Don't Bug Me

Dear SJG,
Is it too late in the season for my Mac to get a flu shot? Last week, he got a nasty bug that nearly destroyed him. Suddenly, he started scanning this, scanning that, and he wouldn't quit. I tried to shut him down. It was a whole thing. He's better, he stopped scanning, but now and then, he takes me somewhere wonky and I wonder if he's getting sick again.
Sincerely,
Panicky in Poughkeepsie

Dear Panicky,
Poor Mac. But more importantly, poor you. When our computers get sick, we suffer more than they do. Yes, it's a little late in the season, but the experts who think they know everything are saying go, get a flu shot, it couldn't hurt. Sure, your Mac may kvetch a bit, his backside may be sore, but listen, he has no choice in the matter. This is his Apple password to longevity.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Night, Night, TV

As we put our adorable Apple TV 4K to sleepy-bye, we found ourselves taking a sweet schlep down memory lane. It went something like this:

"Goodnight, Apple TV."
"Goodnight, remote."
"Goodnight, cow jumping over Netflix."
"That makes no sense."
"Hush. Apple TV's trying to go night night."
"Sorry."
"Where was I?"
"Goodnight something."
"Goodnight, Grace & Frankie."
"Goodnight, ladies."
"Goodnight, Slim Shady."
"You've jumped the shark."
"Shush. You'll wake the TV."
"Hurry up. I think there's a game on."
"Goodnight, moon, goodnight, room."
"Enough already with the goodnights."
"I'm almost done."
"Thank God."
"Goodnight chair... goodnight air, goodnight hubbies everywhere."

Two Women Talking

Hetty and Hannah hadn’t seen each other for some time when they bumped into each other in Sherman Oaks. As they sat down for coffee, Hannah asked, "So Hetty, how is your grandson, the proctologist, doing?"
"My grandson is no longer a proctologist, Hannah. He decided to become a dentist instead."
"A dentist! Why the change in career?"
"Business is business, Hannah. Let's face it, everyone starts off with 32 teeth but have you ever heard of anybody who has more than one tuchas?"

The following was overheard at a recent party:
"My ancestry goes back all the way to Alexander the Great," Christine said. She then turned to Miriam and asked, "How far back does your family go?"
"I don't know," Miriam said. "All of our records were lost in the flood."

http://www.awordinyoureye.com/jokes33rdset.html

Sometimes We Fix Things

The weekend means the man I'm hitched to for life doesn't have to work. I get Relaxed Hubby (patent pending). This version of hubby doesn't get bombarded with emails and texts. Work-wise, he doesn't have to fix anything. On Saturday and Sunday, he can fix what he wants to fix. A loose something... a creaky what-it's... an automotive oy vey. And if there's nothing to fix at the palatial estate, he schleps over the hill to fix something at his parents' house. On weekends, hubby's a household fixer. The SJG's a nothing fixer. The way I see it, I fix plenty during the week. Problems, you got? Monday-Friday, I'll try to fix them. Dinner, you want? I'll fix you something. Blues, you got? I'll fix them with a silly emoji and some decent advice. Monday-Friday, this is how I roll. Pretty much since birth, I've been the fixer, the mediator, the negotiator. But on Saturday and Sunday, I'm off the clock. While hubby fixes, I fix bupkis. In this way, we make a great team.

Still Life With Fake Lemons

So, last night, hubby brought home extra "prop" lemons from a promotional shoot for a new show called "Life Sentence." He was just so happy when he walked in the door, schlepping a big ol' bag of fake lemons. I tried to rise to his level of enthusiasm, but it wasn't easy:

"Look what I brought you!" 

"Something wonderful?"

"Lemons from the set." 

"Yay." 

"Don't they look real?" 

"They look like lemons on steroids." 

"We had 1,200 lemons in a hot tub." 

"Wow. That's a lot of fake lemons."

"They looked real." 

"And what are we going to do with them?" 

"I see them in bowls." 

"Do you now?" 

"Ceramics bowls in the backyard." 

"'Cuz why?" 

"For color." 

"Just a bunch of random bowls full of fake lemons."

"Why not?"

"So many reasons. What else you got?" 

"We can put them in the trees." 

"So it looks like we have lemon trees?" 

"Wouldn't that be cool?"

"I'm not doing that." 

"I really thought you'd love the lemons."

"I didn't say I don't love them."

"You hate them."

"I don't hate the fake lemons, honey."

"I just... I thought... I thought it was... cute."

"Please don't cry, honey. It's very cute."

"You're just saying that."

"I really love the fake lemons."

"You do?"

"Yes. It just took me a while to adjust. But now that I'm looking at them, I know exactly what I'm going to do."

"What?"

"Well, you know what they say. When life gives you fake lemons, make fake lemonade."

"That does sound refreshing." 

"I'll just whip up a batch."

"Can we drink it on our fake veranda?"

"In our fake rocking chairs."

"See, I knew I was onto something."

"You always are, honey." 

Celebration Expiration

Says who?

Dear Short Jewish Personage,
It has come to our attention at the Bureau of Birthdays -- what? you didn't know such a place existed? -- that you continue to milk your 60th birthday in ways that strike us as less than humble. We've been notified that just yesterday, you were spotted in a Studio City restaurant full of beautiful, slim, quinoa/gluten free-types, blowing out a candle on a free scoop of ice cream, God only knows what it was made of, but still, have you no shame? Your birthday has hit its expiration date, Missy. It's over. It's time to step aside and let others get the free slice of cake, the scoop of ice cream, the "many more" of the standard birthday equation. Get over yourself. Just remember, we're watching you.
Sincerely,
The Bureau of Birthdays

Dear Bureau of Birthdays,
I've got one more celebration of my birth on Sunday. And another in two weeks. You people don't scare me.
Bring it on,
The SJG

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Hysterias & Posteriors

 

"Best friends graduated from medical and graduate school at the same time and decided that, in spite of the different specialties, they would open a practice together. Dr. Smith was the Psychologist and Dr. Jones was the Proctologist. They put up a sign reading: Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones: Hysterias and Posteriors. The town council was livid and  insisted they change it. So, the docs changed it to read: Schizoids and Hemorrhoids. This was also not acceptable. Again they changed the sign: Catatonics  and High Colonics - no go. Next, they  tried: Manic  Depressives and Anal Retentives - thumbs down again. Then came: Minds and Behinds - still no good. Another attempt resulted in: Lost Souls and Butt Holes - unacceptable again! So, they tried: Analysis and Anal Cysts - not a chance. Nuts and Butts - no way. Freaks and Cheeks - still no good. Loons and Moons - forget it. Almost at their wit's end, the docs finally came up with: Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones - Specializing in Odds and Ends. Everyone loved it!" --  from a British humor website, courtesy of close friend and neighbor Cheryl.

Zombie Girl Vs. Blakey Boy

Schlepping through the day... guzzling caffeine ...

She's Zombie Girl!

Howling through the night.... barking through the day...

He's Blakey Boy!

Misplacing her phone... pondering where she parked....

She's Zombie Girl!

Chasing crazy squirrels... zig-zagging through the grass...

He's Blakey Boy!

Napping at mid-day... drooling on the sofa...

She's Zombie Girl!

Sniffing round the yard... whizzing in the wind...

He's Blakey Boy! 

Waiter, There's No There, There

"He hates us."
"He keeps ignoring us."
"He still hasn't turned the music down."
"Or told someone to turn the music down."
"Maybe he told someone and they forgot."
"Then we need to remind him to remind them."
"That'll go over as well as the rolls."
"We didn't get the rolls."
"It was the way you asked."
"I asked nicely."
"You had a little attitude."
"All I said was, 'Pardon me, kind sir, might we procure some warm, buttered carbs?' "
"That's not what you said."
"That's how I remember it."
"You were like, 'Uh, hello! Hello! Excuse me, what's happening with the rolls?' "
"I did not say that."
"You said, 'What does a bitch have to do to get some rolls?' "
"Oh my God, I did not. I said -- "
"Shush, he's bringing the rolls. Don't say anything. Let me do the talking."
"Here are the rolls, ladies."
"Thanks so much."
"Excuse me? What's happening with turning down the music?"
"Would you like me to ask again?"
"I really would."

"Hey, what happened to not talking?"
"What do you mean?"
"I told you I'd do the talking."
"I didn't hear you. The music's too loud."

Take None & Don't Call Me In The Morning

Last night's conversation with my dance teacher, almost 79, sick for weeks with a bad nasal something:
"Hello?"
"I'm a wreck."
"Oh, no. What happened?"
"I went to the doctor."
"Thank God. We've been begging you for weeks. What did he say?"
"She."
"What did she say?"
"She said it was allergies."
"That makes sense, Dougie. The sneezing, the coughing."
"She wants me to take Claritin."
"Good."
"I'm not taking Claritin."
"Why not?"
"I don't take Claritin."
"Dougie! It'll help."
"She should've given me antibiotics."
"If it's viral, it won't help."
"I hate taking antibiotics. They're bad for your gut."
"What else did she say?"
"Flonase."
"Smart."
"I'm not doing that."
"Why not?!"
"Nasal spray? Forget about it."

"Oy, Dougie. You're impossible."
"I don't use nose spray. My mother didn't use nose spray. She lived till 94."
"So...”
"So I'm not going to take anything."
"But it will clear up the congestion."
"No, it won't."
"What am I going to do with you?"
"This is why I don't go to doctors."
"But you did go to one."
"I went to one. She was wrong."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
"Mucinex, Dougie."
"That's what my sister said."
"Go get some right now."
"Not now."
"Then when?"
"Tomorrow."
"Promise."
"You don't believe me?"
"Absolutely not."

A Gift From Beyond

Ben Starr on the bulletin board: The Air Force Lieutenant. 

The Hollywood Writer. The Bar Mitzvah Boy. 

As I continue to celebrate my birthday week, milking it for all I can, I pause to celebrate my sweet father, who passed away four years ago today. The fact that his yahrzeit falls a few days after my birthday might not seem like the best timing for a comedy writer. On the other hand, it was so Ben Starr of him to skip my birthday as his departure date. So, considerate man that he was, he waited a few days before taking off for the Big Deli in the Sky, where I imagine they serve a bottomless bowl of matzoh ball soup and corned beef to die for. Yeah, I went there. I just can't help myself. He raised us to find humor in everything, even the toughest things. I miss him like crazy. I channel him daily. He always said the secret to getting older was to keep having birthdays. He forgot to mention that he might not always be here to share them. I had to figure that part out on my own. He's forever in my heart and in my soul. Every time I think of him, I smile. His memory is the gift that keeps on giving, which makes perfect sense. He was the ultimate giver of joy and laughter, and now he's a gift from beyond.

Wardrobe Malfunction On Aisle 2

It's been a week of birthday-related overeating that may or may not have led to a serious wardrobe malfunction in suburbia. Yesterday, the SJG suffered a big one right in Gelson's, my personal homeland. Oh, the shanda of it all. Thankfully, I realized immediately what had happened and candidly told the Sushi Guy, "Oy gevalt, my zipper's down. Piece of kaka, this zipper. I blame Calvin Klein. I swear on the Torah this bupkis zipper was up when I left the house." The Sushi Guy stared at me, unable to decipher my Yiddish. "California Roll?" "Sure, why not," I said, zipping up, "and throw in some of that edamame. It's so delish." The Sushi Guy bowed as he gave me the order. If only the menfolk in my life would bow more often in my presence. Then a nice thing happened. An old woman pushing her cart stopped by and handed me a safety pin. "Listen, doll, this little baby will keep your business to yourself.  I keep a stash on me at all times." With that, she disappeared down Aisle 6, in search of sugar-free cookies.  

Let Me Eat Cake

Turns out, I'm the best candidate for a surprise party. I'm so clueless, so completely oblivious to all the obvious signs -- a last-minute location change, a casual request to come early for lunch, described as "leftovers from a meeting," and how about my students' cars in the driveway -- that when I walked in the door and they yelled "Surprise!" I jumped back and screamed, "OH MY GOD!" Luring me into this surprise trap was a cakewalk (see what I did there?). I had no idea. I just went with it, easygoing gal that I'm usually not, but I'm 60 now, so why not, I ask you. Why. Not. If not now, when?

 

Here's the surprise birthday cake from Porto's. The gal in the middle? That's me, the self-anointed volunteer rabbi of my own writerly congregation. The other symbols represent wonderful stories "The Wannabe Writers," as they call themselves (trust me, they're already writers), have delved into over the past few months: a pickle ball paddle, a switchblade, a Cuban tango dancer, a U.S. Marine Corps emblem and a stack of library books. 

They even gave me gifts, including a stuffed fish (don't ask), a sign that says "Maybe Swearing Will Help" -- they know me so well -- and this, the 1st Annual Laughing At Life Award, a very prestigious trophy handed out only once every 60 years. What a great way to spend my 60th, with nice people I adore and can't wait to see every week. I'm so honored, I could plotz. Meanwhile, stop by the palatial estate if you're in the neighborhood. I have not one, but two half-eaten delicious cakes that need to be fully consumed. 

Happy To Be Here

The day started with a nice thoughtful note from my dentist wishing me happy birthday and granting me permission to eat cake, but not too much, because my aging teeth can only take so much sugar before they rot and fall out mid-sentence. Then I spent a while searching for the remote so I could turn off the morning news -- no mention of my birthday and that hurt a bit, but I'm over it. I finally found the remote at the end of the bed, don't ask me how it got there, and that's okay by me. I've learned that in life, some things remain a mystery. So this is 60. I'm happy to be here, thanks for having me.

It's My Party & I'll Kvell If I Want To

True, my birthday isn't till tomorrow, but that didn't prevent me from throwing myself a surprise party and emailing my people the following invite: "Come, celebrate my magnificence, bring me a nice expensive gift, eat, drink and leave." They did just that. And they all went to public school!

Pre-celebration of, who else, me, with my sweet sons, hubby and daughter-in-law. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am one lucky lil Jew.

The Art of Surprise

The SJG of S.O. has learned so much in the past 60 years that it would be selfish of me to deny you a pearl of wisdom now and then. If I didn't share, you'd probably turn all resentful and give my blog a less-than-favorable Help! review and we can't have that, can we? The answer is no, in case you were wondering. So today my wisdom pearl, as opposed to my wisdom teeth, which went for big bucks on eBay -- so glad I saved them! -- has to do with surprise parties. When throwing such soirees, proceed with caution. Surprise parties are very hard to pull off. Here are some examples of the best, the well-meaning, the sweetest and the most terrifying.

Best:
The surprise party for my grandpa. I can't remember how old he was, but I was little so maybe he was turning 70-something-ish. Lots of people I didn't know, and some I did, including family members we weren't collectively estranged from (yet), gathered in their home on Highland Avenue. The plan was simple. Grandpa would come home from work and we'd whisper, not yell, but whisper "surprise." My Grandma Shorty, who generously shared all her worry genes with me, thought screaming SURPRISE!!!! when he came through the door would cause instantaneous plotzing. So we whispered surprise and the look on his adorable face was wonderful.

Well-Intentioned:
The surprise party I went to a million years ago with hubby, for the wife of one of his work pals. To say she wasn't expecting us would be an understatement. We yelled "Surprise!", she went into shock and started crying and spent the rest of the party locked in the bedroom. The husband was trying to cheer her up after a tough turn of events, and it backfired. A very awkward evening I've never forgotten.

Sweetest:
This surprise party, I didn't attend, it was millennials only, but knowing my wonderful daughter-in-law threw it in honor of the eldest's 30th filled me with enough joy to get me through the entire year and well into the next. Her planning was impeccable. He had no idea what was about to happen when he walked through the door. The youngest recorded the moment and it was 100 percent surprise of the highest order. It was his first surprise party and he loved every second.

Terrifying:
This surprise party, I also didn't even attend, but heard about at the surprise party I did attend last night for a dear friend who didn't look all that surprised when she came through the door. That's all I'm going to say, other than to repeat my previous comment: surprise parties are very hard to pull off. The terrifying tale comes from the guest of honor's hilarious mother, who told me this story as we waited to surprise her daughter: "I'll never forget a surprise party I went to for a friend of mine who was turning 60. She walked in the door, we yelled surprise and she had a heart attack. The paramedics came and took her away. We stayed and ate the food, which I remember wasn't all that good."

Diagnosis: Low Battery

"Hello, and thank you for calling Napple Support, where everything's old, including you. This could take a while, so we recommend you grab a little nap so you're more-or-less refreshed by the time you finally speak to a human. To improve your waiting time, please select the type of music you'd like to listen to as you nap. Press 1 for Lawrence Welk. Press 2 for Nat King Cole. Press 3 for Paul Revere & the Raiders."

"It's just like me... to say to you... Love me do, and I'll be true... And what I'd like... for you to say... Is you'll come home... to me each day..."

Twenty minutes later:
"Napple Support. Margo speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hi, Margo, how's ba you?"
"Good. And you?"
"Not bad. Could be better."
"How old is your battery?"
"That's a little personal, don't you think, Margo?"
"Maybe. Not really. They pay me to ask."
"My battery is 60 years old, come Tuesday."
"What are the symptoms?"
"Well, things have slowed down a bit. Takes longer to launch myself out of bed. Once I get going, I function okay, kina hora, poo poo poo."
"Are you on Wi-Sigh right now?"
"I am. Instead of napping, I just sat here sighing till you picked up."
"Napple understands."
"That's nice to hear.
"So, we're going to run a diagnostic."
"Should I be worried?"
"Not at all. We just need to analyze what's wrong with you."
"Can't you just put me down for a long-lasting battery? I still have things to do."
"First I need your serial number."
"I didn't know I had one. Where is it?"
"It's on the lining of your pupik."
"Pupik? Not pipik?"
"You say pipik, I say pupik..."
"Hang on, I may need some assistance. One sec... Hubby, can you come here? Hang on, Margo, he has to schlep from the kitchen... Honey, can you tell me the serial number on my belly button? Margo, are you there? It's S...J...G...123. Thanks, honey. Got that, Margo? SJG123."
"Okay, sit tight while I run the program. This could take a while."
"What doesn't, Margo?"
"Would you like music or silence?"
"Silence sounds nice."
"Okay, back in a jiffy."

20 minutes later:
"Hi, I'm back."
"What's the diagnosis?"
"A little low on battery."
"Is that it?"
"A little neurotic, but in a good way."
"How long have I got, Margo?"
"You've still got some juice left."
"Whew."
"We're ordering you a new battery, but it could take a while. We're on back order. In three days, someone from Napple will call you and tell you very little, then send you an email telling you even less. Then at some point, you'll get an appointment, which you'll probably want to reschedule, and then you'll be back on the waiting list."
"What I do in the meantime?"
"Don't overexert yourself and keep recharging."
"Words to live by."

Sudden Clarity

As the world turns in a freaky-weird, disturbing, not to mention head-scratching direction at the dizzying speed of oh-dear-god-what-now, it's the tiny pop-up miracles that make the SJG do a happy dance.

 

Yesterday, I experienced such a sudden moment of gleeful clarity that I needed to share it with you, immediately so that you could live vicariously through me. I know, I know. I'm a giver. Courtesy of my new prescription, I walked around Eye-Oy-You in a state of giddy delight. "Double wowza!  Oh man, this is amazing! This is -- " "Are you paying by credit card, Israeli bond, or with what's left of your inheritance?" "Who cares! I can see again! Isn't that all that matters?" "As long as the check clears, we're good."

Dog Watcher

Dear SJG,
I'm experiencing some major craziness at the moment, and I thought, who better to turn to for advice than the gal who calls herself The Professor of Mishegas? So, here's my dilemma. There are times I must leave the house. I'd rather stay home and be cozy with Bruiser. But Bruiser needs to eat and so do I, and that means I must drive my vehicle to the market. Before I reluctantly depart to face the cold and bitter world, I turn on the TV, hand Bruiser the remote and let him watch whatever he wants. The other day when I came home, Bruiser quickly changed the channel. I think he didn't want me to see what he was watching. I waited till he was napping and hit "previous" on the remote. You'll never believe what came up! The Naughty Channel! I thought Bruiser was better than that. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Ashamed in Arleta

Dear Ashamed,
Listen, dogs are just like people, only less judgmental and much nicer. When it comes to TV, some pups prefer porn over PBS. What can you do? You have several options: You can command Bruiser to change his filthy, disgusting viewing habits. You can send Bruiser to therapy, which will cost you a bundle and I doubt insurance will over it. You can block adult content, don't ask me how, but there are ways. You can bury the remote in the backyard. You can do what I do: live with the shame, the guilt, the overall angst of it all, and let it haunt you into eternity.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Icing On The Cake

"So, for your surprise birthday cake, what kind of icing do you want?"
"Who long have we been married?"
"So, that's chocolate."
"Yes."
"And for the filling?"
"Do I really have to answer that?"
"So, that's chocolate."
"Yes."
"You want any fruit in there? Raspberry or -- "
"Really?"
"So, an all chocolate surprise birthday cake."
"You know me too well."
"I can't wait to surprise you."
"I can't wait to act surprised."

Where Does The Time Go?

"Hello? Is this the birthday mensch?"
"It is. Who's this?"
"The woman who birthed you after many long, agonizing hours, only to have you arrive with a pointy head that sent panic through the maternity ward."
"I would like to point out that I no longer have a pointy head."
"Do you think your gorgeous wife from France would've married you if you still had a pointy head?"
"Let me ask her... My mother wants to know if you would've married me if I had a pointy head?"
"What's her answer?"
"She says she'll have to get back to me."
"Smart girl. Now then, my son. May I sing you a little song I wrote on your behalf?"
"If you must."
"It goes something like this: 'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy... how can you be 30 when I'm only 39?... birthday, dear B.B., happy birthday to you. And many more."
"Thank you, Mother."
"You're welcome, my son."
"See you tonight."
"Do you think the restaurant will mind if I do an interpretative hora in your honor?"
"They might."
"I just want to hora 'round our table 30 times. Oh, and one more time for good luck. So 31 times. That's all."
"Sounds good. Tell us how it goes."
"What do you mean, my son?"
"We'll be at an undisclosed location till it's over."
"Smart boy."
"Now that I'm 30, Mother, I prefer smart man."
"And when you're 40, you'll prefer smart boy. Trust me on this."

Rent A Camel

Who, me?

Moshe was one of those men who had very few girlfriends. When, on rare occasions, he was invited to parties, not only did people forget his name but also they did not take what he said seriously. Even when he tried to be funny, nobody laughed at his jokes! So naturally he was very depressed. When his counsellor suggested he should do something positive to impress his friends and neighbors, Moshe decided to rent a camel.
He put on his khaki shorts and pith helmet and got on the camel. He then rode up and down Van Nuys  looking very proud. Everywhere he and the camel went, there was a buzz of surprise. Passers by stared, pointed, shouted and talked about him. Moshe repeated this activity every day for a week. But then someone stole his camel and Moshe had to go to the police to report the theft.
“I have come to report the theft of a camel,” said Moshe.
“A camel?” said the sergeant. “OK, let me have some details. How tall was it?”
“Maybe 6 or 7 feet tall,” replied Moshe.
“What color was it?”
“Light brown/grey.”
“Was it male or female?” asked the sergeant.
“Male,” replied Moshe.
“Are you sure?” asked the sergeant.
“Definitely,” replied Moshe, “every time I rode it, I could hear passers by yelling, ‘look at that shmuck on the camel.’ "

Hyman recently had a full medical check up. When he returned three weeks later after the exhaustive lab tests were complete, his doctor said he was doing "fairly well" for his age. Hyman was obviously a little concerned about that comment and so asked his doctor, "Do you think I'll live to be 80, doctor?"
The doctor said, "Well, do you smoke or drink beer?"
"Oh no," Hyman said, "I've never done either."
Then the doctor asked, "Do you eat grilled steaks or barbequed ribs?
Hyman said, "No, I've heard that red meat is very unhealthy."
"Do you spend a lot of time in the sun, like playing golf?" asked the doctor.
"No, I don't," Hyman said.
Then the doctor asked, "Do you gamble, drive fast cars, or mess with women?"
"No," said Hyman, "I've done none of those things."
The doctor looked at Hyman and said, "Then why do you want to live to be 80?"

Sadie sits down next to an attractive man on the train and says, "You look just like my fourth husband".
The man says, "Your fourth husband? So how many times have you been married, lady?"
"Three," Sadie says.

http://www.awordinyoureye.com

A Little Judgy

Sunday with the SJG and hubby. We're nibbling our toast, sipping our coffee, being just a wee bit judgy, one of our favorite pastimes.

"Oh my God, are you seeing this?"
"It's hard to miss."
"I can't believe it."
"I'm in shock."
"Those earrings!
"I know."
"They are HUGE."
"And ugly."
"So ugly."
"What was she thinking?"
"She wasn't."
"Someone should have stopped her."
"I can't unsee it."
"She should fire her stylist."
"What about him?"
"Him who?"
"Him. On the end."
"Oh, lordy. The tie."
"The tie is -- "
"Hideous."
"It's all wrong."
"It sends a message."
"The tie says, 'I hate my life.' "
"It totally says that."
"Who let him out of the house in that tie?"
"Someone who stopped loving him a long time ago."

So. What show are we watching?
1. "Golden Globe's Golden Moments."
2. "Golden Globe's Drunken Moments."
3. "Golden Globe's Fashion Fails."
4. "Golden Globe's Biggest Losers."
5. "Meet The Press"

Dim Some Near Me

"What do you want for your 60th?"
"You don't have to get me anything."
"I want to get you something. You got me something."
"What did I get you?"
"I can't remember, but I'm sure it was nice."
"I probably spent a lot of money."
"I'm sure you did, and I'd like to match, if not top, your generosity."
"Oh, you. Still competitive after all these years."
"You bet your sweet bippy. So tell me, what would you like?"
"A dimmer switch."
"For a light fixture?"
"For Me. I'm the fixture."
"Okay. How will that work?"
"It needs to be portable, so I can schlep it with me wherever I go."
"Surgically attached or battery powered?"
"Skip the anesthesia. I'll take battery powered. When I'm feeling my least attractive, no matter the locale, I can just dim the lights and voila, I'm instantly younger, and a little bit harder to see."
"And bathed in mood lighting."
"Exactly."
"A universal self-dimmer."
"Yes!"
"This is genius."
"I bet you wish you'd thought of it."
"Has anyone mentioned you're getting bitchier with age?"
"Not to my face."

One of Those Freak-Out Ages

It suddenly occurs to me, what with all the birthday coupons from department stores offering a whopping $10 off my next purchase, that I'm about to get older. A lot older. This is a good thing, considering the alternative. But turning 60 is one of those freak-out ages. One of those "how can I be 60?" game-changing moments. Sixty feels like a big bleepin' age. I'm not even 60 yet and a visit to the eye doctor revealed cataracts, but only in both eyes. This explains so much about the blurriness that accompanies me through the day. I'm currently at the "moderate cataract" stage, which means I get to spend gazillions on new lenses for all my glasses -- I have a pair for each mood, doncha know -- and wait a few more years till I reach "severe."  I still remember when my mother turned 60 and her friends threw her a lovely lunch at a restaurant. I felt so young that day, and I was 30. The eldest is about to turn 30, the same age I was when my mother turned 60. Does history repeats itself or what? I still remember when my dad turned 60. My mother threw him a lovely party in the condo. He was so excited he wore a tuxedo. So I imagine it's a good thing that I still remember my parents turning 60. The ol' memory is still fully operational, more or less. Will my sons remember me turning 60? Just between us, I'm going with no. But I'm giving myself a tiny family party, just to keep them in check.

The Twilight Zone Elevator

Oh, you. You Universe, you. How you like to play tricks on your SJG. How you like to test me at the beginning of the year. Silly Universe. Forgive me, but I must Universe-shame you now for the little stunt you pulled yesterday in the elevator. What were you thinking, Universe? After a month-long break, it was my first day back teaching folks how to find the funny, and in a new location yet. I was so organized, with my pretty blue folder of handouts and my smart green folder of discussion topics. I was excited to see my wonderful returnees and a few newbies, too. To make sure everything went smoothly, I got there early to get acclimated. We, the amalgamated members of Anxiety Nation, like to see what's what and settle in before the others arrive. In this way, we keep anxiety at bay, or in the basic bay vicinity. The elevator was meant to be a brief pit stop, Universe, not purgatory. But ha ha and lol on the SJG. No, I didn't get stuck, tanks God, as Grandma Shorty would say. But I couldn't get to the floor I needed, and that was bad enough. I pushed six, the elevator stopped at four. The doors opened. I didn't get out. I didn't want the fourth floor, I wanted the sixth.

The doors closed. I pushed six again. The button didn't light up. The elevator stayed put. I did a nice cleansing breath. The elevator went nowhere. I did another cleansing breath. "What's going on?" I asked myself. Naturally, I was alone on this journey. I pushed the "open up or else" button, just to see if I could get out of jail free. The doors opened. I stepped out. Hurray! The doors closed. I pushed the up button. The same elevator returned. Again and again and again, this scenario played out. The elevator from the Twilight Zone kept returning, beckoning me to step right in and take my chances. But Risk Averse is my middle name. Have I mentioned the last time I jumped out of a plane? No, I haven't. Because I never will, unless I'm in action movie and I piss off Tom Cruise and he pushes me out into the wild blue yonder after I give him sh*t over some of his questionable life choices.

At last, a human appeared in the hallway. "How do I get to the sixth floor?" "Practice!" No, he didn't say that, but wouldn't that have been great? "The sixth floor is locked," he said. "Locked?!!!!" "You need an access card." "Do you have one?" "No." "What should I do?" "Go to the lobby. Talk to the guard." Back into the scary elevator I went, to talk to the nonexistent guard. Several commercial breaks later, he showed up and got me to the sixth floor. Hurray! Then all I had to do was worry about the other eight people facing the same elevator dilemma. Just between us, I'm looking for a new location, preferably on the ground floor.