Where's The Love?

There were hugs and OMGs, wine and hors d'eouvres, valet parking and what-year-did-you-graduate?  And one jaw-dropping confess-ion:  "Oh, Carol, I feel so terrible.  All these years, I've wanted to tell you something."

Dream-Crusher

Dang!  I hate to be a dream-crusher.  Dream-crushing goes against my core belief system.  I prefer to holla and "rah rah" on behalf of my boys.  I'm more of a "go out there, baby, and kick some butt" kinda mom, even when their goals may be slightly out of reach, ridiculous, delusional.  Such sentiments as, "Like that'll ever happen," or, "Are you out of your freakin' mind?" those, I keep to myself. 

Zen Judaism

For you, a few excerpts from "Zen Judaism" by David Bader:

If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?

Be here now. Be someplace else later. Is that so complicated?
Drink tea and nourish life; with the first sip, joy; with the second sip, satisfaction; with the third sip, peace; with the fourth, a Danish.

Next Fall: L.A.?

The humidity-coiffed SJG at Sardi's

This morning, I woke up to the bummer news that "Next Fall," nominated for two Tonys (Best Play, Best Director), will shut its doors at the Helen Hayes on July 4th.  I've had the great honor of seeing my dear friend Connie Ray and the gifted cast perform "Next Fall," just for me (and maybe a few others) on two joyous occasions: once off-Broadway, and once on.

Stuck In The Middle

Skincare is so important, especially if you're a dog allergic to everything (much like the SJG). This explains why Dusty has his very own animal dermatologist, to make sure his fur retains its luster and elasticity well into middle age.  Plus, we can't have him scratching and licking himself, 24-7, now can we?  (The SJG conquered this urge back in junior high).  Today's visit to the spa office presented a few unforeseen  challenges, however.  Two seconds in the door, Dusty, a canine capable of shockingly quick paw maneuvers -- just ask anyone who's ever attempted to eat a meal at my house -- spotted a plate of  cookies set out on a small table.  One swipe from the original counter surfer himself and those goodies would be gone. 

Hire Me

I'm Back.  Hire me.

On Mother's Day, I received accolades.  On Father's Day, the Hallmark moment dimmed, the praise, the glory, went that-away.  I stared into my bagel of cream cheese and lox and asked, "Why, bagel? Why must my favorite cuzzy and his stunning wife, a gal I adore on such a level, I actually call her Sis (no more, Sista!) bring that up again?"  My bagel remained tight-lipped, I'm sorry to say. 

I Am Not A Pleasure Unit

                        

Bragging Rights:  A poster from "Our Man Flint," the hilarious James Bond spoof, co-written by the one, the only, Mr. Ben Starr.  Happy Father's Day, Dad.  Thanks for making me laugh for over five decades!  Enjoy the clip; double click on screen for the full image.