Short Jewish Gal: I'm A Sucker for NYC

Ceci ne pas une pipik.
This is not a belly button.
This is the SJG in NYC.

So, I'm home, and I know, I know, you've been suffering without your daily dose of my mishegas. Why didn't I blog during my travels to NYC? I'll tell you why. Because hubby doesn't want I should alert the universe that we're not home when we're not home. On some level, this makes sense. So we took all the necessary precautions, what with the alarm and the newspaper and mail delivery stoppage. Well, it worked for the newspaper part, not so much for the postal. The mail box was nice and full upon our return, a blazing sign of non-occupancy. And yet, tanks God, as my Grandma Shorty would say, all is well at the homestead, even though I remain, what's the right word, stamped (see what I did there) with aggravation about the unforgivable postal mishap. I need to get over this and my foggy travel brain.

Camp: Notes on Fashion at the Met

Note to self: This Bob Mackie Dress would never fit me

Without further doo-doo, here are the highlights of our NYC trip, during which hubby lost his mind preparing for the CW Upfront, and I ran around having fun. Seems fair. Oh, and speaking of losing minds, did I mention we spent 90 minutes on the tarmac at JFK when we landed? It had something to do with something, the jetway not working, all I know is, I started to feel just a tad... claustrophobic. "Are we ever getting off this plane?" I asked the flight attendant. "Yes," she said. A little vague, a little non-specific. Also not helpful, the occasional jokey updates from the pilot: "Day 43 of the hostage crisis." I hadn't felt like a hostage until he said hostage.

I put the butterfly puff on layaway.

At this juncture, I'd like to respectfully acknowledge all of you out there who've been trapped on the tarmac much longer than 90 minutes and are rolling your eyes. I've already heard two stories from close friends who spent 16 hours trapped on the tarmac. I feel their pain even though they don't feel mine, mostly because they had access to alcohol to numb the ordeal. I had Evian and Advil. And their pilots didn't mention the afore-mentioned hostage crisis.

At "Tootsie" with Bubbles (aka Debbi Furhman) and Connie Ray

Later, the pilot kidded, ha ha ha, "I'd really like to ask everyone standing in the aisles to please sit down, we're not getting off any time soon, but I don't want to start a riot." A riot. Another thing I hadn't anticipated. Finally, we de-planed, or de-boarded, if you prefer, or if you're me, we got the @#$% off the plane, and schlepped to baggage claim, for another round of tsuris. After many assurances that the baggage would soon fill the carousel of why-does-everyone-have-the-same-suitcase, a crack team of detectives, headed by hubby, discovered the truth. In terms of baggage, we wouldn't be getting ours. Something about something with the engines not shutting off prevented something. It sounded made-up to me. I had visions of traipsing through Forever 61, trying to replace my short, curvy gal travel wardrobe with what, I had no idea, and started to shake uncontrollably. Cue a lot of angry people, a fair amount of yelling, a heap of "Are you eff'n kidding me?" and then, "Take this card, call this number and you'll find out how to retrieve your baggage." How easy was that? Not easy. Many hours of "your call is important to us." Somewhere near 11 p.m., we reached a human and at some point, our luggage arrived at the hotel. So yay. I know, your story is better. You never got your luggage. But this is my blog. Mine.

On a more positive note, I've been lucky enough to know Bryan Cranston, currently starring in "Network," forever, long before he became an international treasure. Every five or ten years, I milk the connection with a photo. As in, "Bryan, take a photo with me, I'm needy, I want to feel good about myself and show off." He obliges. Like he has a choice. His fabulous wife Robin, a real looker, as my dad would say, and my brother John met at UCLA... and then he generously introduced me to Robin and we started in with the sharing of the personal details and the giggles, and then she met Bryan... and you get the picture. Meanwhile, he's so magnificent in "Network" as Howard Beale that I may never get over it, never ever, and of course, I may never stop screaming, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore." If you see me on Ventura Boulevard, screaming, please call hubby and tell him to come fetch me.