Who Is That Masked Grandma?

Sweet Baby Claire, one week old today 

Hm... let me think about that. That would be me, your silly SJG. Now if you'd told me nine months ago that my first solo adventure in babysitting would involve a mask, preferably one I could breathe through, an ongoing quest, if you must know, I'd say, in the nicest way possible, what the @#$% is wrong with you, you're scaring me, why would you say something so hurtful to such a delicate personage as myself? Of course, nine months ago, you and everyone else said bupkis about masks. In fact, at the very beginning of this horrible pandemic, mask-wise, the experts said little, unintentionally botching what we should and shouldn't do. So we adapted to the ever-changing rules to the best of our abilities, and here I am, cradling my granddaughter in a state of bliss, mask or no mask, promising the new parents I wouldn't disobey orders and take off the mask for even one second in their absence.

What's New?

New grandchild Claire

New parents Chloé and Billy 

New Grammala

New Grampala

New Uncle 

A Stream of Silliness

I know, I haven't been to visit in a week, mainly because I can hardly put a declarative sentence together. A series of sentences? Don't be ridiculous. All I can offer is a stream of silliness. Did you know that babies don't actually arrive via stork? Apparently, that's a myth. On top of which, it takes more than a magic balsamic vinaigrette salad and intermittent contractions over many days to bring a bundle of joy into the world. And what, I'm expected to just wait patiently and maintain a workable level of worry? How crazy is that? To pass the time, a bizarre concept made even wonkier when you're awaiting a life-changing event, I've been "cleaning" the Palatial Estate in the most erratic fashion. I grab the broom, a good start, then stand there, staring into space. Next, a quick strategy session with the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. "Sir Blakey, should I do the floor, it's full of your little black.. oh my gawd, when did the kitchen sink crack right down the.... you know, I should really do a big load of... wow, the mirror's disgusting... oh @#$%, what should I cook for dinner?" Four hours later, I'm lucky if I've rinsed the doggy bowl. Listen, I mean to go that extra mile to ensure my home shines like a sanitized sanctuary. But I can't be faulted for a deficit of counter top sparkle. I blame the 409. And a serious case of Rapidly Approaching Grandmahood (kina hora, poo poo poo). 

Take One Salad And Call Me In The Morning

Chloé eats "THE" Famous Caioti Salad (copyrighted!) 

On Mother's Day, the family decided to help induce labor. What else have we've got to do during a pandemic lockdown? What's that? Do we have that kind of power? Or more specifically, can salad induce labor? Hmm. Let me think about that. Why the @#$% not? 

Ready for its closeup

The idea's my fault, of course. I brought it up, as Chloé floated around the pool in misery. From a safe social distance, I said, "Honey, maybe it's time for the salad." "I hate salad." A minor hurdle. "Get over it, sweetie. The salad I'm talking about is legendary. It's been working for 30 years." "Are you cocoa?" (Translation: cuckoo.) "That goes without saying." Shortly after I explained the Miracle of Caioti Balsamic Dressing, a copyrighted potion full of top secret ingredients, served over mixed greens, watercress, walnuts and gorgonzola, an unprompted text from her close friend and mother of two arrived. "Make sure you eat that famous salad from Caioti. I went into labor right after eating it." Well, duh, that sealed it.  

Your Salad Baby Name Goes Here  

Off Billy and I went to Caioti in Studio City. He wore a mask. I wore a mask. Here a mask, there a mask, everywhere a mask-mask. I sat in the back seat so I shouldn't contaminate my first born. Given the lack of traffic, we got there in under two minutes. The young masked man behind the counter handed Billy "THE" salad, plus two containers of dressing, as though doling out medicine. "It takes 24 hours, sometimes less." With that, he pointed to the Salad Baby Board. "Don't forget to call us if the salad works so we can put the name on the board." "Kina hora," I said. He looked at me funny. We went home and made Chlo eat as much of the time-release inducement as she could tolerate. Then we all sat there, anticipating the miracle and staring at her, which didn't go over well. For the next 24 hours, I waited for the big call, certain "THE" salad would do the trick. By Monday night, I couldn't stand the suspense. "Well?" I texted Billy. "Any action?" "I finished the salad." "And?" "It was delicious." 

The Original Bathing Beauty

Gloria June Kaplan Starr

I love this photo of my sweet mom for so many reasons. I love the way she poses for the camera like a beauty queen. I love the sassy 'do topped with flowers. I love the sandals. I love the whole look. I love the face. Most of all, I love the original nose. When I used to complain about mine, she'd say I could have it fixed some day if I wanted. She'd saved and saved and paid to have hers "done" when she was 20. I don't think we ever discussed it again. She wanted me to accept myself "as is." She wanted me to look in the mirror and like the SJG I saw looking back. It was the last lesson she imparted. "Don't be too hard on yourself," she said. It took her a lifetime to figure that one out. I'm still working on it, Mom. Happy Mother's Day, wherever you are... at the Big Beauty Shop in the Sky... at dinner with Dad... playing bridge with all the friends who've joined you in the Great Beyond. Beyond what? Wouldn't we all like to know. Whatever the locale, something tells me you're not social distancing. 

Hide & Seek

Maybe it's the quarantine, maybe it's the heat wave, but lately, Sir Blakey has developed a fondness for Hide & Seek. I let him out, he lets in the mosquitoes, those bastards, making an early spring arrival, and at some point, I go out to check on him. "Blakey!" Nothing. "Blakey!" In terms of a response, bupkis. I look around. The gates are closed. Phew. So where the bleep is the boy? "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" He remains hidden. Not nice. Not even a little. Now I'm looking around, peeking under bushes, until finally, I find him. "You naughty bear. You scared me. Not funny, buddy." Something tells me he disagrees. I'm pretty sure he's laughing on the inside.

Social distancing. Another concept Blakey refuses to welcome into his repertoire. See him snuggling up to a certain pregnant gal who manages to look chic at 38 weeks? That's a magic trick I never pulled off, schlepping the sons in utero.

Oh, who's this gal with the emerging mullet? And how many mosquito bites has she received? I'll let you know when I'm done counting. Meanwhile, happy...Wednesday... Thursday Friday. 

Oy-Vey-A-Thon

The SJG invites you to participate in the first-ever Oy-Vey-A-Thon, an all-day, every day quarantine challenge. Just download my new app Gevalt, and start tracking your results. Self-competitive categories include:

The Neurotic Aquatics. How much can you bath before you feel clean? How often can you run your food through the rinse cycle? Is there a limit to sanitizing every inch of your house? Let Gevalt post way more than anyone needs to know.

The Unbalanced Beam. Feeling a bit unsteady? Is your confidence shaky? Are you on the edge of coping? Gevalt can't wait to share your instability score on social media.

The Individual Hurdles. Is everything an Olympic effort? Are you finding it hard to accept reality? Gevalt will offer you an hourly pep talk and monitor your baby steps. Only 9,000 more to go! You can do it. Or maybe you can't. Let's find out.

Don't forget to use Gevalt to time yourself, rank your challenges, score your victories and share your mounting defeats with everyone you've ever met. 

Remember, friends, the SJG will be rooting for you from a cyber-safe social distance. And now, let the Oy-Vey-A-Thon begin (thanks to Gevalt).

Are You My Mother?

                                     Photo by B. Schnei

Now that you're seven, Sir Blakey, I should probably tell you the truth. You're adopted. I'm not your birth mother. So why do I call myself Mommy? It's my pet name. If I'd personally popped you out, I'd deserve a listing in the Guinness Book of World Wackadoodles. On top of which, my future grandchild might ask some tough questions. I can just hear the conversation:
"Grammala, I'm doing a family tree for school."
"Yay."
"Where does Blakey go?"
"Go?"
"On the tree."
"Oh, near the trunk, chasing the squirrel."
"Is the squirrel part of the family tree, too?"
"No. He's part of the decor."
"Does that mean you're not the squirrel's mommy?"
"Of course, I'm not. What do you think, your grammala's a freak?"
"Well, you're Blakey's mommy, so.... "
"So that's enough with the questions. Have a nice cookie."

I hope this clears things up, Blakey. And please let me take this opportunity to wish you a very happy made-up seventh birthday, and many more. Now get off the bed so I can finish making it.