Beam Me Up

Huh. What exactly is going on in this very silly photo? So many things, pick a version that suits your current frame of reference:

1. The SJG just commanded her chief engineer Schlomo to transport her to a nice calm galaxy far, far away.

2. The SJG just activated the Magic Keppy-Swap Machine she bought with Blue Chip Stamps a while back.

3. The SJG just channeled Ethel Merman, only to confirm, once and for all, that there's no business like show business. 

Appeaser In Chief

Well, sometimes a rapidly aging goddess must kvell over herself. If I don't, who will? Turns out, I've made a little tiny bit (or if you prefer, a bissel) progress in the "Sir Blakey Kinda-Sorta Adapts to The Grandbaby" department. All it took was a tankless emergency to force his paw. Who said everything has to work in a house at the same time? Not the Ten Commandments, I can tell you that much. "Thou Shalt Have Warm Water" didn't make it in the final draft. Tanks a lot, Moses. "We all need to bathe," Billy announced, and who I am, the Grand Enabler of Sherman Oaks, to deny his family of three?  When the tankless water heater went on the fritz, a nice bath overrode the endless needs of the unpredictable Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. In a minor miracle, he was relatively calm, on and off, as he tried to adjust to the odd noises and smells of the angel girl/parental sleep depriver. I did my best to appease him while cradling Claire. If the above photo doesn't illustrate a lifelong SJG trend of trying to placate every living creature, human or canine, makes no diff, all the time, I surrender my membership in Pleasers Anonymous.

Make 'Em Laugh

It's not-so-recently come to my attention, about 3.8 months ago, that it's hard to be funny, think funny, act funny, write funny, do much of anything funny during these very, very troubling times. Not that it's stopped me from trying, my friends. For my own amusement, I sing a lot of TV jingles. "Oh-Oh-Oh Ozempik!" plays on a constant loop. So does "The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup!" I spend an inordinate amount of time re-writing jingles, too. Take the original "Ace is the place with the helpful hardware man." I know, it's already been re-written, replacing "man" with the more inclusive "folks." But I'm not happy with that. Not happy at all. I like my version better: "Ace is the place with the helpful hardware mensch." Right? In this way, I'm doing my best to stay semi-sane during Quarantino. I enjoy singing dumbly. I can't help it. Same goes for plugging in the wrong words. The strangeness continues. Why, just the other day, I believe it was Father's Day, I announced to longtime hubby, "I'm putting the blintz casserole in the office." "It's not going to cook in there," he reminded me. Helpful. in conclusion, here's something that makes me laugh no matter how many times I see it: Donald O'Connor's "Make 'Em Laugh" number in "Singing In The Rain." I hope it does the same for you. If not, you know where to find me.

So Many Masks, So Much Time

If you're anything like me, you're probably in the market for some good news, as opposed to the open-to-interpretation onslaught we keep getting. It's flattening here but spiking there. Everything's open, oh schiza, no it's not. To briefly upgrade your economy seat in Purgatory to First Class Limbo, I invite you to rejoice in my personal triumph. In the category of better late than never, all the masks I ordered a while back, based on bold, ALL CAPS proclamations of MADE IN THE USA, and promising to be "breathable," have finally arrived from, where else, China. If this isn't exciting, what is? So many other things. I'll start a list and get it to you, shortly. Meanwhile, I'm a woman of many identities.

Sea Turtle Conservationist 

Presidential Protester 

Bohemian Rhapsodizer

 

Street Artist Ostertag Supporter

(mask made in USA by Anvil Entertainment 1893)

Pandemic-Not-Over Reminder

Growth Potential

I'm evolving. Just like these gals. 

I don't know about you, because we've been socially distanced since high school, but I'm finding this whole "stay at home for as long as you can stand it" thing filled with exciting growth potential. Today I'd like to share two examples of personal growth. Let's begin with my eyebrows. They just keep growing. But I figure, hey, what's the point of plucking? I can't see what's happening with my eyebrows or yours. I assume it's the same for you. Why bother? Not that I don't inspect this free-range disaster on occasion. A quick peek in the mega magnifying mirror, a loud cathartic scream, followed by a moment of course-correction, and I'm good to go nowhere. I raise my tweezers to the Goddess of Self-Maintenance watching over me, and with gratitude, I emote, "Thank you for these crazy-ass eyebrows. Thank you. Thank you." In this way, I'm constantly evolving.

Me in a few months

Next comes my hair. Oy vey, the growth of my hair. It's the longest it's been since the '80s, a very bad time for me, hair-wise, what with the perms and the spray and the shocking bigness. Just this week, or maybe last week, why are you asking me for details, my beloved Salon Gorgeous reopened. I should be dancing in the streets, doing a nice hora down Ventura Blvd. Instead, I'm waiting for my attorney Sosumi Schwartz to read over the fine print and get back to me. You see, Salon Gorgeous has a few stipulations before they'll let me in the super-sanitized beautification shrine. After taking my temperature and staring into my soul, they want I should sign a liability waiver and swear on a stack of Old Testaments that I won't blame them if God forbid I come down with something deadly on their premises. As if that's not enough, they also want me to sign a DNR order (Do Not Return) if I keep kvetching about all the hair inundating my mask during the snipping procedure. My response: No merci. So, until Sosumi Schwartz negotiates a more welcoming re-entry, I'll just let my hair grow. And grow. And grow. Once it reaches my tush, I may reconsider.

I Forget

For the past two three months, I've been meaning to write about my forgetfulness. But I keep forgetting. The only comfort here is that I know I'm not the only one feeling increasingly scatterbrained. According to my favorite kvetch-mates and fellow aging goddesses, forgetting the day, week or month; forgetting the names of the famous and the not-famous; mixing up words (pediatrician for veterinarian, fork for knife); repeating questions ("Are you watching 'Dead To Me'?" "You just asked me that two minutes ago?" "@#$%!"), and losing focus can't be blamed on menopause. We already went through that ordeal. No. This thing that plagues so many of us is, what else, Quarantino-related.

Just how many times have I Corona-Googled the why's of my daily ditziness? For an accurate number, I turned to my search history. Eight times in the past three weeks, I've re-read the same New York Times article. Should I be freaked out? Is it time for a brain scan? Will Tequila help? 'Cuz I'm finding Tequila very helpful. What the "experts" are saying comes down to this: Months of lockdown and constant stress are making us meshugie. Our keppies detect all the stress and release adrenaline and cortisol, signaling the fight or flight response. Good if a jungle beast is chasing us. Not good if a deadly virus with no vaccine is chasing us. So what do to do? What. To. Do? Eat healthier. Exercise more. Drink less. Watch less news. Start a project. Stop overindulging. Start. Stop. Two steps forward. One step back. No wonder I keep forgetting this advice. It's all the stuff I'm already doing, with varying degrees of success. 

The First Visit

The glamorous new mama and the angel bébé 

Let's just say that Claire's first visit to the Short Jewish Grandma's Palatial Estate could've gone better. In terms of planning, there was bupkis. But these days, planning anything seems iffy. Three months (who's counting) of Quarantino and I'll take any joy, planned or otherwise, that comes my way. So when the new papa called mid-afternoon on Sunday and asked, "Can we come over and celebrate French Mother's Day?" what was a new grammala to say other than, "How soon can you get here?" In that moment of spontaneity, I'll admit, a few things escaped me, such as this guy...

Sir Blakey has no idea what's about to go down.

In terms of sweet angel bébés, the Royal Rescue Pup found himself in unfamiliar territory. Of course, I'd read up on the topic of "dogs and babies" a while back. I had a semi-plan in place. Just the other day, I'd asked the sleep-deprived new parents for something of Claire's so that Blakey could get used to her smell before he met her. I received blank stares and the offer of a used diaper. "I'm talking a burp cloth or a blankie." More stares. I figured I'd circle back when they'd had more than two consecutive hours of shut-eye.

Speaking of which, Claire kept dozing as Blakey went certifiably "coco," whining, sniffing, overreacting to every noise she made. I clicked into hyper-alert. "GET THE LEASH!" I yelled. "GET THE LEASH!!!!" "Ma, calm down," Scotty advised. That didn't go over well. Never tell an unhinged gal to calm down. "HURRY!" I screamed at longtime hubby.

As for the newborn owner of many colored bows, she remained adorably unbothered, ignoring the canine kvetching and confusion that continued, on and off, for longer than I care to recall.

Blakey calmed down, eventually. After they left.