chief helped me decide. From now on, please call me Running Deer. I will NOT answer correspondence addressed to Moishe.

A few days later he gets a reply:

Dear Running Deer,

Your dad and I are pleased that you have finally found a woman to love and that you are happy on the reservation. We regret that she is not Jewish, but to celebrate your new love and upcoming marriage we also have decided to take Native American names...

I am now SITTING SHIVA and your father is GOING MESHUGA.

http://www.haruth.com/jhumor/jhumor63.htm#chaim

Name That Character

When I was writing this TV movie, it was my first assignment in many years.  I didn't know if it would ever get made, but I wanted to have as much fun as I could, and part of that was naming characters after loved ones and close friends.  I wanted to give a shout-out to my agent Lew Weitzman, who called me up one day a few years back, and said, "Come up with a 4th of July romantic comedy.  Something about declaring independence."  "Give me an hour," I said.  I threw an idea together, called it "Oh Say, Can You See?" and wrote up a page.  I figured it will never happen.  I never think anything is going to happen.  I like to leave the optimism to other people.

Months later, eight or nine maybe, I've lost track, Lew called me up.  It was the classic good news/bad news call.  The good news:  It looked like Hallmark Channel was going to "move forward" with that cute little one page idea of mine.  What "move forward" meant, neither one of us knew, but it was better than a kick in the head.  "Move forward" signaled progress in the right direction.  Thanks to Lew's persistent, often hilarious nagging of TV executives, "It'll never happen" had evolved into, "It might happen, stay tuned."  Then came the bad news: He had a little touch of brain cancer.  He was going into the hospital in a few days and wanted to make sure we had a chance to talk.  This would be our last conversation.  After the surgery and all the complications, he was only able to say a word or two when I visited him.  His final one:  "Pancakes."  He hadn't eaten real food in a while.

And so, I named a character after Lew.  At first he was the editor of a small-town newspaper.  But that character got cut out during development.  Eventually, Lew became the owner of a BBQ joint, a tastier gig, to be sure.  I couldn't believe Lew would never see the movie, but as we say in our family, Life is Life.  Things happen.  I thought my dad would see it.  But no.  He's gone, too.  Good thing I named a character after him.  There's a Ben in the movie, and a Gloria, too.  Lew and Ben and Gloria.  My three favorite cheerleaders get a nice shout-out in "When Sparks Fly" (formerly "Oh, Say Can you See?"). When you get a rare opportunity to honor the people you love, grab it.

The Aging Puppy

Soon, any day now, in fact, the pup turns 12.  I don't know about you, but I remember 12 as a big b'day.  I thought 12 was going to be epic.  In reality, it was more of letdown.  I expected all sorts of things. Popularity.  Boyfriends.  Long legs.  A growth spurt of any kind.  Thick lustrous locks.   A pink princess telephone.  Didn't happen.  And so, I wondered if the pup named Dusty shared similar dreams on the eve of his pre-Bark Mitzvah.  The simplest answer is no.  Not really.  Not that much.  In dog years, he's far more realistic than I was as a human-type. His dreams, if I may be so bold as to interpret for him, are closer to those of a very old man.  A good poop would be nice.  A little less arthritis in the legs, please.  Enough already with the hip dysplasia.  A little more vim and vigor couldn't hurt. In his mind, he still thinks he's a pup.  But his body is telling him a different story.

Who Let Them In?

Dear SJG,
There are two young men planted in front of the TV.  I may have given birth to one of them.  Who let them in my house?
Thanks,
A Little Suspicious

Dear Suspicious,
You did.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
They are eating blueberry muffins without benefit of napkins.  They are chanting, "I Believe That We Will Win."  They are yelling, "USA!  USA! USA!"  Is there anything I can do to stop this madness?
Thanks,
Anti-Crumb Activist

Dear Anti-Crumb,
No.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
You've been no help whatsoever.
Thanks for nothing,
Ex-Soccer Mom

Dear Ex,
That's why I get paid the big bucks.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

The Jewish Bra

A young Jewish man walks into the Lingerie Department. He tells the saleslady,"I would like a Jewish bra for my wife, size 34C."
With a quizzical look, the saleslady asks, "What kind of bra?"
He repeats, "A Jewish bra. She said to tell you that she wanted a Jewish bra, and that you would know what she wanted."
"Ah, now I remember," says the saleslady. "We don't get as many requests for them as we used to. Most of our customers lately want the Catholic bra, or the Salvation Army bra, or the Presbyterian bra."
Confused, and a little flustered, the man asks, "So, what are the differences?"
The saleslady responds, "It is all really quite simple. The Catholic bra supports the masses, the Salvation Army lifts up the fallen, and the Presbyterian bra keeps them staunch and upright."
He muses on that information for a minute and says, "Hmm...I know I'll regret asking, but what does the Jewish bra do?"
"Ah, the Jewish bra," she says, "makes mountains out of molehills."
http://www.haruth.com/jhumor/jhumor63.htm#chaim

First, Lasts and In-Betweens

The first day of school.  The last day of school.  The firsts of anything are exciting and scary and here-we-gooooo.  The lasts are always somewhere in-between.  Relief and sadness and now what?  So many firsts and lasts in life.  You start and finish and start all over again. Today is one of those days for the eldest son of the SJG.  Today his first real job ends.  Four years and he's done and on to the next adventure. He's happy to fill in the blanks as he goes along.  Where to live?  Where to work?  He'll figure it out as he goes along.  Parentally speaking, I'm not a big fan of uncertainty.  But I know wherever he lands, he'll score. It won't be the first time he's kicked some serious tush, and it won't be the last.

So Much For Camaraderie

Saturday's summons for jury duty brings back a scary-ass time of police escorts and other fun jury-related activities.  Here's something I wrote a while back just to capture the insanity: 

The summons arrived in my mailbox and I stared at it in shock and disbelief.  How dare they send me another summons for jury duty? Those bastards tried to trick me into jury duty just last year. It took me days to come up with a believable excuse that got me out of it.  Just holding the envelope filled me with dread.  It was tempting to rip the thing up or feed it to Dusty. But I'm such a good girl at heart, so easily guilted, that I decided, oh eff that, might as well suck it up.  Hubby, a veteran of jury duty, humored me. “Don’t worry, they won’t pick you.  You’ll be home before lunch.”  Okay!  I can do this!  Bring it!

That Envelope

There are good envelopes.  There are bad envelopes.  I don't know about you, but I prefer the good ones.  Sadly, those are few and far between. No one writes a letter anymore.  A letter from a friend?  That's a good envelope.  I haven't received a letter from a friend since they invented email. Every now and then, a nice card arrives. Happy Birthday!  Happy Tu Bishvat!  Those are good envelopes.  On very rare occasions, there's an envelope with money.  Maybe a residual for that one episode of "Who's The Boss?" I wrote.  Back in the '90s, yet.  That, too, is a good envelope.  Mainly, I get envelopes asking for money. Which brings us to the bad envelopes. The bills, bills and more bills. Those envelopes, we expect.  I'm not kvetching about those envelopes. I'm kvetching about this one in particular, the one I dread the most, the one that arrived yesterday and sent me into an epic hissy-fit:

The Wrong Sign

Mid-afternoon confusion is different than early-morning confusion. Early morning, you're entitled to be confused. For starters, you're not sure what day it is, what time it is and where you're supposed to be. You're not even awake yet and already, they're expecting things from you. If you had your way, a rare occurrence, you'd stay in bed till the confusion passes. An hour would be nice, but you'll take another 15 minutes, please.  Would that be so terrible? No. It would be wonderful. Maybe tomorrow.  Now get out of bed, lazy bones, and start your day. Fine. Stop yelling at me.

The "Oy!" App

A new app called "Oy!" which only took 56 years to develop and does nothing but let you send one word, "Oy!" from kvetcher to kvetcher, has already raised $1 million from investors.  You heard me.  One million dollars!  Developed by SJG Enterprises, the Oy! app sends noodge notifications to other app users with an audible sigh of "Oy!" In the past three months, over 50,000 kvetchers have sent four million Oys!

Let Me Do The Suffering

"Hello.  You've reached Let Me Do The Suffering.  I'm out suffering on someone's behalf.  Leave a message after the beep and let me know how I can be your replacement martyr." Beep.
"Hi... um... this is Gert Shapiro from Reseda.  I heard about your wonderful service from my sister-in-law Sheila. A few years back, she was scheduled for a root canal. You stepped in and had the root canal for her, and she hasn't stopped raving about you since.  So I figured maybe I'd call and see if you'd be willing to take my colonoscopy for me. It's the prep that worries me. All that stuff they make you drink. Yech!  I'll pay you whatever you want. Call me back.  I'm begging you. (818) 555-1234.  Thanks!"

How To Keep Your Cool This Summer

Summer.  Such a hot time.  A time of flared tempers:
"What part of turn down the A/C aren't you getting?"
"I'm turning it up.  My lips are blue."
"Turn it down."
"I'm not in the market for pneumonia."
"Put on a sweater."
"Go stick your head in the freezer."

How To Train Your Bougainvillea 2

When Gassy and Headachy discover an insanely overgrown bougainvillea that is home to hundreds of endlessly emerging wild vines, the two friends find themselves at the center of a battle to tame the thorny ornamental before it takes over Sherman Oaks.

Tough Room

Pre-fall:  The SJG Blintz Souffle

Okay, fine.   I was going to tell you about the wonder, the high-caloric miracle that is the SJG Blintz Souffle.  I was going to tell you about the brief joy of watching it levitate right there in the oven, before it collapsed before my eyes.  I was going to tell you about the ancient Cuisinart, a letdown of an appliance that makes a mess and leaks and disappoints me, deeply, every time I make my Blintz Souffle, but then, I searched "blintz" in my list of posts, and realized I've told you about my blintzes 842 times.  That's enough about my blintzes for awhile.

Instead, I'll tell you about the main topic of conversation at the Father's Day Brunch hosted by my stylish bro', who did such a fabulous job hosting, I'm turning all holidays over to him from this point on.  That's just between us, of course.  Don't tell him he's got Thanksgiving, Passover, Rosh Hashanah and Dusty's 12th Birthday Party.  He might feel a little stressed.  For now, let's just keep it to ourselves, shall we?

Back to the main topic:  the purplish bruise on my arm.  So much going on in the world, and everyone wanted to know about the boo-boo. "What happened?"  "I don't know."  "That's a huge bruise."  "I know." "How did you get it?"  "I have no idea."  "Did you fall?"  "I think I'd remember that."  "So you didn't fall?"  "No."  "Then what did you do to get such a bruise?"  "I wish I could tell you."  "Make something up." "Knowing me, I probably bumped my arm on the doorknob." "You can do better than that."  "I took one for the team."  "A little vague."  "I took a puck in the arm for the Kings."  "That'll do."  "Hang on, I'm just warming up."  "We're moving on now."  "Tough room."  "We're outside."  "Tough patio."

Who Knew?

Last Father's Day with Dad and John

Last Father's Day turns out to have a double meaning.  Who knew it would be the last Father's Day with our wonderful Dad?  Not us.  Not a clue. Why go there? Why go dark when you're surrounded by light and love and blintzes, maybe a brownie and a nice danish?  We didn't. Didn't even give it a thought.  What a great way to drive yourself crazy. For a what-iffer like me, not a healthy choice.  So we did last Father's Day the right way.  Not thinking it was the last brunch.  Not thinking that at all.  This Father's Day is bittersweet.  No way around that. Today will be a tough one.  No doubt about it.   But we can still celebrate our wonderful Dad, even if he's only with us in spirit, debating whether to go with half a bagel or live a little and go whole.  Go full onion, Dad. Just like you taught us.

Don't Come Back Later

Friday night, 5:15ish.  Ding dong.
"@#$%!"
"Bark bark bark."
Ding dong.
"Bark bark bark."
"@#%%!  Hang on!"
"Bark bark bark."
"Dusty, chill... Yes?"
"Hi.  I'm from -- "
"This isn't a good time."
"I know, right?  It's the worst time in history.  Our planet is dying.  Did you know that -- "
"The Kings are playing."
"They are?"
"Right now.  Men with beards who spit a lot are going back and forth on the ice, with big sticks, chasing a puck."
"Oh."
 "It's actually very exciting."
"I bet."
"You've picked the worst time in history to go door to door asking for money."
"But I didn't get to that part yet."
"I'm closing the door now."
"Can I come back later?"
"Sure.  After the World Cup ends."
"Which is when?"
"@#$% if I know."

The Speed of Guilt

(Studio City) On Thursday, the L.A.P.D. pulled over the Short Jewish Gal and gave her a nice ticket for an illegal guilt maneuver.  "Is it the hair, officer?  Is that why you had to sound your fancy siren and give me a heart attack?"  "No, ma'am."  "Just admit it, officer.  You don't like the hair." "Driver's license, please." "Sure, officer, in a minute.  You think I should've gone shorter, right?"  "License, ma'am."  "I went too short last time.  The sides stuck out.  It was a little too Bozo.  So I told my gal, 'Less Bozo, more chic.''  She started to weep.  I feel bad about that, I do, but sometimes, officer, you have to be honest with your people."  "Insurance."  "If it's not the hair that you think deserves an expensive fine just to help keep the city running, what is it, then?  Wait, don't tell me.  Is it the face?  Did I make the classic SJG Face at you when I drove by?  This wouldn't be the first time I got busted for that offense.  I once got sent to the Girl's VP in 7th grade for making the face in Girl's Glee.  Nothing gleeful going on in that class, believe me.  But hey, it's my face, officer.  Aren't I entitled to use it any way I want?"  "Registration."

"Coming right up, officer.  If it's not the hair and it's not the face, why are you pulling me over in my hour of need?  I'm feeling so needy, officer.  I need a break.  You have no idea what I've been through lately. It's been nothing but drama, drama, drama. This one's moving.  This one won't move off the sofa.  Oh, wait.  Is this a moving violation?  I'm pretty sure I was driving at the speed of guilt.  Slow and deliberate."  "You were talking on the cell phone, ma'am."  "Oh.  That."  "You need to be hands-free, ma'am."  "I don't know how to drive hands-free."  "You keep your hands on the wheel, ma'am.  You talk hands-free."  "I like to use my hands when I talk.  I'm very expressive."  "Blue tooth, ma'am."  "Great, now you're criticizing my teeth?  I know it's been a while since I've whitened, officer, but to go after me, dentally?  That's just mean.  How did your mother raise you, officer?"  "Sign here, ma'am."  "If I cry, would it help, officer?"  "It couldn't hurt, ma'am."

Take That!

Tanchum, the water carrier, was returning home one evening when a stranger rushed up to him and slapped his face. 

"Take that, Meyer!" yelled the attacker.

Tanchum picked himself up from the street and stared at the man in amazement.  Suddenly, a broad grin spread over his face and then he laughed, uproariously.

"Meyer, what are you laughing at?" exclaimed the other.  "I just knocked you down."

"The joke is one you," chortled Tanchum.  "I'm not Meyer!" 
http://www.haruth.com/jhumor/

By now you may be asking yourself, what's so funny about a slap in the face?  My rabbinical answer to you is:  Everything.  A slap in the face is just funny.  Personally, the SJG has never slapped anyone.  But I see people getting slapped on TV and in movies, and it's always funny -- maybe because I'm not the one getting slapped.  The first lesson my Dad taught me, the one that sticks with me the most:  Funny is funny, no matter the circumstances.  I refer you to Tanchum.  Even the water carrier knows a slap in the face is funny, especially when it's meant for someone else.  In the long run, humor always takes the sting out of life's twisted punchline.  

Why Do You Ask?

1.  What is your current position on Global Warming?

Answer:  Is it hot in here, or is it me?

2.  How much do you weigh?

Answer:  Some days more, some days less.

3.  Why is the eldest moving to San Francisco?

Answer:  To test his mother's sanity.

4.  Would you feel safe in a driverless car?

Answer:  It depends who's at the wheel. 

5.  How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?

Answer:  Let me get back to you on that.

6.  If you were president, what would be your first big move?

Answer:  I'd move Wednesday to Thursday, I'd get rid of Monday and switch Saturday with Tuesday.

7.  What's it like to be a famous international blogger?

Answer:  It's a lot of pressure.

8.  Is it true that in a previous life, you were taller?

Answer:  If by tall you mean 5"3', then yes.

9.  Did you take your silly pill today?

Answer:  I doubled the dosage.

10.  Will you visit the eldest in San Francisco?

Answer:  No need to visit; I'm going with him. 

Thank You For Thanking Me

"I couldn't have done it without the SJG."

Oh, Bryan.  You didn't have to thank me during your acceptance speech.  But I am honored that you singled me out as the gal who taught you everything you know.  It wasn't always easy, my friend. There were times you wanted to ditch the acting lessons and watch baseball, instead. There were times when you said, " SJG!  Enough with the 'here's how Heisenberg would say it,' " and shoved a bagel in my mouth to shut me up.  And then, a few weeks ago, when I appeared on Broadway with you, my decision to shout suggestions from the audience -- "More drawl, Bryan!  LBJ was a Texan, not a Sherman Oaksan!" -- during your performance, you had your personal security guard escort me out of the theater.  That was a little harsh, Bryan.  But hey, it's okay.  I get it.  Sometimes the student becomes the teacher and you taught me a lesson in humility.   So thank you for that, Bryan.  And thank you for thanking me for scoring you that nice shiny Tony.  In case you've run out of space for all those awards you keep getting, I'm happy to make room on my shelf.

Tony! Tony! Tony!

Tony!  Tony!  Tony!  What a perfect name for an award.  But even if it were named Freddy... as in, "Did you hear the SJG finally won a Freddy?  They must've made a mistake.  What did she ever do to deserve a Freddy?"... I'd still sit by the telly tonight, worshipping the wonders of Broadway, and rooting for the people who make NYC theater a thrill to be behold, year after year.  My money's on Bryan Cranston to win Best Actor for "All The Way" (kina hora poo poo poo). Let's see if I'm right, but then, aren't I always? What's that? Sometimes I'm wrong? How dare you! Why must you point out my flaws?  I'm so right about this one, it's ridiculous.

Here's hoping he wins a Freddy... er... Tony.

Easy Street

Good streets come to those who wait.

Of course, not everyone is satisfied with the results.  In the words of a certain perfectionist who fathered my children, "It's not as smooth in places as it should be. They were sloppy.  They could've done better."  Oh well.  It'll take another 15 years for them to come back and fix the boo-boos.  But I'm sure it will be worth the wait.

I'm Telling Mom

It's happened to all of us.  You get a phone call and all you hear is weird ambient noise, a faraway voice from another dimension, possibly ordering a sandwich, or a mob hit.  It's very hard to tell.  "Wah-wah--tomatoes."  "Wah-wah-take-out-Tony."  This phenomenon, according to my sons, is called the Butt Dial.  The thought of someone's butt dialing me is disturbing on many levels.  My sons assure me the Butt Dial is unintentional, and now, with the advent of the uber-sensitive iPhone keypad, it happens more often.  I should know.  Yesterday, my brother John tushy-dialed me.  "Hello?"  "Wah-wah-wah."  "John?"  "Wah-wah-wah tomatoes."  "What?"  "Wah-wah."  "Oh @#$%, I'm hanging up."  I called him, immediately, using my fingers and my best accusatory tone.

"John?  Did you call me a second ago?"  "No."  "Don't deny it.  My phone rang and your number came up." "But I didn't call you."  "Oh, yes you did."  "I didn't."  "Then your butt did."  "How dare you."  "You heard me, you butt dialed me, your sister.  How could you do that to me?"  "I didn't mean to."  "But you did and I'm traumatized.  Trauma.  Tized!!! "  "I apologize, profusely, from the bottom of my bottom."  "You don't sound terribly sincere."  He started singing, "You gotta be sincere."  "Don't you Bye Bye Birdie me.  You butt dialed me.  I'm telling Mom."  "You do that."  "Good day, sir."  Click.
(12-13-11)

Enough With The Sharing

"Negativity changes the structure of water."

"Gwynnie, doll, listen, I'm a little worried about you."
"Why?  I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm perfect.  I'm just sharing my thoughts."
"The best speech is the one you don't make."
"What are you saying, Auntie SJG?"
"I'm saying that every time you open your mouth, you sound like a whack-a-doodle.  First with the conscious uncoupling, and now with the whole 'water has feelings' thing.  It's enough already, and I say that with love."
"I'm a free spirit, Auntie."
"I know, darling, I know, but it's time for a little Jewish intervention."
"But I'm only half-Jewish."
"Even so, you need a full-Jewish intervention."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Let me help you out, sweetie.  It comes down to this:  Sheket Bavakasha!"
"Auntie SJG, you're telling me to shut up?"
"Yes, but in the nicest way possible."

From One SJG To Another

I've searched and searched, but I just can't find a birthday card for the dearly departed.  I think the greeting card folks are missing a great opportunity.  Sure, it's a little morbid, and but think of the marketing possibilities.  The "Wish You Were Still Here" Collection would be huge.  Just insert the appropriate occasion and all the heartfelt sentiment required.  "Happy Birthday, Mom!  You'd be 87 today!"  I'd pop that one in the mail today... if only I had the right forwarding address.

You Were Saying

Even a bear can be taught to dance.

Dress up a broom and it will look nice too.

Worries go down better with soup than without.

All is not butter that comes from a cow.

The hat is fine but the head is too small.

Someone's Left A Surprise

... and this time, it's not Dusty.

On Sunday afternoon, a pungent gift arrives courtesy of neighborhood boys pranking the home of the SJG. It plays out like this: Double Ding Dong! Hubby goes to open the door. What follows: A very loud POP. And then, a nasty smell wafts down the hall with alarming speed.  Mid-siesta, I cry, "Ew!" and, in my grogginess, turn to the usual suspect:  the eldest son, resting on the sofa, recovering from an extreme hair cut. "It wasn't me," he says. I find this hard to believe. Until hubby clarifies:  "Fart bomb!" "What?" "Must've been some neighborhood kids." Hysterical laughter from the eldest.  The SJG?  Not laughing. Coughing.  Fanning the air for relief.  The house reeks. "I don't understand." "It's a bag of sulfur that explodes," hubby explains.  The man just knows stuff. "It's disgusting." Now the eldest rises off the sofa. "Those little mother-eff'ers!  If anyone's going to fart bomb this house, it's me."  I've never been prouder.  "Go get 'em!" I say.  And off he goes, in search of justice. Two seconds later, he's back.  The culprits are long gone.  Bastards! This morning, hubby reports that "Fart Bomb XL" foil packages litter the entire neighborhood. We're not the only ones who got pranked.  I feel so much better now.  Suffering should always be a group activity.  

Special Delivery

When you have babies, you spend a lot of time talking about their poopy.  No one warns you about this aspect of early parenthood, by the way. You dream of cuddly infants cooing and just being plain adorable. You don't dream about diapers and baby wipes.  If you did, you'd never give birth. The poopy phase of parenthood passes quickly, thank God. Eventually, all the baby poop talk ends, right around the time your baby gets into college and graduates, God willing, not necessarily on schedule. Just as the kids start to get their sh*t together, a new phase begins. The 12-year-old puppy starts to lose his. The eyes get cloudy, the arthritis kicks in and suddenly, you've entered the Indoor Poopy Stage. No one warns you about this, either. If they did, you might never get a puppy in the first place.  After all, you housetrained the little pooper.  You figured you're done.  You're never done. And so, every morning, I ask hubby, "Any surprises?" "Any special deliveries?" "Any poopy pellets on the doggy bed?" Some days the answer is yes, a tiny one.  Some days, the answer is a happy no.  In this way, Dusty keeps us guessing.

The aging puppy