Shalom, 2021

So, it's the final day of this crapola year, and I've already replaced my 2021 calendar on the fridge with my 2022. I'm tempted to leave my 2021 up on the fridge, not because the pages announce wonderful upcoming events. I pretty much stayed home again. Calendar-wise, it's hard for me to take down 2021. Every month features a fabulous photo of my granddaughter, frozen in time. 

But time marches on, and so must my calendar, an old school tradition I will never surrender, Dorothy. Never. At the moment, like so many of us, I feel like I'm marching in reverse. Double-vaxxed and boosted, we almost made it out of 2021 without someone in the family catching you-know-what. Then, right before Christmas, four treasured someones got the omnipresent, dreaded It. My eldest, his wife, their toddler and baby boy. Scary doesn't quite cover it. They're much better now, recovered, kina hora. We're incredibly grateful and relieved. If there's ever a time to count blessings, and keep counting them, it's today. 

So, as my late great Daddy Ben used to say, "Onward!" Let's put one foot in front of the other and try not to trip. Let's keep marching toward the good things that await us. 

Happy New Year! 

When She Smiles That Smile

When a guy turns thirty he must declare

His plans for the future with utmost care

So he calls up the bar where they first met

Arranges a surprise she won't forget

Inside Blue Collar a song starts to play

The same song that played on that fateful day

He takes out a ring, gets down on one knee

Looks up and inquires, "Will you marry me?"

The gal he adores wipes some tears away

It's hard to keep her emotions at bay

Her answer relieves him of all his stress

When she smiles that smile, and gives him a yes

A Latke For Your Thought-Ke

 

Nothing rhymes with latkes

In English that is true
In Yiddish try gatkes

Long underwear to you 

Shredded spuds, golden brown

A Hanukkah delight

Grab a plate, sit right down

Menorahs shining bright

Fried or baked or frozen

It's all delish to me

Some may call us Chosen
Ask Judah Maccabee

The Illusion of Control

This is not what my table looks like.

"Sometimes, it's important to give people the illusion of being in control." So says Tony Soprano. When it comes to Thanksgiving, this is my mantra. To maintain the illusion of control, I do everything too early. I set the table too early. I overthink every detail too early. And most importantly, I buy the turkeys too early, especially this year. If you threaten me with a turkey shortage, I will respond, accordingly. A few weeks back, I called a guy. It went something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Gobbles speaking."

"Gobbles, hi, it's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Short Jewish what?"

"Never mind, Gobbles. I need turkeys. Two of 'em. The brined ones. Capiche?"

"I got ya. No worries. They're comin' in next Thursday, 9 a.m. Call first. Ask for me. I'll set ya up. "

"Great. Thanks, Gobbles. You're a mensch."

Exactly one week later, at 9 a.m., I call Trader Joe's. It goes something like this:

"Trader Joe's. Cranberry speaking."

"Cranberry, hi. It's the Short Jewish Gal."

"Hi. I'm the Tall Catholic Goddess." 

"I need to talk to Gobbles."

"Gobbles doesn't work here any more."

"Wait. What?"

"They canned him."

"I don't understand."

"They caught him selling our beloved, highly-coveted brined turkeys off the back of his truck late last night."

"What kind of person does that?"

"A guy named Gobbles, that's who." 

"Bastard!"

"I know, right?"

"Cranberry, tell me, are there any brined turkeys left?"

"There might be two in the back. I'll go check." 

"Hurry, Cranberry. Hurry. My Thanksgiving depends on it."

Two minutes later, she returns.

"You're in luck. I got two 18-pounders."

"Bless you, Cranberry. I'll be right over." 

I arrive, and there she is. Cranberry. A crown of red berries in her hair, a beatific smile on her punim. She beckons me forward. "Be cool," she says, and takes me in the back. Awaiting me: the brined turkeys. The only two left. I express my gratitude. Cranberry nods. "You're welcome." I rush home and make room in the fridge. Every day, I look at my turkeys and feel good about my life. Now all I have to do is cook them to total perfection. Or at least create that illusion for 21 guests. 

Oh, Halloween

Oh, Halloween, oh Halloween!

Come dressed as Mufasa

Come to our walkway

We'll hide in our casa 

Gather 'round the table

We're giving out treats

Straight from the bowl outside 

Some sanitized sweets  

And while we are hiding

The pumpkin is burning low

Don't ring our Ring! 

We're not answering 

To protect us from germs, so just go-oh-oh-oh!

Don't ring our Ring!

We're not answering 

To protect us from germs, so just go!

The Upside Down

Hey, has anyone seen longtime hubby? Step into the time machine, why don't you, and travel back with me a few weeks. Let's see if we can find him. Oh, wait, never mind, that's him, over at Billy and Chloé's, just hanging upside down, as one does, after our daughter-in-law calls a few hours before she's due at the hospital, and all I can hear is "... water broke." "Your water broke?" I ask, ever-so-calmly, for calmness defines me. Fine. What I really do is scream, "YOUR WATER BROKE?" "No, no," she says, "the water broke on the washing machine. It's flooding the kitchen." At least that explains why longtime hubby is dangling, as he tries to fix a pipe. Ultimately, he calls a... what's that word he hates? Oh, yes. Plumber. 

Lucas (The S Is Silent) Who?

In general, the past few weeks have turned Claire's world upside down. She's wondering, "Who is this brand new human? And when is he going back?" 

Sorry. He's staying put. 

Of course, Claire finds her dethronement from Only Child perplexing. But I like to think that underneath the confusion, she's remarkably "oppie" to her new role as Big Sis. "Oppie" is her go-to command, you know. During her luxurious stay at the Palatial SJG Estate, while we awaited Lucas (the S is Silent!), we played a lot of "Oppie! Oppie!" As in Open Something. The door, the drawer, the cabinet, the thing preventing her from getting into mischief. Go on and "oppie" and then stand back and hope for the best. Nothing made Claire laugh more than making me "oppie" the door and walk out, so she could then close it in my face and watch me beg to come back in. "Open Sesame!" I'd say. Nothing. "Oppie Sesame! Please! Please! Claire-Bear!" usually got me in, eventually. I find it's always better to speak her language, an intoxicating blend of French, English and Yiddish. True, her Yiddish needs work, but I promise, I'll have her saying "Oy!" before she's two. 

"Oy!" truly sums up her current mood, a grab bag of emotions. The arrival of Lucas (did I mention the S is Silent?) has left our favorite toddler somewhat farklempt. She'd rather squeeze into her old Dock-A-Tot or crawl around on the floor, pretending she's the baby, than hear "No!" or eat the fish sticks on her plate. This phase she's in, I believe it's called regression. I've been there a few times myself, and that's just in the past year.  

Despite the challenges, look how well she's doing with her baby brother in this totally unposed photo. I see good things for these siblings. Great friendship. Unbridled fun. Laughter galore.

And look how well I'm doing in this photo. 

The Shopping Gene

June 1995

"Come back friends," my dad would say, whenever my mom and I left to go shopping. The issue was always the same. She wanted me to look stylish. I wanted to blend in. She wanted me to try something new. I wanted to play it safe. The shopping gene didn't kick in for a few decades. We'd stand in the dressing room at an impasse. She thought I looked great. I thought I looked ridiculous. It was hard to compromise. Yet no matter how much I pouted, how much I resisted change, I wanted to please her. Which explains that one time I showed up at school in white Go-Go boots and blue and white plaid knickers, when the dress code called for worn-out bell bottoms. I'd committed a major fashion don't. The look of horror on the face of my junior high crush as I walked by continues to haunt me. Today marks 22 years without my fashion-forward mom. I think of all the things she's missed, the wonderful family additions and celebrations. What I'd give to go shopping with her again. And come back friends.

Your Warranty Has Expired

"Good morning, Rapidly Aging Short Jewish Gal. The mensches at Schlepper Auto Services of Van Nuys, you know the place, with the complimentary chocolate babka, a little stale but still tasty, thought we should warn you that your warranty on patience has already expired or is about to expire any second now. But please, don't panic. Or maybe panic a little, we hear it's your specialty. Not that we judge. By pressing 1, you can fix things by signing up for an extended warranty on patience at the low cost of... you have to press 1 to find out. By pressing 2, you can't fix anything and will face the legal consequences. By pressing 3, or worse, hanging up, we'll haunt your phone, not to mention your dreams, for eternity and in terms of patience, you never had much to begin with, so why are we wasting our time? Shana tova."

Atonement In Progress

On the eve of Yom Kippur, my atonement list isn't all that long, probably because I've gone nowhere and done bupkis in the past year, other than sit on my tuchas and binge watch darkly dystopian television. Since last Yom Kippur, I've barely yelled at anyone or flipped anyone off. Well, that's not completely true, I did flip off a jaywalker after he called me a bitch for not screeching to a halt and causing a pile-up on Magnolia so he could cross in the middle of a very busy boulevard. Still, I waited till he was out of view to flip him off, so he didn't see my hostile, well-deserved gesture. So it doesn't really count, does it? Of course not. Now, I'm not saying I've been a perfect human, but I've behaved better than other years. If that doesn't get me inscribed in the Book of Life Is Life, what will? Maybe this silly atonement song. Then again, maybe not. 

You better not cheat

You better not lie

You better not eat
I'm telling you why
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God's making a list
And checking it twice
Gonna find out who's atoning their vice
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God knows when you are fasting

God knows when you're a fake

God knows when you've been bad or worse

So atone for kugel's sake

May you be inscribed in 

The Book of Life Is Life 

Pass The Diapers

Well, it wasn't exactly your typical early-bird Shana Tova soirée. The look on Claire's face says it all. Can you blame her for pondering this particular moment? For thinking, "Why is Rosie, the Rescue Pup adopted by Scotty and Meg, wearing one of my diapers?" It's bad enough Rosie and Blakey, only half-pictured here, but trust me, fully engaged, are always trying to steal her toys. But her diapers, too? Where's the justice in that? 

Where's my festive doggy-approved diaper? 

Answer: In the dryer. 

If there's an easy way to tell a toddler that the diaper-clad doggy, supposedly fixed before her adoption, was, in fact, not fixed, and mere weeks before her scheduled fixing went into heat, I eagerly await your input. I barely understood the situation myself. Sure, a doggy diaper avoids leakage. That part, I get. But avoiding the very amorous Blakey, fixed long ago but still full of certain canine urges, turned out to be impossible. Cries of, "Blakey! Stop trying to hump Rosie!" accomplished zilch. 

And yet, the nice people in the above photo, and those who preferred to remain off-camera, took the whole diaper debacle in stride. Let's just say it could be worse. 

Shana tova! May you have a sweet new year. 

And may your diapers stay dry.

Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

(A few years ago, I wrote this "Gypsy" spoof honoring the New Year. I don't remember writing it, but then, I don't remember what day it is. What I do know is this. I think of kugel and break into song. Whether I'm making kugel, serving kugel, or most importantly, eating kugel, there's a song in my soul. And here's the evidence.)  

Have some kugel, Mr. Goldstone!

Have a napkin, have chop liver, have a chair.

Have some tzimmes, Mr. Goldstone!

Any tzimmes that I can spare I'll be glad to share!

Have a dish, have a fork, have gefilte, 

Don’t have pork.

Put your feet up. Feel at home.

Have some brisket, have some Triscuit.

Would you like to hear a poem? 
Put a kippah on your dome? 

Have some challah, Mr. Goldstone!

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Rest your tuches, Mr. Goldstone!

Here's a tallis for you!

Everybody give a cheer.

Abraham is sitting here.

Mr. Goldstone I love you!

Have a Goldstone, Mr. Kugel.

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Say gut yontif, Mr. Yom Tov.

Have a sweet year, have a few!

Blow the shofar, Mr. G!

Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

Mr. Goldstone, I love you!

(apologies to Jules Styne & Stephen Sondheim) 

Good Answer

This morning, on the occasion of our 41st wedding anniversary, I'm happy to report that I can still surprise longtime hubby. By now, you'd think I would've already asked him all the important questions. But today, a new one popped into my keppy. As I repositioned his early morning sweatshirt, draped ever-so-casually over his manly executive schlep bag, I asked:

"Honey, are you going to be wearing this sofa today?"

"Um..."

"Oh, sh*t. Did I just ask if you're going to be wearing a sofa?"

"You did."

"If this isn't early dementia, what is?"

"It's just your brain processing too much at the same time."

Let's face it. The man just gets me. For 41 years, I've been posing all kinds of questions. Nonsensical. Rhetorical. Multiple choice. And he always knows the best answer. 

After the sofa inquiry, I followed up with this: 

"Honey? Would you still marry me today?" 

"Yes, I would, over and over again." 

See what I mean?

The Way We Were

"Oh, Hubbell, remember that time we ate hot wings 

on the beach, and I dripped sauce all over 

my nice blouse?"

Well, it had to happen, I suppose. The Hot Wings Place on Van Nuys, the one that made me think, "Why would anyone want hot wings?" has closed. The only time I ever thought about hot wings was when I passed by the Hot Wings Place en route to Gelson’s, my personal homeland, more overpriced than ever before, and not making any apologies. How do I know the Hot Wings Place has closed? The boarded up windows were a giveaway. So many boarded up windows in my general vicinity. At this point, I feel sad when anything closes, even if I never went there. I'm feeling a little sentimental about The Way We Were, not just the movie, but P.C. (Pre-Covid.) I won't miss you, Hot Wings Place, but I liked knowing you were there. It probably didn't help that another Hot Wings Place just opened two minutes away. I won't go there either, but I'll be sad when it closes, a few months from now. Sometimes, change is a good thing. These days, I'm just looking for a little consistency, hot wings or otherwise.

Synchronized Worry Circle

Aren't they lovely?

(Sherman Oaks) In honor of the Tokyo Olympics, a certain kugel maker will host a special competitive event in her palatial estate, beginning at 2 a.m. this Sunday, and lasting until her pandemic concerns subside. "This could take a while," the SJG warned Sports Illustrated. "Synchronized Worrying is a complicated hybrid of sanitized hand-wringing, mask-wearing and fretting, while performing elaborate choreographed pacing in the kitchen and front hallway. Synchronized Worrying demands advanced over-thinking, gastrointestinal fortitude, endurance, crisis management, flexibility, artistic traipsing and precise timing, as well as exceptional sighing and breath control while bent over, cleaning spots on the floor in perfect syncopation. I can't wait to compete with myself, and of course any other double-vaccinated souls brave enough to take me on. But trust me, you've got your work cut out for you. I've been in training since birth." According to the self-proclaimed international blogger, Delta Dawn and the Variants, currently making waves throughout the U.S.A., will agitate participants and on-lookers with an alarming blend of Acid Rock and Show Tunes. 

Tiny Houses, Big Dreams

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Only 14 months old, and my granddaughter Claire has already moved into her own tiny home. Just between us, it seemed a bit early, but I said bupkis. Rather than ask her parents, "Where's the angel girl going to sleep in this place?" -- too judgy -- I praised my daughter-in-law for realizing her design vision, kvelled over the paint job and offered to stock the non-existent fridge. 

Claire's first pilgrimage to my personal homeland went well. Every aisle of Gelson's sparked extreme joy, as she reached for this jar, that box, giggling, pointing, and exclaiming, "Dat! Dat! Dat!" Of course, the giant Winnie The Pooh mylar balloon at the checkout stand thrilled her the most, and can you blame her? As first outings go, this one was epic. I'll treasure it forever. I can't wait to cook with her on her new stove. Electricity? Who needs it. Just plug in the imagination and away we'll go. 

Cute Is Cute

Just the other day, please don't ask which day, because I never know for sure, as I walked the Royal Rescue Dog of Questionable Lineage, I thought I heard Robin Williams calling out to me from the great beyond.

And he was saying, "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" just like he does in "The Birdcage." I turned my head ever so gently, careful not to wrench the delicate neck parts, and saw a little unleashed dog. I yanked Sir Blakey, assertively, off to the side, for he's not a fan of the Unleashed, but then, who is? Then I heard it again. "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" A dog named Fosse. How cute is that? Unless the woman chasing the lil dog was actually saying something else. Something along the lines of... 

"Fauci! Fauci! Fauci!" "You named your dog Fauci?" I asked. "Yes," she said, scooping him up in her arms. "How cute is that?" "Pretty cute." A nice neighborly exchange, and what's better than that? Nothing comes to mind. But then, some days are like that. 

What Freedom Means To Me

Recently rediscovered essay entered in statewide contest:
"What Freedom Means To Me" 
by Carol Starr, 5th grade
Warner Avenue Elementary School

To me, freedom means that I should get to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without getting grounded ever. If I want to talk on the phone with my friends for more than five minutes, I should get to do that without my mom or dad picking up the receiver and saying, "Carol, get off the phone," which embarrasses me and makes me an instant social outcast. All my friends get to talk on the phone for as long as they want. Why shouldn't I have the freedom to do that, too? I don't get it. What's the big deal? 

To me, freedom means that I should get more allowance every week. A lot more. One dollar isn't enough to buy all those groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers I need to make my life complete. To me, freedom means I should get to go in the cool hippy head shop in Westwood and buy the longed-for groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers without getting caught by my mother and officially grounded till I'm 30. I don't get it. What's the big deal? 

To me, freedom means I should get to pout all day if want to, and not be told to smile. Maybe I don't feel like smiling. Maybe I feel like pouting. I should have the freedom to make whatever super-mean facial expression I want. To me, freedom means I should get to whine and complain and refuse to come out of my room for days and not be told I'm acting like a big selfish doody-head. If I want to act like a big selfish doody-head, I should have the freedom to do that. This is America. Happy 4th of July. Whoopee. 

Recently rediscovered rejection letter for "Write An Essay About Freedom/Win Cash Prize":
Dear Miss Starr,
The Committee for Freedom has reviewed your essay, "What Freedom Means To Me." The Committee for Freedom feels you've missed the point by about a zillion miles. The Committee for Freedom hereby bars you from ever entering another essay contest for as long as you live.  

You should be ashamed of yourself,
The Committee for Freedom 

The Empty Driveway

Early this morning, longtime hubby wandered into the bedroom, post-walkies, accompanied by Sir Blakey, and updated me on a D.D.D. 

A Deeply Disturbing Development:

"Are you sitting down?"

"What does it look like?"

"From where I stand, it looks like you're sitting."

"Spill it. I can take it. I'm one semi-tough SJG."

"The driveway is empty."

"Don't tell me that."

"I can't hide it from you."

"Are you sure?"

"I've checked 10 times."

"Ten times?"

"Okay. Two times." 

"You're saying there's nothing on the driveway." 

"That's what I'm saying."

"This is outrageous."

"It really is." 

"Did you call them?"

"Um. No."

"Why didn't you call them?"

"You're so much better at calling."

"It's one of my gifts." 

"So you'll call?"

"Hell, yes, I'll call. They're going to be sorry I called." 

"Go get 'em, tiger."

With that, he hits the treadmill, and I hit the phone. 

"Is this a delivery issue?" asks the pre-recorded voice. 

"I'm calling, aren't I?"  

"There's no need for sarcasm. Press 1."

"You press 1." 

"We're sorry for the delay."

"Sorry, my tush."

"Would you still like your paper delivered?"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." 

"Press 1."

"Hang on a minute, Missy. When will it be delivered?"

 "Eff if I know. I'm only a machine."

Click. 

The Newly-Revised Dress Code

"Dinner!"

After much deliberation and legal counsel, the Upstairs Management of the SJG Palatial Estate has decided to up its game and revise its long-standing Dress Code. Just this morning, the team informed all occupants to, "Dress for the occasion, or face the consequences. Pretend you're going somewhere, even if you're not, which, knowing you, is generally the case." The list of intolerable attire includes: Drawstring daywear, denim nightwear, infamous footwear, wrong-headed hatwear, inside-out shirtwear, and offensive sockwear. After 4 p.m., formalwear is now mandatory. All occupants, vaccinated visitors and canines must abide by the rules or face immediate expulsion. Children under two are exempt. Thank you for your cooperation. 

"What part of 'bring up the sleeves' didn't you hear?" 

Skip This Month

Today I received the dreaded email that wants to shame me on the first of every month. Sure, I could've unsubscribed from this monthly guilt fest years ago. But God forbid I should miss a big discount on celebrity workout clothes that might make me feel and look celebrity-adjacent. Today I decided to spruce up my attitude, reframe the email's not-so-hidden agenda, make a healthier choice. I called forth the Second Shot Euphoria. I proved that all the therapy I've endured in the past has been worth it. This morning, when the celebrity workout website asked me if I'd like to buy some super slimming, life-changing, discounted body-hugging leotard, I didn't even hesitate. I clicked,"Skip this month!" And when the second opportunity to rethink my dumb decision appeared, complete with photos of highly-toned gals who look good in anything tight, and asked, "Are you sure you want to skip this month?" I clicked again, damn it. I clicked with unbridled glee. Embedded in my two-step clickery is my own empowering message. This isn't just the chance to skip this month, bitches! By clicking skip, I'm skipping the guilt, the tsuris, the chazerai that comes with the package. I'm making a bold statement here, not just to the celebrity workout website, but to myself. I'm immune from the shaming, the fear, the uncertainty of a missed discount I may regret, and so much more. One day, I may work up the courage to unsubscribe from the celebrity workout website. But not yet. Not when I've just discovered the joy of clicking, "Skip it!" Not once, but twice. 

Double Jeopardy!

The other night around 7:12, I asked the cute guy in the nice leather recliner, "Did you see that?" "See what?" "Oh my God! You didn't see it?" "Can you be more specific?" "I don't think it's ever happened before." He nodded, supportively. His longtime wifey was in the midst of processing. It might take me a while to form a declarative sentence. This is the newish me, Pandemic Version. Most stories start off well: "Honey, I wanted to tell you..." Then I drift off. Sometimes I reclaim whatever it was I wanted to tell him. Sometimes I don't. But the other night was different. I hadn't forgotten. I was just dragging out the suspense, waiting for Anderson Cooper, the guest host of "Jeopardy!" and my personal favorite of the guest hosts in rotation, to acknowledge the typo on the big blue board. That's right, you heard me. The Typo. The answer in Potpourri for $200 began: "Aafter..." Two A's. Come on. If that's not Double Jeopardy! what is? But Anderson said nada. On a rare occasion, the "Jeopardy!" host comes back aafter a boo-boo, and says, "Hey, viewers, listen, we really eff'd up, it happens, and we're sorry."  Not this time. There was no oops, no shout out to the SJG, possibly the only human in the known universe to have caught the afore-mentioned "Aafter." I can picture the legend himself, A. Trebek, looking down from his heavenly perch in dismay. As you can see, I'm still not over it. I may never be over it. Anytime I make a typo, it hurts my soul. But a typo on "Jeopardy!" is a whole other kind of personal trauma. My spouse, however, has moved on. Which is why, from this point on, I'll keep reminding him of the typo. But only every time we watch "Jeopardy!" 

The Four Questions of Easter

1. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we pray for peace, but on this Sunday, we pray for Peeps? 

2. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we eat bonbons, but on this Sunday, we eat bunnies?

3. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we hunt for bargains, but on this Sunday, we hunt for painted eggs?

4. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we breakdance, but on this Sunday, we bunny hop?

A 2nd Pandemic Passover Poem

Got a brisket right there in the oven,

Heatin' it slowly, givin' it some lovin'.

Carrots and onions, ketchup and red wine, 

Pray my big ticket brisket sure tastes fine.

Made a gluten-free kugel, oy gevalt,

If it's too gooey, gonna be my fault.

Pandemic Passover a second time,

A two-minute Haggadah ain't no crime.

Elijah may come, Elijah may go,

Hope he's vaccinated, you never know.

I Can't Wait To Forget

This New Yorker cartoon posted today on Instagram really hit home. The past year has been a learning curve, teaching me things about myself, some good, some not so great. Take an impatient SJG and ramp that up by a thousand. That's me during quarantine, restless, testy, foggy-brained, wondering where I left my phone or the TV remote, and what's the name of that actor or the title of the book I just read or that darkly violent Dutch/German/Spanish/Israeli series I never would've watched pre-pandemic, but now can't stop bingeing? Like everyone, I miss my beloved routine. Going to the gym. Taking a dance class. Popping by the market on a whim. My happy places, my personal holy lands. First-world problems, I know, but they haunt me just the same. Loss is loss. Yours, mind and ours. This past year, there's been plenty to go around. Whether my old routine will return in some reedited version gives me hope. 

Still, I've found new routines. Zoom Yoga twice a week, during which Sir Blakey barks throughout, hovers over me, licks my face, exits and returns two seconds later to make sure I'm still there on the mat, repeating, "This too shall pass" between soothing breaths. Early Monday morning visits where I have the market to myself and follow a list, religiously, so I don't have to go back till the following Monday. Nightly cooking sessions with longtime hubby as my sous-chef. Give the man an assignment that involves chopping and out come the fancy knives and unbridled glee. I've never cooked this much before and have the burn marks to prove it. Endless, hilarious hours with our tiny bubble of millennials. Babysitting the granddaughter who brings more joy than I ever thought possible. And while I wouldn't mind forgetting a lot about the past year, I'll always treasure the surprising and magical times, the resilience I mustered, the fears I set aside, the books and music, family and friends that made it all manageable. One day, maybe sooner than I expected, life as we once knew it will return, in updated packaging. Whatever comes next, I'm ready to take notes and learn about the latest new normal. 

Just Say No?

When I was a newly-minted mom, I had no problem saying no when my baby boychicks pushed the boundaries of safety and my own sanity. Before they could break a body part, wound a keppy, wedge under a sofa or climb onto a glass table, I said, "No!" Added in another, "No!" Punctuated it a third time with a nice strong, "NO!" A swear word may or may not have been attached to the command, depending on the degree of danger. In this way, I pretended to be in control and mostly kept them out of harm's way. Saying no was my best defense, my intro to disciplining the wild ones. I'd like to mention here that I wasn't home, parentally speaking, that time the eldest shoved a plastic bead up his nose. In any event, I've never been shy about saying or yelling no and repeating as needed. 

Could you say no to this punim?

Until Claire. How can I say no to this angel, as she crawls around, adorably getting into all kinds of trouble? When she grabs onto the bar cart and pulls herself up, is it wrong of me to say, "I'll take a gin and tonic on the rocks"? When she cruises the TV cabinet, hoists herself up via the wobbly plant stand, and nibbles on the speakers, is it wrong of me to say, "Look what you can do!"? Isn't it my right to marvel at her growing list of abilities? To praise everything she does? It's in my job description. I did my time saying no to this, no to that, no, no, no. I'm a certified grandma now. And yet, as my stunning daughter-in-law gently reminds me, along with the marveling and the praising, I need to start saying, "No!" to the 9-month-old whirling dervish . Chomping down on the marble coffee table or licking a leaf are the kinds of baby moves that apparently require, "No!" The other day, we had a practice session. "Non!" Chloé said, Frenchly. "No, little angel girl!" I said. "Don't say angel girl." "Why not?" "Because you don't sound serious." "How about, 'No, little angel girl, I'm serious.'" "Just say no." "One no? Two no's?" "One or two." "What about 10?" "That's too much." What can I say? I'm still learning.