Kvell Time

Even in France, while we toasted the newlyweds Elodie & Julien, ate intriguing appetizers...

...including this one, described simply as "Bird..."

... and wondered out loud, more than once, whether the hora had ever been danced at this magical Château de Thugny-Trugny, the youngest son continued his job search. In Paris, in Charleville-Mézières, on the trains back and forth, at the hotel, at the airport, on the plane ride home, he kept submitting his resume, networking, and contacting the mensches always willing to help him land a gig. 

And guess what? All that persistent hunting for employment paid off. The job he found while in France is the job he starts in mid-July. So Mazel T, Scott D. Félicitations and then some. Wherever we roam, we're always kvelling on your behalf. 

Double Date

(Sherman Oaks) As speculation about their 39th wedding anniversary in August continues -- will the SJG still fit into her wedding dress for the televised recreation? -- the Globally-Renowned Blogger/Neurosis Expert and her longtime hubby were spotted co-navigating a shopping cart during "date night." The lovebirds were snapped inside exclusive American Express-cardholders-only hot spot Gelson's, taking in the Humphrey's Yogurt mini-shop that popped up inside the market a few years back. "We'd like our chuppah made out of chocolate vanilla swirl," the SJG told the yogurt server. "With extra sprinkles." "She's kidding," her longtime hubby interjected. "It'll melt." "It won't melt; it's frozen." At which point the SJG's devoted spouse, casually dressed in black pants, a tight black tank top and a leopard print jacket, steered the cart toward frozen foods, in search of his favorite raspberry beret. Sorry, make that raspberry sorbet. "Wait up," yelled the SJG, dressed in a vegan romper and gluten-free Jimmy Choos. "I've got a better idea. How about a Kale Chuppah? It'll make a nice ceremonial canopy and later, we'll repurpose it as a salad." "I can't wait to hear what you've got planned for the 40th." 

Words To Live By

"Don't interrupt me while I'm interrupting." 

If there's one thing the SJG really doesn't -- Wait, let me finish, hang on -- enjoy, it's when people, no names -- sorry, could you let me finish? -- mentioned, start in with the -- hey, seriously, give a gal a minute -- interruptions. Maybe this issue dates back to childhood, when I was just a shy little lass afraid to speak up, both at home and school. At some point, I found my voice, I broke out of my shell, and if I want to say something, I'm going to say it, damn it, with feeling, and without interrupting you, if I can manage it. Interrupting other people is so rude, don't you agree? This really hit home watching two nights -- that's it, go stand in the corner for a time out -- of debates. The candidates kept interrupting each other and ignoring the moderators and at some point, I stopped listening and started interrupting the debate and railing against the interruptions. Well, it's one way to spend an evening or two. And now, I leave you with a final thought for Friday. You're welcome.

What she said.

Hip, Hip, Oy Vey

Walking with the elegant Genie in Studio City, a place that was never hip, you'll have to trust me on this, until, suddenly overnight, it became the Capitol o' Hip Hip Oy Vey, we pause, respectfully, to take in the overall trendiness. We stand on the block that borders Schvitz!, our longtime gym, a block that just keeps adding another ode to the hip and the happening, what with the tiny coffee hang, the famous ice cream spot, the très chic overpriced boutique, the spin studio, and the goldmine that is Joan's on Third. Yet another money-grabber catches us off-guard:
"Oh, dear God, what the hell is that place?"
"It came out of nowhere," Genie says.
"What the @#$% is a Fro-Nut?"
"I honestly don't know."
"But you're so much smarter and taller than I am."
"True, but I still don't have a clue."
"Fro-Nut. Fro-Nut. Oh, I got it. Frozen nuts that could break a tooth. Sponsored by the Studio City Dental Association."
"Let's go in and ask."
"It looks closed."
"It's open. See? There's a sad little person behind the counter."
"Wondering why no one wants to eat frozen nuts."
"I really don't think they're selling frozen nuts."
"Have you got another suggestion?"
"Something donuty. Like a Cro-Nut."
"Or a So-What Nut."
"Yum."
We walk past Fro-Nut, two nutty gals, one tall, one short. At this stage of the game, we aren't too interested in the latest fads. Unless, of course, they come in our size.

A Gal Can Dream

Tonight, longtime hubby and the SJG will watch the first night of the Democratic debates, with an open mind and open bottle of wine.

What are the chances of one of the candidates breaking into a lively dance routine during her/his allotted time?

Not great. 

Still. A gal can dream. 

Sprinkler Etiquette

Dear SJG,
Is it too much to ask my neighbors not to time their sprinklers to go on at the exact moment I walk by? I'm starting to take it personally. What's the etiquette here?
Just wondering,
Soggy Shoes

Dear Soggy,
There is no etiquette here, there or anywhere. Etiquette went out in the '50s. You're on your own, baby. Good luck.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Well-Lit And Very French

Wowza, says the SJG. There's nothing more exciting than when the professional wedding photos become available online, and the SJG helps herself to some of the magic. How often in life do you get a sunlit family pic where everyone looks so good you could scream, plus no one's eyes (as in mine) are closed? From this point on, I do believe all our favorite moments need to take place in France, with a professional photographer standing by. Is that too much to ask? 

Quick. Can you spot the future grandparents? It's been a while since we've had to change a diaper. We miss it. Just sayin'.

Oh dear God. 

The gorgeousness of the daughter-in-law. 

When you've been married 39 years, you share such heartfelt exchanges as: "Honey?" "What?" "How does my hair look?" "In general?" "No. Now." "Fine." "Do I have anything in my teeth?" "No." "I wish I'd reapplied my lipstick." "You look fine." 

Old Spice

One Sunday, you're at a chateau in France. The next, you're sorting through the kitchen cabinet with longtime hubby, aghast at what's been hiding in there forever:
"Oh my god. This can of decaf dates back to the Pleistocene Era."
"Should we call the Smithsonian?"
"First thing Monday morning."
"I bet they don't know they had decaf back then."
"And this ancient Chock Full o' Nuts proves it."
"I'm seeing dollar signs."
"I'm seeing Old Bay. My sweet daddy loved that seasoning."
"We never opened it."
"And we never will."
On and on it went, the evacuation of expired spices, cans of stale bread crumbs, plastic containers of elderly honey, and a box of Sweet & Low from last century. At the end of this journey, we made a vow to do better. Like that's going to happen.

It's A Story Of A Bro Named Johnny

Oh, my. Would you look at these two young siblings, smiling away before the orthodontist got a hold of our teeth? Just take a moment and feel the joy, the love, the silliness John and the SJG have been sharing for quite some time now. It started early, the hilarity, the camaraderie, the sense of "we're in this thing together." No matter the occasional tiffs, the challenges of growing up, the inherent struggles of our particular meschugganah family dynamic, the whole adventure of getting older... and older, the loss of our mother to cancer, the loss of our father many years later, we've faced it and moved on. Throughout it all, we've never stopped cracking each other up, never stopped sharing our victories and flops. The love and support and empathy can get you through anything. Trust me on this. So, I ask you, has there ever been a brother and a sister who adored each other so supremely? Maybe. Probably. But for our purposes today, these two on the sofa, situated in the living room of our first home high above the hills of Beverly, win the prize.

Happy birthday, Big Johnny. Close your eyes, make a wish. Here's hoping it comes true. Kina hora, poo poo poo.

A Pup Reclaims His Perch

Home again: Sir Blakey sits upon his royal bench, surveying his backyard, wondering when, pray tell, the noisy construction crew over yonder will finish, please God, with the one-story, nondescript, soulless testament to ultramodern boxy design, not that he judges. Well, maybe a little. In his time at the palatial estate, he's picked up a lot of our bad habits, poor guy, and adopted many of our strong opinions, architectural, political and otherwise.

During his stay at the Wagmor, his home away from home: "You should hear what comes out of my humans' mouths," he tells his buddies. "Seriously, dudes, these two never stop with the kvetching. You'd think the world's about to end. Gee, I miss them." Honestly, can you blame him? When we're not judging our fellow creatures or struggling with extreme jet lag, we really are a lot of fun.

French Father's Day

Well, I'd love to tell you my French improved greatly on this trip. Sadly, it seems to have gotten worse. During this lovely post-wedding chateau picnic on French Father's Day (which conveniently falls on the same day as American Father's Day), I turned to two young women, while sampling some delightful cheese, and emoted, "Je t'aime le fromage!" 

Here the lovely Chloé informs me that I just told the young women, "I love you, the cheese." Ah, this explains the rolling of the eyes and the expression of, "Oh lo lo, Americans!" on their pretty punims. "What the bleep was I supposed to say?!" You should've said, "Je aime le fromage." "Hey, I was just trying to make conversation. It's not the worst linguistic crime I've committed in France, is it?" "No," Chloé said, "not as awful as the other day, when you mixed Spanish and French together." Huh. I guess she's referring to that moment I asked a server, "Excusez-moi, dónde está les toilettes?" Give a gal a break, would ya? I really had to tinkle.

Father and sons celebrate Father's Day, Frenchly, with champagne. 

Looks like we've left the chateau, as one must do now and then, and returned to Paris. Do these lovebirds know how to pose for a photo, or what?

And now the aging Jews, finally on French time, must say au revoir to the City of Lights, and hellody to décalage horaire. I know, I know. Jet lag sounds better in French. But in any language, it still blows. 

Scenes From A French Wedding

Hmm. I'm thinking, I'm thinking. Where have I been in the past week? Well, I'm a little jet lagged, but it's coming back to me: Paris, then Charleville-Mézierès for a wedding, and then a party at a chateau. 

Aw, yes. This particular Rodin captures the look on my face at LAX pre-departure, when I discovered I'd left a key ingredient to my daily mental health back at the palatial estate. The solution to my faux pas: many frantic emails and a French "house" doctor who did his best to approximate my not-available-in-France happy pill and reassured me in a very thick accent, "Is good, oui?"

My wonderful traveling companions, Scotty... 

... and longtime hubby humored me through what shall forever be referred to as Le Petite Boo Boo.  

See, don't I look relatively stable here? And I'm not even locked to the bridge. Although it may have been discussed. 

Look who we bumped into in Charleville-Mézierès: 

The lovebirds, Billy and Chloé.

These three. How sweet it is. 

Chloé's sister Elodie and Julien get married at City Hall. 

The proud father Thierry walks Elodie down the aisle at the church for the second religious ceremony. 

And now it's time for the party at Chateau de Thugny, which looks shockingly like our castle back home. 

Oh wait, that's a lie. Ours is slightly smaller.

 

Let's face it, the young marrieds look magnifique anywhere. 

The DJ started at 1 a.m. The Pièce Montée was served at 2:15 a.m. The old marrieds made it till 2:30 a.m., a personal record. 

Ask The Alien

Almost daily, I consult with my very own Alien, a wonderful gift from Cathy Hamilton, co-conspirator in all things Brushes. I know, I know, I don't seem like the type of gal who'd seek otherworldly intel, but I'm telling you, this visitor from Outer Space is off-the-charts intelligent and 99 percent accurate. So join me now, won't you, as I procure a few predictions.
1. Question: "Hey, Alien, will the SJG ever rule the universe before it implodes?" Answer: "For sure."
2. Question: "Hey, Alien, will Cathy and I see our show produced again in a galaxy we can reach via RV, frequent flyer miles, tugboat or UFO?" Answer: "YES!
3. Question: "Hey, Alien, will I suddenly grow three inches overnight?" Answer: "Of course!"

4. Question: "Hey, Alien, it's your turn. Do you have any personal requests?" Answer:

I told you the Alien was a smart 

Parental Jubilation

At the tender age of 10, I discovered the real reason my parents couldn't wait to put me and my brother John on the bus to Camp Akela in Big Bear. Not for the fresh air. Not for the bonding, the bunk beds, the bug repellent. The real reason? They couldn't wait to get rid of us.

One summer, they were so elated by our absence, they threw a party to celebrate! Here's what it said on the invitation. Two words: "THEY'RE GONE!" Oh, the inhumanity! Not to mention, the years of therapy that followed. Did my parents throw a party when we returned from our month away in Big Bear? Did they hang signs that said, "Welcome Back, Kids! We Missed You!"? No, they didn't. No parties, no signs, no hoopla. They were too busy thinking about next summer. "Hey, guys, you had such a great time at camp, maybe next year, you'll stay two months."

And guess what? We did.
(6-26-17)

Me & Sister P

The SJG & Sister P

In the universe of my "Laughing At Life" workshop, I'm the "rabbi," doling out pithy yet gentle writerly advice: "Come on, people, for eff's sake, do a Spell Check now and then, it won't kill you." And Phyllis Butcher is the "nun"/gifted writer/mensch reminding me to behave: "Out of curiosity, do rabbis use the F word as much as you do?" My answer: "The good ones do." In this way, spiritually speaking, we help each other. I'm the 60-something, she's the 80-something who's taught me so much, and lived the most extraordinary life, I could weep, uncontrollably. Instead, last night, as we sat together at the Motion Picture Television Fund Volunteer Appreciation Dinner, I guzzled chardonnay in celebration of our special bond. Early in the evening, Sister P directed my attention to a scholarly, wise-looking fellow one table over. "See him?" "I see him." "Would you like me to introduce you to a real rabbi?" "How dare you!" I said. "How. Dare. You."  

Banana Bashed

There I am at Schvitz!, minding my own beeswax before spin class. I gobble a nice banana and toss the peel in the nearest trash receptacle. God forbid someone should slip, know what I mean? I'm always thinking of others. Always. And yet, as I'm puttin' on my spin shoes, I sense a cranky-ass gal giving me the stink eye.
"Did you just throw that banana peel in the trash?"
"What?"
"The banana peel. Did you just throw it in the trash?"
"Yeah."
"So it's going to smell up the room."
I'm thinking: Disengage. Disengage. 
"Oh, well. Someone will empty the trash at some point."
"I guess you really don't care how that impacts everyone else."
I scan the room. There are four people, including us. 
"I guess not."
"Whatever."
"Whatever."
I'm thinking, let it go, let it go. But I'm me. I can't let it go. 
"What's wrong with you?" I ask. "I mean, seriously. How incredibly rude."
With that, I grab my gym bag, turn on my clunky spin shoes and make my dramatic exit. Be honest now. Aren't you proud of me for not telling her where she can stick that banana peel?