It Wasn't Me

Last night at approximately 7:15 p.m., as I modeled a peppy polka dot dress, elegant eyewear and cotton ball hairdo, so much easier and cheaper to maintain, now that the salon situation is once again in the crapper, the SJG's married son rudely accused me of a crime. "Ma," the text began, part of an endless family chain, because God forbid these people in my bubble should pick up a phone and call, "there's a photo fee you know you owe to Chlo." "How dare you!" I replied. Followed by, "It wasn't me." "Don't hide from the truth, Ma. You know it was you. Here's the Facebook evidence." 

The so-called evidence

Okay, fine. So maybe I did "borrow" an adorable photo of my grand baby that I just-so-happened to come across on Chlo's Instagram. But isn't it my right, after a lifetime of giving, giving, giving, to take a bissel something for myself? Not according to the justice-minded millennials down the road. Before I could make my case, this unreasonable demand arrived from a lovely French negotiator: "You owe $5 a photo, family price. Pretty fair for that amount of cuteness." Who was I to argue? And yet, I still needed to offer a weak typo-ridden defense. "It wasn't me. Or maybe it was. Who the @#$% cares? Leave me alone. I'm very busy pretending to watch the Lakers. I'll pay later in hogs." Before I could correct myself and write "@#$%! I meant hugs!" the youngest son chimed in with the shaming. "Hogs? Seems unreasonable, Ma." Half a second later, my D.I.L. mocked me, visually.

Then added: "No thank you. Five hogs are more than I can handle." Humph. That may or may not be the last time I "borrow" anything from these people. 

Portrait Of A Kvetcher

Can you say shanda? The official portrait of the SJG has been removed from the Not-So-Grand Foyer of the Jewish Home for Compulsive Kvetchers, and replaced by...

... "Something a little less depressing," according to Riba Fish Noshberg, JHCK's founder. "Listen, we didn't get rid of the SJG's portrait altogether. God forbid we should insult her. We truly appreciate the Smart & Final veggie tray she schleps to the weekly kvetch sessions, not to mention her small but meaningful annual donation to our Everything Aches Endowment Fund. Why the switch? Well, the board took a vote and decided the SJG's portrait doesn't quite fit our current slogan, prominently displayed on a nice plaque in the garden, if you can call it that. It's true, we've been doing a little weeding. We got rid of This Too Shall Pass, because, let's face it, we have no idea if this Covid situation will pass. The message feels a little fuzzy and misleading. So we went with It Could Be Worse, even though, just between us, I can't imagine how much worse it could get, can you? But so you shouldn't post something nasty and undermine the important work we do here at the home, the SJG's portrait didn't vanish, it just relocated to the powder room with the peeling wallpaper, at the end of the hall."

Oh To Be A Baby

Oh to be a baby like the sweetest baby Claire

To look up at the greatest tree, taking sips of air 

To drink in the clouds above, blissfully unaware

To feel the grass beneath you, and marvel free of care

In The Key of Oy

Three rapidly aging goddesses are kvetching on Zoom.
The first one lets out a heartfelt "Oy!"
The second sighs, "Oy vey!"
The third brushes away a tear and moans, "Oy vey iz mir!"
To which the first replies, "I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about the Covid!"

The Sombrero Stays In The Picture

Dr. John Torres & His Sombrero 

Go ahead, call me a fixating, remote micro-manager. But I'm feeling strongly about this situation. The doc on TV may be talking about the latest grim Covid-19 statistics, but I'm not focusing on numbers. I'm focusing on the supersized sombrero mounted on the wall behind him. Why, doc, why? For a festive touch? There's nothing festive going on here. And now I'm wondering how to get in touch and just tell him look, either lose the sombrero or put it on. Those are the choices.

Now I turn the channel. Oh, good, there's another TV pundit, talking about online ways to register the young people to vote. Easy-peasy. Excellent idea. I'm nodding in agreement, feeling a teenie-weenie bit optimistic. And then, oh no, I spot them. The lopsided lampshades behind him, one on each side of the background someone's put together quickly before the remote interview. I call out to longtime hubby. "Honey! Come here, you've gotta see this!" He runs downstairs, excitedly. Okay, not really. He says, "One second." "Hurry, you're gonna miss it." He takes his time. I pause the TV, one of the few powers I have in my limited repertoire these days. Finally, he appears. "Miss what?" I un-pause and point to the TV. "You tell me." "The crooked lampshades." "Yes!" "You hate them." "So much." This is why I married him almost 40 years ago. He just gets me.

Every day, my frustration mounts like that big sombrero on the wall. Last week, I really lost my kaka when I noticed the large looming metal hand sculpture, strategically placed behind a TV maven talking about... I have no idea. I was too obsessed with the hand threatening to come to life and shake some sense into her. Yesterday on "Meet The Press," the clashing fabric choices in the former presidential adviser's den drove me "cocoa," as the mother of my granddaughter likes to say. I know, I know. Right about now, you may be wondering:

I'll have to get back to you on that.

Yankee Doodle Clowny

Who better than to send out an early 4th of July musical message of Yankee Doodle delight and political sentiment than my own brother John Starr, the creator of Porch Playhouse. So get out your sparklers, real or metaphorical, let freedom ring, responsibly, and enjoy this cheeky slice of hilarity.

In Like A Lion

Let's face it, 2020 arrived more like this scary-ass, ferocious, "I think I'll eat your head off" lion, bent on ripping us apart limb by limb...

... than the gentle cub featured on this 2021 Nature Conservancy calendar I've already received in the mail. According to my current Nature Conservancy calendar, which claims it's already July, but I'm choosing to ignore that fake intel, we're still stuck in the dark jungle of 2020. Isn't it a little early to be sending me next year's calendar? I mean, don't those usually show up toward the end of the year, as in, here's this lovely "free" calendar, cough up some cash if you want to keep getting them? I understand the urge to fast-forward the disaster of 2020, not to mention the magical thinking that 2021 will be an adorable baby lion compared to Covid-2020. I can only imagine how many more of these hopeful 2021 calendars will land in my mailbox and yours in the coming months, tempting us to actually look forward to next year, to start penciling in -- ink would be too unrealistic -- "Get COVID vaccine at CVS," and other exciting events, like all the re-scheduled weddings that got postponed, the restaurant reservations, the Masquerade Bonfires, where we torch our face covers with Fauci's blessings, and of course, the inauguration of our new president, kina hora, poo poo.

And yet, like Elvis says, don't be cruel, Calendar Gods. We've gotta take this thing one day at a time. I'm not opening that 2021 calendar and filling it with false hope. But I'll still give you a donation, Nature Conservancy, no matter what happen.