A Day In Malibu

Hang on, I think I know these people. In a lovely coincidence, we all wound up at the same gorgeous wedding high atop Malibu, where the eldest performed his duties as Best Man. Not only didn't he lose the bride-to-be's ring, but he also gave a kvell-worthy and hilarious speech. Not that I'm biased. Well, maybe a little.

How much do I adore my daughter-in-law? So much, I tend to hug her as much as possible, whether we're in Malibu or Sherman Oaks.

Here's longtime hubby, doing what he's been doing for the past 38 years, making sure I don't topple over a steep incline into the abyss. 

A festive wedding soiree, during which I had the following exchange with a very nice lady I hadn't seen in maybe 15 years:
SJG: "It's so good to see you. When was the last time we were together?"
VNL: "Oh, it was a long time ago, at your house. I remember thinking, 'Billy's mom sure has a big, curvy butt.' "
And scene.

Me And My Bladder

If you saw me in the corridor of a certain medical building in Encino yesterday, schlepping this witch's caldron, you might've thought to yourself, "Isn't it a little early for Halloween?" Or perhaps your observation might've been crueler, as in, "Isn't the short gal a little old to be trick or tricking?" The answer to both questions: "How dare you!" In the exclusive SJG neighborhood, Halloween is already starting, what with the gravestones and skeletons scattered on the nearly-dead lawns. My own brother is planning a Haunted Hillbilly Extravaganza on an hourly basis. In his mind, it's already Halloween. He's just waiting for the rest of us to catch up. But back to the cauldron and its awkwardly-attached bathroom key. Most offices tie a pretty ribbon or lanyard to the bathroom key. But who cares when you have to tinkle mid-way through a very lengthy eye-measuring ordeal. At some point between non-stop commands of "don't blink, don't blink, don't move," cauldron or user-friendly key chain, you're gonna need to go. In this particular moment, it really was about...

Me and my bladder
Strolling down the corridor
Me and my bladder
Oy, the toilet's busted on this floor

My first attempt to tinkle went poorly. I saw the sign on the door, "Sorry, witches, go to another floor. Maybe 5, maybe 9." I glanced at the men's door and figured, eff it, I'm going in. This was a mistake. To the man I interrupted, the SJG apologizes, profusely. At the time, all I said was, "Oops."

I returned to the eye doctor's office, put the cauldron back on the counter, and decided, bravely, "I'll hold it." And I did. Until I couldn't anymore. "Which floor has the working toilet?" I asked the nice gal who signs you in. "Oh, either the one above or below." I went to 8. The key didn't work. I went to 6. No go. In the elevator, I collected an elderly gal from the same office in search of the same relief. We went back to 7 and read the sign on the door. "Maybe 5, maybe 9." "Let's try 5," I said. The cauldron worked. In we went. And then, back to the doctor, to pay for the new cataract-free lenses they're going to insert into my eyes in the coming weeks. Don't be jealous. Some witches have all the luck.

Like This

I don't know about you, although I hear good things, but lately, I can't seem to get away from my TV. My TV and me, we're... 

"Like this." In fact, some days, like yesterday, we're practically inseparable. 

Yesterday, I looked like this gal, without the lustrous blond hair and nice attire. All day, I sat on the sofa in my SJG Signature Schlepwear, Sir Blakey by my side, toggling between tears and disbelief. I can't remember the last time I devoted the majority of my day to something so mortifying. Something  that looked...

Like this incredibly brave woman, Christine Blasey Ford. 

And like this beer-loving legal prick. 

The whole time, I felt like this, wondering why we're still stuck 

in this place of national disgrace. 

At the end of this disturbing marathon, I found no answers. 

But I'll keep searching, and I know you'll do the same.  

Because at the end of the day... 

We're in this thing together. 

The Absurdity of Life

Once again, though no one will see it, I must "make" my bed. 

Tonight, I will "unmake" it. And so on. My life is absurd. 

-- the brilliance of Roz Chast 

Much like this cartoon Kafka, I, too, make and unmake the bed, daily. It's absurd yet necessary for my well-being. So much absurdity surrounds us, so much doing and undoing. But the done/undoneness of where we lay our keppies, at least we can control that. As for the rest, it's pretty much up for grabs.

Eat Some Grass And Call Me In The Morning

"I look cute here."

Dear Blakey (aka Sir Blakey of Questionable Royal Lineage),
Thank you for visiting Vilda Chaya Vet Group. We value you as a patient and are kvelling that you chose us as a provider for all your veterinary needs. To help us continue our high quality of service, we invite you to share your feedback.
Till your next appointment...
Your Friends at Vilda Chaya Vet Group

Dear Vilda Chaya Vet Group,
Where do I begin? I thought Mommy, as she calls herself (but only all day -- does she realize she didn't actually give birth to me?) was taking me to the place with the other dogs where I get to play. So I was excited. Any time I get to be with my canines, I'm ecstatic. They just get me. So I walk in and no one's playing. No one looks happy. What gives? Then some guy in blue scrubs takes me in the back and gives me a shot in my ass. What did I do to deserve that? Then he takes me in the front, where Mommy greets me like I've just won the Olympic Gold Medal for Shot Getting. "Good boy! Good boy!" At this point, I just want to get the @#$% out of there and go home and chase squirrels. Then this lady comes in with something in a tiny crate and sets it down next to me. Naturally, I give a sniff. It's what I do. I sniff and sniff and it hits me. "CAT!!!!" I go apesh*t. Cats and me, we've got history. And who puts a cat on the floor in a crate next to a cat-hating dog? Someone as dumb as @#$%, that's who. Other than that, fabulous experience. Five stars. Can't wait to come back and have you stick me with something sharp.
Love,
Sir Blakey
(6/2/17)

SJG-TV Announces Fall Lineup

"Unlicensed": Sandy, a post-menopausal, down-on-her-luck, recently divorced, unlicensed interior decorator whose weight fluctuates as much as her moods, opens an unlicensed kugel dispensary in her soon-to-be foreclosed home. Faster than you can say, "I'd like seconds," a motley crew of unlicensed upholsterers arrives with the swatches, helping Sandy salvage what's left of her sad, pathetic life, not to mention, her worn-out furniture. (Mondays at 8:43 on SJG-TV)

"Unfriended": After serving a tough and tasteless brisket at Passover, Hannah wakes up to find her entire family has unfriended her on Facebook. Can she win them back with a better brisket by Hannukkah? Or is she better off without them? Hannah sets off on an odyssey of self-discovery, tracing her roots all the way back to Sheboygan, where her long-lost cousins try to milk every last drop of her inheritance. Does Hannah really need this aggravation? Will her real family ever re-friend her? (Tuesdays at 9:06 on SJG-TV)

"Unmoved": Freddy Shulstein, a stoned-faced, shredded cheese wiz, hasn't cried since birth. Nothing gets to him. Freddy Shulstein remains untouched by human emotion. What the @#$%'s wrong with Freddy? A deeply disturbing, highly illuminating, groundbreaking competition show featuring contestants from around the world who'll try anything, and we mean anything, to make Freddy weep. Winner gets $1million. Freddy gets bupkis. (Wednesday at 7:56 on SJG-TV)

"What's wrong with Freddy, Mommy?" "@#$% if I know."

Monday Punditry

"Eat a live frog first thing in the morning, and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day."-- Mark Twain may have said this, or not. 

Lately, I keep polliwogging onto this quote oft-attributed to Mark Twain. It hopped up in class, courtesy of Sister Phyllis, my favorite unordained nun. And it ribbetted my attention again today, when by chance, I lily-padded onto an article that upped the daily "live frog" recommendation to three. Three live frogs? That's quite a leap, don't you agree? Please don't croak on me just yet, or worry about how many puns your loyal SJG plans to kermit today. The answer to that fully de-ponds on how many I can "borrow" from Punpedia.

Punditry aside, I think this popular quote, made-up or otherwise, means different things to different peeps. Maybe your live frog is some dreaded task that's metamorphosed into it's own horror movie, in which case, just eat the damn frog already and move on to the next course.

Maybe your live frog is something a little more appetizing, something that sets your intention for the day: to make everyone at work look bad as you outshine them with your mad productivity skills, in which case, expect to eat lunch alone. 

At the moment, the SJG doesn't have a live frog to eat, and for that, I'm grateful. I've eaten enough of those to last a lifetime. I know what I like and live amphibbies aren't on my menu. Feel free to start without me.

In conclusion, to each his/her own live frog, metaphorically speaking, of course.

Doll Face

The "Gloria Ann" doll, circa 1936 (missing a button, navy blue gloves and shoes).  My mom's prized possession when she was nine.  She saved it, just in case she had a little girl of her own.

That would be me, circa 1958.  

Gloria June with Marv and Bob, circa I'm not sure. God forbid anyone in my family ever dated a photo. One thing I do know. My dad hadn't entered the picture yet.

Ah, here he is, wielding an axe in her general direction, on their wedding day in Chicago, December 1, 1949. The axe was clearly the idea of one of the writers in attendance.

The wacky comedy writers on the "Martin & Lewis" radio show who wouldn't leave my parents alone on their wedding day. That's Sheldon Leonard, a member of the ensemble cast, on the sofa next to his wife Frances.

In New York, 1951, always a snappy dresser. My dad, who called her Doll from the moment they got married, was writing for the "Jack Carter Show" at the time. 

June 4, 1921 - September 23, 1999 

Gone 19 years today. Miss you madly, Mom. 

I Dream of Sandwiches

You never know when the big-time celebs, not the minor ones or the long-ago ones, I'm talking the box office stars of today, are going to pay the SJG a nocturnal visit. I know, I know, it sounds sorta naughty. Get your head out of the gutter, you. This dreamland encounter is sadly G-rated: I'm in a shopping mall food court, standing in a crazy long line, waiting to pick a number. When it's my turn, what I get isn't a number, but a trivia question. The guy at the counter asks, "What is the name of the Simpsons' home town?" And now it feels like I'm on that Monty Python bridge and I better answer the equivalent of "What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?" or I'm plunged into oblivion. I draw a blank. I start to panic. I can't summons the answer. "Um...." A small highly-gifted child whispers the answer. "Springfield!" I say. The counter guy turns Sandwich Nazi. "You cheated." "I wouldn't call it cheating. I got an assist." "No sandwich for you." "Oh, come on, man, please." He caves, quickly. "Fine." He hands me the sandwich and I sit down at a table by myself. But I'm not alone very long. Keanu Reeves appears. "May I join you?"

He's so dreamy, so polite, I say, "Absolutely." "How's  it goin'?" he asks. "Pretty well, except... oh, never mind." "Except what?" "I forgot to get a Diet Coke." "Would you like me to get you a Diet Coke?" he asks. "Oh, Keanu, you don't have to do that." "I want to." "If you insist. Lots of ice..." Keanu goes off to get my chemically-laden zero-cal soda, but before he returns, @#$% it, I wake up.

And now, Sad Keau must eat his sandwich alone, sans the SJG.

If The Sofa Fits

Completely Inaccurate Depiction 

In the SJG's travels through the many dwellings longtime hubby and I have occupied and over-cluttered in the past, oh, 38 years, earning a bounty of unsolicited design advice -- "That would look better over there," "That would look better on the curb," -- I've learned that there's no way to predict whether something's going to work until you see it in its designated spot and realize, once again, you were out of your mind thinking it would fit, let alone look okay. Even with my sweet mother-in-law, the decorator, guiding us, we still eff'd up. We've tried to up our game with the sons, and had more success than failure. Until Monday, and that eff up's pretty much on me. I'm the one who instigated the Near-Fiasco of the Furniture. See how healthy I am, how evolved I am to take blame? Oh, wait, I've been doing that my entire life.

So let's talk about the sofa bed and the sectional, shall we? Here's my thinking on the matter: when life gives you a sofa bed that's newish but you don't have room for it in your new place, you have choices. Sell it. Donate it. Keep it. The youngest, a giver like his mother, went with donate. But then I visited the new place and decided, you know what, you kind of have room for this thing in the living room. Dumbly, everyone agreed with me, a rare occurrence, and so the donation was cancelled, which I've come to realize is very bad karma, especially in the vicinity of the High Holy Days. If you cancel a good deed, it comes back to bite you in the ass. Remember that, nice people. Turns out, a sofa bed and a giant L-shaped sectional shouldn't keep company in the same living room, unless you break down a wall and make room.

Equally misleading depiction 

While the new occupant stayed on hold with Direct TV, only running late by only four hours, and longtime hubby made the executive decision to reverse the refrigerator doors (don't ask), my lovely daughter-in-law and I understood we had an unwieldy Design Dilemma on our hands, a catastrophe that even the movers had to acknowledge, along the lines of, "Maybe this should go there." "Maybe this shouldn't go there." I caved quickly. "Who wants a sofa bed? Practically new." Out the door and back into the truck it went, its custody to be settled amicably by the movers. But we still had the unsolved sectional situation. The movers schlepped it over here, no, try it over there, oh wait, what about there, hang on, can you still open the front door? On the balcony, the youngest remained on hold. In the kitchen, the longtime hubby continued to curse, demonically at the fridge. In the living room, it was all good, more or less. "It's fine there, leave it." And so they did. And we decided to love it.

Missed Opportunities

Dear SJG,
Why didn't we think of this?
Feeling regretful,
Annie of the Palisades

Dear Annie of the Palisades,
There are so many brilliant things we should've thought of, if only we'd had the energy or inclination. In terms of missed opportunities, I refer you to our genius wine glass holder concept.

If only we'd acted sooner. But no, some bastard beat us to the bordeaux. Let's face it, we're entrepreneurially challenged.
Still atoning,
The SJG

On The Fringe

Rosh Hashanah was over and there was time until Yom Kippur, and Abie needed his tallis cleaned. He called his friend Max to ask what dry cleaner to take it to, and Max said, "I always take my tallis to Moishe the dry cleaner on W 4th. He only charges $4.00" So Abie goes over to Moishe's and finds that the ownership has changed. He asks the new owner, Mr Jones, if he meets the old prices.  Mr. Jones assures him that he does. Three days later, Abie goes to get his tallis and is given a bill for $24.00. He storms at Mr. Jones. "I thought you met Moishe's prices?" "I did," said Mr. Jones, "$4.00 for the tallis, and $20.00 to get all the knots out of the fringes!"

http://www.haruth.com/jhumor/jhumor4.htm

Finding The Sunshine

OMG: Junior High Pal Jan Friedlander Svendsen 

In all my years of Emmy watching, sometimes in the audience, mostly at home, I've never had an Emmy-related sob fest. But last night the tears of joy flowed, unexpectedly. I was sitting solo on the sofa, well, not solo, Sir Blakey was next to me, while longtime hubby remained at the youngest's new apartment, waiting for the U-Verse people to arrive four hours late, and the category of outstanding director of a variety special came up. The winner: Glenn Weiss for the Academy Awards. I clapped on his behalf. I've never met him, but he's the boyfriend of my lovely friend Jan. We hung out a lot at Emerson and Uni High. We had sleepovers and danced and giggled and talked about boys. We sneaked into R-rated movies like "The Owl and the Pussycat." She visited me, along with Val and Kyle, when I lived in England. She's spent most of her adult years in New York, raising daughters as a single mom, and hanging out with Broadway stars, as director of marketing for the Broadway League, and now, chief creative director of Charity Network. She came to our NYC reading of "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs" a few years ago. She's a mensch and I always kvell on her behalf, and vice versa. So last night, there she was in the audience, looking gorgeous in a sparkly gown, celebrating her boyfriend's win, unaware she was about to become the star of a historical TV moment. As he began his acceptance speech, he acknowledged the death of his mother two weeks before. "Part of my heart is broken. I don't think it will ever be repaired. But she's in me and always will be." His mother always believed in "finding the sunshine," he said, leading to the perfect segue of all time. Jan was the sunshine of his life. 

"Jan, I want to put this ring that my mom wore on your finger in front of all these people and in front of my mom and your parents watching from above. Will you marry me?" She said yes. Sweetest, most heartfelt Emmy moment ever.  

Long Day's Journey Into I-Don't-Think-So

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG called an early morning press conference to make a big announcement to a smattering of news types who gathered at her palatial estate for coffee and leftover kugel. "Even re-heated and a week old, it's still delish," kvelled a nice young reporter for shanatova.com. "I wonder if she'll give me the recipe." "Recipe, schmescipe," groused a veteran journalist from The Daily Kvetch. "Why are we here so @#$%'n early?" "Why so early? I'll tell you why," the SJG replied from atop her sparkly, not to mention, bedazzled step stool. "Because the youngest is moving today and I must be there to enable, to mix-in when I shouldn't, to arrange a schtickle this, that and the other." "Or, you could get a life of your own," the host of the popular podcast "That's Chutzpah!" chimed in. "How dare you. Who invited you?" the SJG shot back." "You did." "Fair enough. If you people could stop with the interruptions, let's get back to my big --" Whereupon the press interrupted her with summer camp chants of, "Announcements! Announcements! Announcements!"

"I'm starting to regret this press conference," said the SJG. "Now sheket bevakashah. As you may or may not already know, tonight at some swanky event, SpaceX plans to name the first private passenger to schlep around the moon. I'd like to get a jump on this and end the suspense with the following reveal: That private passenger is not, repeat not, the SJG. Thank you for coming." "Hang on, aren't you going to tell us why you made such an epic non-decision?" a correspondent from oygevalt.com asked. "To be honest, it wasn't that hard. I mean, of course, when Elon called me up, I was honored to be his first pick for passenger. But then I thought about it, me traveling at warp speed, and the neck and back strain and all the sitting, and the unflattering space suit, and I thought, who needs it? What's the rush? I'll get there when I get there. Or not at all. Maybe I'll just stay put on Earth and let the others orbit without me. So that's one less thing to worry about. Gut yunif to you and yours. Hurry up and go, so you shouldn't get a ticket. Today is street cleaning."

Introducing The Short Jewish Robot

Today's blog will be co-written by the SJR, my recently-acquired Short Jewish Robot. I pre-programmed her last night. Easy-peasy. All I have to do is press the touchscreen and let her kvetch. Okay, SJR, take it away:

"Oyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoyoy."

Hang on, this is so embarrassing. She seems to be stuck. I'll just do a little tinkering.

"Effeffeffeffeffeffeffeffeffeff."

SJR! Get your @#$% together, sheesh. I'm looking for a complete sentence. I'll just rewire your insides, being the tech goddess that I am, and.... and... okay, SJR, let's try this again.

"Let's dance, mutha bitches."

Just bitches, SJR.  I thought we discussed that. Whatever. Let's go in another direction.

"What am I, chopped apples?"

Not apples, SJR. Not. Apples.

"What am I, chopped walnuts?"

Liver, SJG! Liver! Moving right along...

"Matzo top!"

Oh, you silly robot. It's "mazel tov."

"I'm kvelling on yourself."

Er... that's "on your behalf." But close enough.

"Is it too farty in here, or is it me?'

Hot, SJR. Hot. Although, in my house, farty also works.

"I can feel myself rapidly kvetching."

Rapidly Aging. But hey, kvetching works too. Well, I can see the SJR needs a little more finessing. But I really think I'm onto something huuuuuge and globally significant. Either that, or of no absolutely no consequence whatsoever.
8/8/17

Meet The Biebers

"Honey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"What should we get the Biebers for a wedding gift?"
"The who?"
"Justin and Hailey."
"They got married?"
"According to People."
"Let's get him a shirt."
"A shirt? Why?"
" 'Cuz he's always shirtless."
"Good call, honey."
"Thank you."
"What should we say on the card?"
" 'Here's a shirt. Put it on.' "
" 'Love, the SJG and longtime hubby.' "
"It's thoughtful and practical."
"But what about Hailey? What should we get her?"
"A good attorney."

Faux Fall: The Fifth Season

Looks so real, and yet... 

Oh, how I love to hear from my petite yet devoted SJG Squad regarding my daily musings on this, that and whatever strikes my fancy. The other day, I shared a delicate transition I'm in the midst of that isn't going all that well. In my angsty quest to move from summer to fall, to know the joy of donning a sweater, to bid adieu to my shorts and flip-flops, to welcome back the jeans and the ankle boots, not one, but three of my peeps shared their wise reflections, as their A/C's blew, dramatically in the background, creating the crisp chilly conditions we're all desperately missing.

Jan Holmes, a lovely gal from my high school days, chimed in from Monterey: "Everybody knows Fall doesn't really start in California until late October. Anything before that is Fake Fall!"

My reply: "Fake fall! You nailed it!"

Cathy Hamilton, my co-conspirator in all things silly, the co-author of Broadway-Adjacent "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs," weighed in from Kansas: "Ditto. My sweaters keep calling my name and all I can do is plug my ears."

My reply: "I knew you'd understand." Let's face it. This tall lapsed Catholic just gets me.

Stephen H. Lantz, my former editor, the man who got me through my years at the illustrious albeit bankrupt, Pulitzer Prize-Adjacent Century City News, shared this from his hilltop manse in the Palisades: "I rather like the alliteration of Faux Fall, especially as we wait for the Santa Ana winds and fires to wrestle the final leaves from our trees."

My reply: "It's a new season." Not to mention, is he a poet, or what? I mean, come on. "Wrestle the final leaves from our trees." It's so Walt Whitman-Adjacent, I could cry.

In conclusion: Fake Fall. Faux Fall. Whatever the eff we call it, this needs to happen. Think of all the merch! Think of all the marketing! Think of the expanded calendar. Let's add another season. Let's get an amendment passed. Let's do this. How hard can it be? Toot toot, everybody on board. Who's with me?

The Parrot

Meyer, a lonely widower, was walking home one day, wishing something wonderful would happen in his life, when he passed a pet store and heard a squawking voice shouting out in Yiddish: "Quawwwwk...vus macht du...yeah, you...outside, standing like a schmuck...eh?" Meyer rubbed his eyes and ears. He couldn't believe it! The proprietor sprang out of the door and grabbed Meyer by the sleeve. "Come in here, fella, and check out this parrot..." Meyer stood in front of the parrot and said:  "Vus?  Kenst reddin Yiddish?" Meyer turned excitedly to the store owner. "He speaks Yiddish?" "What did you expect? Chinese maybe?" In a matter of moments, Meyer had placed five hundred dollars down on the counter and carried the parrot in his cage away with him. 

All night he talked with the parrot. In Yiddish. He told the parrot about his father's adventures coming to America. About how beautiful his mother was when she was a young bride. About his family. About his years of working in the garment center. About Florida. The parrot listened and commented. They shared some walnuts. The parrot told him of living in the pet store, how he hated the weekends. They both went to sleep. Next morning, Meyer began saying his prayers. The parrot demanded to know what he was doing and when Meyer explained, the parrot wanted to pray, too. Meyer went out and hand-made a miniature yarmulke for the parrot. The parrot wanted to learn to read Hebrew so Meyer spent weeks and months, sitting and teaching the parrot, teaching him Torah. In time, Meyer came to love and count on the parrot as a friend and a Jew. He was lonely no more.  

One Rosh Hashanah morning, Meyer rose and got dressed and was about to leave when the parrot demanded to go with him. Meyer explained that a synagogue was not place for a bird, but the parrot made a terrific argument and was carried to the synagogue on Meyer's shoulder. Needless to say, they made quite a spectacle, and Meyer was questioned by everyone, including the Rabbi. At first, he refused to allow a bird into the building on the High Holy Days but Meyer convinced him to let him in this one time, swearing that parrot could pray. Wagers were made with Meyer. Thousands of dollars were bet (even odds) that the parrot could NOT pray, could not speak Yiddish or Hebrew. All eyes were on the parrot during services. The parrot perched on Meyer's shoulder as one prayer and song passed and Meyer heard not a peep from the bird. He began to become annoyed, slapping at his shoulder and mumbling under his breath, "Pray already!" The parrot said nothing. "Pray...parrot, you can pray, so pray...come on, everybody's looking at you!" The parrot said nothing.  

After Rosh Hashanah services concluded, Meyer found that he owed his synagogue buddies and the Rabbi over four thousand dollars. He marched home, pissed off, saying nothing. Finally, several blocks from the temple the bird began to sing an old Yiddish song and was happy as a lark. Meyer stopped and looked at him. "You miserable bird, you cost me over four thousand dollars. Why? After I taught you the morning prayers, and taught you to read Hebrew and the Torah. And after you begged me to bring you to a synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, why? Why did you do this to me?" "Don't be a schmuck," the parrot replied. "Think of the odds on Yom Kippur!"

courtesy of Jacob Richman https://jr.co.il

Betwixt & Between

"What are you doing?" 

"What do you mean what am I doing?"

"You look betwixt and between." 

"Exactly."

"What's the issue?"

"I'm trying to transition." 

"From?"

"Summer to fall."

"How's that going?"

"Poorly."

"What's the hiccup?" 

"It's going to be 80 today." 

"Life is full of challenges."

"Tell me about it."