Better You Than Me Revisited

Yesterday, while shopping for maternity clothes, not for me, wouldn't that be something, given the lack of a uterus, ovaries and advanced age, but for Chlo-Chlo, seven months pregnant, in an unlikely locale, H&M, maker of cheap, and I mean cheap, clothes that somehow fit an expanding belly, even though they're not designed to, and yes, I know, this may be one of my longest sentences to date, so long I should definitely win an important literary prize, we bumped into my dear friend Robin and her BFF Carol. The great thing about bumping into someone else named Carol? It's a great way to remember my own name. The last time I saw these visions of grace and beauty, we were dining in New York before seeing Robin's hubby Bryan in a big Broadway show, and now, here we were in H&M. Talk about a comedown.

You're Going On A Long Journey

Take two aging Boomers, Genie and your humble blogger, add one 40-ish Gen-X'r, Katie, and the conversation at Schvitz! went something like this:
"See you guys Saturday."
"You won't see Katie."
"Why won't I see you?"
"I'm going to visit my parents."
"I wish I could visit my parents."
"Me, too."
"I like to picture my mom and dad having a bite at the deli."
"I like to picture my parents eating Chinese."
"My mom never ate Chinese. MSG gave her migraines."
"Did I ever tell you my dad died at a Chinese restaurant?"
"You never told me that. What happened?"
"Massive heart attack."
"I wonder what his fortune cookie said that day."

What's For Dinner, Honey?

Saul feared his wife Sara wasn’t hearing as well as she used to and he thought she might need a hearing aid. Not quite sure how to approach her, he called the family doctor to discuss the problem. The doctor told Saul there is a simple informal test he could perform to give the doctor a better idea of Sara's hearing loss. “Here’s what you do,” said the doctor, “stand about 40 feet away form her, and in a normal conversation speaking tone see if she hears you. If not, got to 30 feet, then 20 feet, and so on until you get a response.” That evening, Sara is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and Saul is in the den. He says to himself, “I’m about 40 feet away, let’s see what happens." Then in a normal tone he asks, “Honey, what’s for dinner?” No response. He moves closer to the kitchen, about 30 feet from his wife and repeats, “What’s for dinner?” Still no response. Next he moves into the dining room about 20 feet from Sara and asks, “What’s for dinner?” Again he gets no response. So he walks up to the kitchen door, about 10 feet away. “Honey, what’s for dinner?” Again he gets no response. So he walks right up behind her. "Sara, what’s for dinner?” “For @#$%'s sake, Saul, for the FIFTH time, CHICKEN!”

This Sums It Up

Oh dear God, what is going on here? Hmmm.... who do we know who'd be... well, there's no nice way to put it, crazy enough to dangle head first over a stacked washer-dryer unit, just to make sure everything's kosher back there, in terms of pipes and hook ups and what-not? I'll give you a little time to think about it. Okay, time's up. That would be longtime hubby. This photo, taken on Saturday by the eldest/new homeowner, pretty much sums up the past few topsy turvy, upside down weeks, the obsessiveness, the parental enabling on a level I didn't even think we were capable of, the supreme dedication, Home Depot schlepping, and endless installation of bathroom vanities, appliances and lights, not to mention the destruction of a fireplace hearth and plumbing wizardry, performed by my one and only, with some assistance from Billy and Chlo-Chlo. All this, plus back and neck strain and a fair amount of cursing, just to move our son and pregnant daughter-in-law into a very old, but charming house, located two minutes away. But wait, what did I do? Plenty. I supervised. I worried. I offered moral support. Listen, when the man retires from show biz, whenever that happens, my biggest fear: he'll spend the rest of his days duplicating the afore-mentioned insanity, knocking on random doors, offering to demolish, hook up, rewire, crawl under, hang over, climb a ladder to reach and repair you-name-it, as any decent neighbor worth his neighborliness would do, if they've got a few screws missing, and I say that with love.

Another Weird Opening, Another Show

Oy, this thing is heavy.

It's true, your loyal SJG scratched my keppy multiple times throughout the hostless Academy Awards, and it wasn't just because I needed a good shampoo. When I wasn't scratching my keppy, I was either hiding behind one of Andy and Allison's plush pillows or openly cringing. There were many moments I just didn't get. The opening number, for instance. Sorry/not sorry.

I love Janelle Monáe, I do, and I'd kill for an outfit covered in flowers, and yes, absolutely, the lack of diversity continues to be a total and complete shandalabra, and yet, I confess, I still didn't get the combo celebration/buzz kill, the name-checking of movies that didn't get nominated. Maybe next year, the Academy nominations will be more inclusive. And what about the Grammy-like return of this guy?

I didn't get that, either. It was kinda fun to see the audience rock out to Eminem, but it made no sense.

My favorite moment of the evening, other than a few heartfelt speeches, the win for "Hair Love," and the jubilant and historic "Parasite" landslide (I was rooting for "1917"), was the Diane Keaton/Keanu Reeves "Something's Gotta Give" reunion.

But let's face it, watching the Oscars, at least for me, has always been more about the people I get to watch and judge it with, than the show itself, dating back to the first time my folks plopped me down on the sofa and said, "No talking during the show, wait for the commercials," a rule I've been ignoring for quite some time now.

A Visit To Goop

I have a little time to kill before Carla's Search Heartache book signing at Diesel, so I wander into the Goop Lab, following orders. "You have to go to Goop," Carla says, and she's never led me astray, well, except for the Vegan Debacle. Listen, she's allowed one time in, what, 39 years of friendship. Two steps in, I spot the candle I think is the candle, the scandalous one "with a funny, gorgeous, sexy and beautifully unexpected scent."

Alas, it isn't that candle, it's the Uma Pure Calm candle. Always in the market for calm, I pick it up, letting the notes of "uplifting rose and soothing sandalwood" and the promise of "balance, well-being and positivity" waft over my personage. Sigh. The promise remains unfulfilled. In this moment, I know what I have to do, immediately if not sooner. Text my brother. I have a strong sense he's already at the Brentwood Mart, for it is our inheritance to arrive early and eat a snack beforehand. You never know when the next meal is coming. Although on this particular night, we do know. We're meeting our cousin Andy at Farm Shop, for an overpriced meal.

That's Not On The Menu

"Did I hear that correctly?"

Let's just say that a belated b'day celebration with the lovely Carla created beacoup de confusion in our crowded keppies when we went here over the weekend:

Ladurée in Beverly Hills 

Our "authentic French experience" went something like this:
"I feel terrible."
"Don't feel terrible."
"Should we leave?"
"Don't be silly."
"Let's leave."
"I don't want to leave. It's so pretty here."

"It really is."
"Plus we look good in here."
"We really do."
"I should always surround myself in pastel."
"So you don't mind staying?"
"Not at all."
"They should've told me when I made the reservation."
"They wanted it to be a surprise."
"It wasn't like this the last time I was here."
"When was that?"
"Two years ago."
"Ask the waitress what the @#$% happened."
"Excuse me, when did this place go vegan? Not that there's anything wrong with that."
"No, of course not."
"Five months ago."
"But why?"
"Corporate decision."
"What about Beverly Hills screamed vegan?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. Please don't tell the manager I said that."

"So are you saying the macarons -- ?"
"Vegan."
"What's the filling made of?"
"Cashew."
"Oy vey."
"I was dying for an omelette."
"You can still have an omelette."
"Made of?"
"Not eggs."
"I'll have the French toast."
"You'll love it."
"What about the Not Egg spinach omelette?"
"It's my favorite."
"But will I love it?"
"You won't know the difference."
"What's it made of?"
"Tofu."
"I'll know the difference."
"If it doesn't work for you, tell the manager, Thierry, the French guy in the suit."
"Wowza."
"I know, right? Isn't he hot? Please don't tell him I said that."
"We would never."
"Speak for yourself, Carla. I might, depending on the omelette."