Cloudy With A Chance of Humiliation

It's an eye for an eye situation over here in the S.O. It's all about my Ocular Oy Gevalt, my Cataract Catastrophe, my... hang on, I'm thinking of one more... my Visionary Victimization. Let's just say things are cloudy with a chance of humiliation. Take yesterday. Please. I'm in Frieda's kitchen. We've just returned from a construction site, the future home of her darling daughter and son-in-law. White dust, courtesy of what promises to be a spectacular dwelling, now covers my stylish black leather tennies. So I lean over and wipe off the powder with a nice damp paper towel, and suddenly it hits me like a frozen kugel. Oh, dear god, what fresh hell is this? At the bottom of my pants, a hint of black fabric mocks me, something I clearly didn't see when I put them on, because I can't see for ka-ka. My first thought: aha! mine hem has come undone, thanks to a wayward nail. No biggie. I remain calm. I pull on the fabric, just a little even though I shouldn't, pulling makes everything worse, it's right there in my pocket Torah, yet now I can focus, more or less, on what I'm dealing with here. Oh. Okay. It's not an unleashed hem. Oh no, it's so much worse. It's... underwear. You heard me. Underwear. How this has happened, I'll never know for sure, could be a laundry mishap, a static cling issue, but in any event, somehow a pair of black sensible undies latched onto the bottom district of my jeans, and I've been walking around like this for the past few hours. Now Frieda and her hubby Eggy start in with the theories of how the underwear got there, and what would've happened if the underwear had detached from my pant leg and become evidence in a crime scene, and well, the rest of what the three of us come up with in our X-rated version of "The Curious Case of The Underwear" is too risqué to share, I'm just too much of a lady, but I will tell you this: In our naughty scenario, Frieda's on her way to jail to serve a life sentence for doing away with that scoundrel Eggy, on account of my wayward underwear. Stay tuned for whatever dishonor greets your humble, eye-challenged SJG today.

Clear Vision Guaranteed

At the end of the my two-hour visit with the nice doctor who's going to remove the no-so-nice SJG Cataracts (patent not pending) come October, I sat in a tiny office with a nice gal named Anna, aka The Gal Who Takes Your Money. She made so many appointments, pre and post surgery that my keppy continues to spin like a solar-powered dreidel.

"You'll feel no pain afterwards," she promised.
"Can I have that in writing?"
"Well..."
"Have you had cataract surgery?"
"No."
"Then how do you know I'll feel no pain?"
"Trust me, you won't."
"Ok. What about exercise?"
"You can exercise afterwards."
"Can I do yoga?"
"Yoga? Sure. Just don't do any of that... Down Wood Dog."
"Down Wood Dog?"
"You know... that stretchy thing."
"Downward Facing Dog?"
"That's the one."
"So no bending over."
"Right."
"For the rest of my life?"
"No, just... for a week or so."
"Is this the point where I ask you about the Botox?"
"Not necessarily."
"'Cuz there's a sign on the wall that says Ask Me About Botox."
"Are you interested in getting Botox?"
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"I do what I'm told."
"I'll make a note of that on your chart."

Whose Dog Are You?

Dearest Sir Blakey,
Pray tell, why doth your lord and lady callest thou The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage? Methinks tis indeed a slight worthy of revenge.
Your loyal servant,
Seymour The So-Called Shih Tzu

Dearest Seymour,
Who do you think gave ’em the mouse?
Royally Yours,
Sir Blakey

Let's Kvetch

Let's kvetch
Put on your Doc Scholls and kvetch with me
Let's kvetch
To the oys they're blaring on the radio
Let's sigh
While joy drains out of your face
Let's sigh
Sigh while you search for a parking space

If you say kvetch
I'll kvetch with you
And if you say moan
We'll moan
Because I kvetch for you
And each night worry too
That you might fall into the wall
And need a paramedic

Let's kvetch
Let's kvetch
For fear your bones will ache
Let's kvetch
For fear of no tax break
Let's sigh
Big cataracts cloud your eyes
Let's moan
They'll have to remove them, they'll have to remove them

If you say kvetch
I'll kvetch with you
And if you say moan
We'll moan
Because I kvetch for you
And each night worry too
Let’s kvetch
They’ll have to remove them, they’ll have to remove them
Let’s kvetch
Let’s kvetch
Let’s kvetch, kvetch, kvetch

(apologies to David Bowie; I couldn't help myself)

Don't Get Hysterical

No matter the play or the movie, Neil Simon has been making me laugh and occasionally cry, pretty much my entire life. From "Barefoot in the Park" to "The Odd Couple," "Lost In Yonkers" to "The Goodbye Girl," I've worshipped him, so much so that I nearly took a writing class taught by his funny/crazy older brother Danny just to be Neil Simon-adjacent. But two minutes in that moldy-smelling condo meeting room in Brentwood, with the funny/angry lesser-known Simon sent me running. Better I should wait for Neil Simon to teach his own class in a nice-smelling condo meeting room in Brentwood. I waited a long time, and then I gave up. When I found out that one of my Laughing At Lifers appeared in "Broadway Bound" on Broadway, I lost my ka-ka. I went nuts with the questions about Neil Simon. She told me she got the part because he liked her authentic-sounding New York accent. In class tomorrow, I'll give her a condolence hug, whether she wants it or not. Just between us, I'm the one in need of the condolence hug. Meanwhile, here's one of my favorite Neil Simon scenes ever, from "Plaza Suite." Walther Matthau and Lee Grant are the parents. The bride-to-be has locked herself in the bathroom and won't come out, no matter how much they yell, scream and threaten her. I can still remember sitting in the movie theater in Westwood, at 13, laughing hysterically at the perfect blend of schtick and pathos. The fact that Arthur Hiller directed "Plaza Suite" makes it even better. The movie came out in 1971, and who knew that nine years later, I'd be getting married in Arthur's backyard... and no one would have to coax me out of the bathroom. I went of my own free will. And then my parents escorted me across the lawn and the rest is my personal history,

Color Me Sentimental

When I was a wee lil' SJG in my very first bedroom, situated way up in the hills of Beverly in the house my daddy told me he built with his own two hands, a claim no one ever disputed, so I went with it, I had the cutest, tiniest table full of crayons and coloring books. Oh, how I loved my petite makeshift office. I'd sit there and color and dream and stare out the window. I was four. I didn't have a lot going on. 

On a good day, I can see my desk.

But the thing I remember the most was how incredibly disorganized everything was, what with the broken crayons and pencils and dried out markers and overall mayhem. Now and then, my sweet mommy would surprise me and put the crayons back in the box or the plastic cups and arrange my supplies so brilliantly that I'd stare in awe, marveling at the sense of order. The fact that she could color within the lines was magical enough. But this particular skill of putting things where they belonged was on a whole other level of wonderful. I just didn't inherit this ability. But at least I'm consistent. Some days I can see my desk. Some days I can't find a pen anywhere in the general vicinity.

Color me sentimental

This week, I thought of my dear mommy, gone since 1999, when of all things, the ASPCA sent a coloring book calendar for 2019, for no reason other than to remind me that the year was almost over... and it's still August... and after all these years, I'd like nothing better than to sit down at my tiny little table way up in the hills of Beverly and color with my mommy. Wouldn't that be something?

Don't Ask

Dear SJG,
A quick glance at my jammed social calendar -- so many parties!  not enough party dresses!  -- tells me the High Holidays are right around the corner. How did that happen? Didn't we just go through this a year ago?
Sincerely,
What To Wear To Temple

Dear What To Wear,
Another year. Another excuse to buy a new dress. Another reason to atone.

You're Welcome,

The SJG

Dear SJG,
Will you atone for me? I may be too busy this year to stop by the synagogue.
Sincerely,
Overbooked

Dear Overbooked,
I'd be happy to atone for you. Send me a list of your worst offenses, and I'll send you a breakdown of costs.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
Rosh Hashanah makes me nervous.  Is there a therapist for this?
Sincerely,
Afraid of Dry Brisket

Dear Afraid,
There's a therapist for everything.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Top Secret Mission By Way of Jersey

On our way to see "Crazy Rich Asians," so much fun, buy yourself a ticket, or don't, it's really up to you, we popped into Jersey Mike's on a top secret mission.
"We'll have a turkey wrap," I whispered, "cut in half."
Longtime hubby looked over his shoulder, making sure the coast was clear. "It's got to fit in her handbag."
"Headed to the ArcLight?" the Jersey Mike's sub-maker asked.
Already our cover was blown. "Not so loud, you," I scolded. "We don't want to get thrown in movie jail for sneaking in outside merch."
"Honey mustard?"
"Fine. And throw in some provolone."
"And avocado."
"That's extra."
"We're good for it," longtime hubby said.
Here the nicer of the two, the Jersey Mike's cashier, weighed in, reassuringly. "No one ever gets caught smuggling in a sandwich."
"Can we have that in writing," my first husband asked.
The cash guy grinned. "So, what are you seeing?"
"Crazy Rich Asians."
"Is this a big day for you?"
"Yes! How can you tell?"
"Just a vibe I'm getting."
"It's our anniversary."
"Sweet."
"Wanna guess which one?" I asked.
"He'll never guess right."
The cash guy studied us, looking at me, looking at hubby, then me, then hubby and gave it his best shot. "45th?"
"What?!"
He tried again. "40th?"
The man I said I do to put him out of his misery. "It's our 38th."
"We're not that old, for @#$%'s sake," I added.
"High school lovers, huh?"
Here I blushed. "Maybe."
"Cool. Enjoy the movie. And the turkey wrap."
"Thanks," I said, slipping the goods in my handbag.

Mission accomplished

I took a step, then looked back at the cashier. "45th?!"
"In seven more years," hubby said.
"Kina hora, poo poo poo."

An Arranged Marriage

Once upon a time in a little town called Westwood, a boy and a girl met in math class. Neither one of them was good in math, but that's not part of this fairytale. If you want a fairytale about people who fall in love doing statistics, you've got the wrong fairytale. May I continue? Thank you. So... the boy and the girl met, and the fact that it was math class was neither here nor there. They met and they became acquaintances. They never talked to each other outside of 8th grade math because why would they? They didn't know each other. But someone up there must've known that one day on a hot August night in 1980, they'd marry. Who this someone was, I can't say for sure. But I suspect it was the Wedding Planner who dwells in a faraway realm of table settings and floral arrangements. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

And then one day, the boy and the girl went to the same pool party at a fancy house down the street from where the boy lived. So he could walk there, which was nice. The girl arrived by car. Someone said, "Hey, gang, let's play Keep Away." Those may not have been the exact words, but it was a long time ago, a simpler time when splashing in a pool and throwing a ball around was big fun. The boy had the ball. The girl couldn't keep away. The chlorine set something off, a chemical reaction that never went away.

That summer, they dated. Then they didn't. For a few years there, it was plenty of didn't. But then, the summer before high school graduation, they dated and something magical, something pre-arranged by the Wedding Planner happened. The boy and the girl fell in love. Eventually, they parted. They were young and stupid. Then they got back together. Then parted. Then the girl said, "Enough already with the parting. What's the deal?" So they got back together and stayed together and lived happily ever after. Today they celebrate 38 years of marriage. They're thinking they might go see a movie, a love story, of course. 

Closure

"Honey, I have something to tell you."
"Worse than the expired cream cheese?"
"Much worse."
"Okay, lay it on me."
"Should I break it to you, gently?"
"No. Just rip off the bandaid."
"Your favorite store in the universe is closing."
"BevMo?"
"No."
"Costco?"
"No."
"Pep Boys?"
"No."
"So it's not really my favorite store in the universe."
"Trust me, you love this place. You're there every weekend."
"Oh no...."
"Yes."
"You mean -- "
"Afraid so."
"OSH!?"
"Gone too soon."
"That's horrible."
"I wanted to be the one to tell you before you heard it on the news."
"Thank you. That was very thoughtful."
"Hang on, where are you going?"
"OSH."
"Why now?"
"I better get over there and pay my respects."
"And take advantage of the huge sale?"
"That, too."
"Can I come? I've always loved their plants."
"Sure."
"We'll pick up a nice coffee cake on the way."
"A coffee cake?"
"You can't make a condolence call without a coffee cake."
"I'll back up the car."

The Magic Show

Sunday Brunch at my brother John's, 

featuring my mishpocha and some very nice Brits 

who suddenly appeared, as if by magic. 

Post-brunch, John performs his famous magic show, 

full of laughter, shtick and plenty prestidigitation.

The Houdini Ash Trick: John reveals Evie's name,

and the crowd goes wild. 

Chloé and John pose with an important prop

that will play an integral part of his upcoming

Haunted Hillbilly House of Horrors. 

The Beatles Secret Jewish Album

Can't Buy Me Guilt

Roll Over Maimonides

We Can Kvetch it Out

I Am the Bubbe

Eleanor Rigby-Cohen

Lucy In The Shul With Dermatitis

Obla Oy, Obla Vey, Life Goes On

We All Live in a Yellow Matzoball

You Say It's Your Bar-Mitzvah, It's My Bar Mitzvah Too

Can't Buy Me Kishka

This Goy

Sgt. Pipik's Lonely Klezmer Band

All You Need Is Lev

The Shul on the Hill

Your Mother Should Only Know

If I Kvell

www.awordinyoureye.com

I Don't Know How To Tell You This, But...

On Thursday, longtime hubby and I will celebrate our 38th anniversary. That's 38 years of uninterrupted bliss. Can you even imagine the mazel of such a situation? I mean, the man just knows me. He tolerates adores the quirkiness that defines this kvetchy lil Jewiss, a gal who was a good inch and a half taller when we wed back in 1980.

I don't know these people.

Here's yet another example of how much he gets me: This morning, I remove the cream cheese from the fridge, as one does on a Sunday. As the nice bagel toasts, I prepare for the ritual schmearing of the afore-mentioned cream cheese. Something deep inside me whispers, "Not so fast, sistah." I turn the container over and reality hits me like a frozen babka.
"Honey, I don't know how to tell you this, but..."
"Should I sit down?"
"No, you can stand, but maybe hold onto the counter for support."
"I'm holding."
"This cream cheese... has expired."
"Oh @#$%."
"I will not serve my husband bad cream cheese."
"That's not how you roll."
"I'm love that you get that."
"You want me to run out and get new cream cheese?"
"Not necessary. Would you like to know why?"
"Why?"
"I'll tell you why. Because your wife is always prepared for the worst. Yesterday, I bought new cream cheese."
"Just in case."
"New is always better than old. Except when it comes to you, my love."
"And vice versa."

Slightly Damaged

At dance class the other night, the conversation turns to food, as it often does. We'd rather swap recipes than analyze why we can't manage a simple turn without the room spinning on its own axis long after we've stopped moving. Doug Rivera, the kindest dance teacher on the planet, is about to take us through a sassy, shake it, don't break it, routine, when he pauses to share something important. "I bought avocados today." We snap to attention. Avocados? Keep talking. "They were slightly damaged. Like me." The man's had both hips replaced. He's an expert on damage control. We do five minutes on how we're all slightly damaged, and if you just cut away the brown spots, guacamole tastes delicious anyway.

Oh, You!

Oh, you! You, Blakey, you! How do I thank you for that... um.... present you left on the place where we sleep? The gift I didn't discover for... many hours? How do I find just the right words to capture my... surprise? So surprised was I, so stunned, that I tried to scream but nothing came out. Oh, Blakey, you shouldn't have. But you did, didn't you? I always knew you were a giver, what with the kisses and the snuggles and the non-stop love you offer up daily. But this.... 

This particular offering was a bit over the top, if I'm being honest. I know, I know. It's the thought that counts. Listen, it's my fault anyway. I shouldn't have read you that bedtime story about the adorable rodent. Seriously. What was I thinking? 

I get it now. I really do. In your brain, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" translated to, "If You Give A Dog A Mouse." So, you got a little mixed up. You took the concept and ran with it. You turned around and gave me... well, there's no nice way to put it. A mouse that had "ceased to be."

As Moses The Exterminator said to me when he came off the mount to answer my frantic call, "That dog, he's a hunter." "Oy, Moses, is he ever."

Forever And Ever

It's impossible to sum up in a few lines what her soulful voice has meant to me my entire life. Believe me, for me there is only her. Whether she's singing "You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman," “Day Dreaming,” "R-E-S-P-E-C-T," "Think," "Who's Zoonin' Who," or my all-time favorite "I Say A Little Prayer," the instant I hear her, I'm transported.

No matter the song or the locale, seated or standing, I'm dancing. I'm feeling every note. In that moment, I'm the happiest of humans. So thank you, Queen Aretha. You'll stay in my heart and I will love you forever.

Why, Puppy, Why?

When you buy a rug for the house, an area rug, a nice one, so pretty and bright like a sunburst, you think of many things. Will the sunny rug compliment the room? As in, "Such a nice room, thanks for welcoming me. I've heard good things about you." Will the sunny rug complement the room? As in, "You complete me. And vice versa." Over the years, nearly 18, a life-affirming number we'll reach in November, the sunny rug has experienced great joy and endured plenty abuse. A wine spill. A clump of chopped liver. No biggie. Easily handled with a spritz of carpet spray. But what about the other offenses? I refer you to the possum poo poo. This we didn't anticipate. God willing, a one-time event. Our first pooch, Dusty, the late great Eccentric Elderly Pup, did his business on the sunny rug more times than I'd like to remember. But I always forgave him. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a forgiver. Sir Blakey arrived youngish and spunky and house-trained. Longtime hubby and I have kvelled over the respect he's shown the sunny rug. We've over-praised him, as we tend to do when it comes to anyone we've raised, for not dumping on the sunny rug. This morning, however, his pristine record took a turn. This morning, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage varmicked on the sunny rug, setting off a frantic scene, a rush for paper towels and carpet spray and queries of "Why, puppy, why?" Followed by the more empathetic, "Oh, no, puppy, are you okay?" His tale answered with a happy wag. Kina hora, poo poo poo, much like the possum kaka, his morning upchuck will be a one-time thing. But I'm keeping the paper towels nearby, just in case.

The Five W's and the H of the SJG

You've got someone better in mind? 

I know, right?

If not now...

You're backstage, waiting for your curtain call.

As opposed to? 

How should I be?

What's Your Superpower?

Dear SJG,
Your whole life, you've been complaining about being left-handed. In honor of International Left-Handers Day, we're thinking it's enough already with the complaints about being left-handed. Just between us, no one cares, expect maybe other left-handers. Listen, there are worse things in life than being left-handed. Wouldn't you rather be left-handed than left out of all the fun activities people plan behind your back because they can't stand you? That's so much more hurtful, and we speak from personal experience. So what if you walk around with the left side of your left hand smudged. So what if the world was designed by right-handed folks for right-handed folks. By now, you should be used to it. Sixty (and a half) years you've been harboring this grudge. It's time to face facts. Right-handed peeps are superior. Get over yourself.
Sincerely,
Righteous Right-Handers of America
P.S. We've included this helpful handout. It's never too late to change:

Dear R.R.H.A.,
As a lifelong leftie, I have every right to complain. (See what I did there?)
You're Welcome,
The SJG
P.S. I've included this helpful ambidextrous response from someone we all admire:

Happy Left-Handers Day, Bitches!

SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS

"Nice party." "What?" 

"Oh my God," I said to a nice lady at our table. "I'm officially old."
"What?"
"I'm officially old."
"I'm cold, too."
"Not cold. Old.
"Old?"
"Yes."
"Sorry, I can't hear anything."
"I know. That's why I left the dance floor. And I love to dance."
"CAN WE SPEAK IN ALL CAPS?"
"SURE. I LEFT THE DANCE FLOOR CUZ THE MUSIC WAS TOO LOUD."
"YOU SHOULD DO WHAT I DO AT THESE THINGS."
"WHAT DO YOU DO?"
"I WEAR EAR PLUGS."

Things We Say While Watching TV

"I wouldn't do well in this prison." 

"This prison or any prison." 

"How do you think I'd do on a deserted island 

with a hunky Scotsman?" 

"You'd manage." 

"Can you see me crawling up the side of a building?"

"I can see you crawling past a building." 

 

"How many of those side effects do you think I'd experience?" 

"With your luck, all of them." 

"Can't we find something nice to watch?" 

"Sure. Turn off the TV."