Socially Distanced

"Nu?" 

"Nada." 

"Same."

"Zooming?" 

"Yoga." 

"Zumba." 

"Writing?" 

"Some." 

"Good." 

"You?" 

"Yes."

"Cooking?" 

"Nightly." 

"Take-out." 

"Smart." 

"Ha!"

"Kids?" 

"Great."

"Folks?" 

"Old." 

"Oy."

"Grandbaby?" 

"Sweetest."

"Election?" 

"Scared." 

"Terrified." 

"Hopeful?" 

"Sorta." 

"Ditto." 

"Lunch?" 

"Maybe." 

"Patio?" 

"Possibly." 

"When?" 

"2021." 

"Kinehora."

"Hugs." 

"Kisses." 

"Bye." 

"Shalom." 

It's As Tab As Tab Can Be

Can a rapidly aging short Jewish gal feel sentimental over a can of diet soda? You bet your sweet bippy. At this moment in time, I can feel sentimental over anything. 

As Goldie Hawn says in "Private Benjamin," "I wanna go out to lunch. I wanna be normal again!" This pretty much sums me up, as I, along with everyone else, hang on by a very thin thread, waiting for the election and the Covid and basically, all the 2020 tsuris to be over already. 

So last week, when Coke announced it was finally dumping Tab, the pioneering diet soda for "beautiful people," the refreshing, guilt-free drink I consumed all through my school years, the news sent me back in time to the '70s, when we weren't the slightest bit worried about the chemicals that accompanied each delicious sip. Back then, who even knew about sunscreen? Not this sun worshipper, I can tell you that much.

No question, Tab was aimed at the female consumer, from pre-pubescence on, determined to stay slim and attractive no matter how many carrot sticks you ate and diets you tried. The message was clear. Tab was your salvation. It would make you so bloated you wouldn't need to nosh before dinner. Just drink Tab and that sassy confidence and perfect figure will appear. I bought into it early. I can see myself in my room on Lindbrook Drive, with the yellow shutters and the white wicker chair, sitting on one of my twin beds, contemplating my homework, listening to "a little bit of heaven, 94.7, KMET, a twiddle-dee," and sipping a glass of Tab. 

As the ice cubes slowly melted, I dreamed of running off with Loggins and/or Messina, either one was fine by me. And even though I haven't had Tab in years -- the last time I drank it, I remember it just didn't taste the same -- I embrace the memories and the quiet moments we shared. The 15 year old in me wishes you a safe journey to that big recycling bin in the sky. You lasted 60 years. Not bad for a can full of sass and god knows what else. 

Sir Blakey Meets His Match

Doesn't the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage look incredibly mild-mannered here, just lazing on the comfy sofa, wanting attention from the mommy who didn't actually birth him, although at times the SJG needs to be reminded of this reality? Rapidly approaching his made-up eighth birthday, at first glance, this so-called "Lab Mix," no doubt conjured in some mysterious outdoor laboratory, this rat-killer that once left a mouse he'd murdered on my pillow as a loving memento, this possum-hunter, would seem, at least in the above photo, completely reformed. Impossible to believe that our very own Sir Blakey would still embrace the sinking of his sharp fangs into a squirrel as his ultimate #lifegoals. 

And yet, these innocent assumptions would be dead wrong. I blame Halloween. This holiday brings out the monster in him. It unleashes the beast he mostly keeps at bay. Take yesterday. Out for an afternoon walky, I'd done my best to distract Blakey from all the spooky skeletons dangling from trees and planted in the front lawn graveyards that have popped up in the past few days. As they do annually, my neighbors are going all-out with the creepy, spine-tingling decor, even though trick-or-treaters will remain indoors, thanks to you-know-what. Heading home, I thought I'd dodged the worst of the fright night offenders, when suddenly, the dog bolted for the black cat eyeing him from the white picket fence. "Blakey! No!" I yelled. Undeterred, he growled, flashed his teeth, and rammed into that feline, full-force. As for the cat, it just stood there, frozen with a "come at me, bro" scowl. On account of its cardboard status.