There's Always Another Way Inside

Diving for Dollars

WTF?!

I don’t like to talk trash, it's beneath me, but as I pull into my driveway, I can't believe what I'm seeing.  I get all farklempt. I can hardly breathe. The lower half of a man juts heavenward out of our big blue container. He’s half-man, half-trash can. His legs flop around as he digs for aluminum.  He's on a bender for recyclables.  He's going green all the way. There's a mountain of soda cans in there, contributed mainly by the Coke-loving youngest son.  Even so, I can't stifle a dainty WTF?!  Once Big Blue lands curbside, does it cease to be private property?  More importantly, if the upside down dude banks some dollars, am I entitled to a piece of the action?  Ten percent of the profits?  Fifteen?  I'm so torn.  Like most on the planet, we're up to our lids in bills.  A little extra dough wouldn't hurt.  I idle on the pavers, debating my next move. 

Hubby's Super Bowl Chili

How much?!

Super Bowl Sunday means different things to different people.  For some, it's a reason to live.  For others, it's a reason to leave the house.  Every year, hubby makes a big pot of turkey chili.  His parents come over.  They gather in the living room with the youngest son, and shortly thereafter, someone is yelling.  Someone else is swearing.  Someone is pacing.  Someone is dropping chips and guacamole on the floor.  The Short Jewish Gal makes a guest appearance, feigns interest in the game, tosses out a generic "Go, team!" and slips out to dance class.

Don't Go There, Girlfriend

Step away from the hottie!

        

As a long-time celebrity watcher, it is my duty to dish out sound advice to famous gals in the midst (or on the cusp) of romantic turmoil. I like to intervene as early as possible, in hopes that they'll actually listen to me and take my words to heart. Today I offer a double dose of wisdom to Jennifer Anniston and Taylor Swift. Jennifer, according to various tabloids, you've asked notorious ladies man Gerard Butler to move in to your Beverly Hills mansion. Are you completely meshuga?  Did you not learn anything from your previous ladies man, John Mayer?  So, fine.  You had a summer fling with Gerry, as I like to call him.  Mr. Hot Stuff with the cute accent.  You couldn't resist.  I get it.  Then you reconnected promoting a movie, and now, it's drool-time all over again.  Hear me out:  Don't go there, girlfriend. This is a bad decision.

Huh?

Me watching "Lost"

Flash-sideways.  Parallel universes.  Oy vey.  Talk about lost.  Like a lunatic, I spend all Tuesday preparing for the season premiere of "Lost."  This is the sixth and final season of my favorite show.  EVER.  I want to be ready.  I want to be a little less confused.  Ha.  So I revisit the Season Five Finale.  I re-read Doc Jensen's theories on Entertainment Weekly's fab and addictive website.  I warm up like an athlete, preparing my brain for all the hurdles and mind-benders up ahead.  At 8 p.m., I begin my long-awaited (eight months of waiting!) journey.  I board my flight to god-knows-where.  The first hour offers a tempting overview, in the unlikely event that prospective fans might care to enter the crazy end zone of "Lost," this late in the game. 

You Have A Nice Face

"You have a nice face," says the lady at the Chanel makeup counter.  "Not everyone does."  Well said, m'lady!  If there's a better way to get this short Jewish gal to unload obscene amounts of dinero, I have yet to hear it.  Of course, she catches me at a vulnerable moment.  I'm looking for the Prescriptives counter.  This is meant to be a strike attack:  Get the foundation powder.  Get the lipstick.  Get out of Macy's alive. 

Lost in Lost

Imagine a magnificent island full of polar bears, smoke monsters, decade-hoppers, untrustworthy souls, ageless dudes and grungy crash survivors who maintain their sex appeal, year after year. Picture a twisted dreamland in a magical time zone, where subversive references to all things biblical, literary, mythological and scientific make you question the worthiness of your college degree.   On Tuesday night, "Lost" returns, and two seconds in, I’ll be feeling dumb again. Walk by the bedroom door and you’ll hear me shouting at the TV, sounding like hubby when the Bruins are losing. In other words, certifiably nuts.