The BBQ

Hubby, Grandpa Ben, Billy and Scotty

Scott D, the rapper, picks a new college roommate:  the SJG

Scotty and Billy with Grandpa Skippy

Some things said at the bbq: 
"I made regular coffee.  If you want decaf, there's a Starbucks down the street." --  the SJG
"Have lots of girls over to the apartment.  Show up to class occasionally."  -- Grandpa Ben to the college boy
"Who made the fruit salad?" -- Uncle John
"Who spent an hour chopping up the fruit salad, slicing the grapes in half?" --  Uncle John
"Who put oranges grown in his backyard in the fruit salad?" -- Uncle John
"Would you please shut the @#$% up about the @#$%'n fruit salad?"  -- the SJG

Egg Spoon Races

Not happening here

Today there will be BBQ and beer.  Burgers and buns.  Guacamole and chips.  Chopped liver and crackers. Corn and chopped salad.  Two kinds of cake.  A nice fruit platter.  Today there will be too much food.  And a dog trying to steal it. Today there will be egg spoon races.  Water balloon tosses.  Face painting.  Not here, of course.  But somewhere.  At some picnic or block party.  Today there will be hugs and kisses.  Good luck wishes.  Safe trip.  Study hard.  Do well.  Make new friends.  Drop us an email.  Give us a call.  Keep us posted.  Keep in touch.  When are you leaving?  When are you coming back?  What's your new address?  Today there will be mixed emotions and see you soon. A house full of mishpucha.  Or is it mishpacha?  Or mishpocha?  So many spellings, but it always means the same thing.  Family.

You First

Pre-parenthood, Labor Day always meant "yippee, long weekend."  Since parenthood, Labor Day has always meant "thank God, they're going back to school." When the sons of the SJG were young, summer was a long haul.  Basketball camp.  Surf camp.  Friends sleeping over.  Friends never going home.  Staying up late.  And noise.  So much noise.  Loud TVs.  Loud music.  Loud everything.  By Labor Day, I was pretty much out of my mind, anxious to get them back on a schedule.  All the schlepping to school, all the homework, all the dioramas and posters and book reports.  The vocabulary quizzes.  The hell of math class.  My attitude was this:  Bring it.  The only thing I wanted in life was an empty house.  Give me a few hours to myself and I will be happy.  These days, Back to School means a different kind of schlep.  Up north to Santa Cruz.  A carload of stuff to fill the college boy's first apartment.  The one he'll be occupying solo.  This summer brought roommate drama, the dissolution of a friendship, and all the regret and mixed feelings that come along for the ride.  It went down, as these things do, quickly.  The aftermath has been challenging.  Character-building, as his grandpa would say.  But now the college boy is ready.  Ready for the ultimate bachelor pad, the place where his friends -- all living in houses eight or nine dudes deep -- can come chill and play Fifa.  The SJG?  Not ready.  Not ready at all.  Can't quite wrap my mind around it.  But I will.  I'm sure I will.  About half-way through the year, it's going to click.  I just know it.  Till then, I'll have to do some work on myself.  Cling less. Let go. You first. 

Permission Granted

Last night, the options were a bit limited.   One can only sit around the parlor with one's better half, sipping sherry and conversing in French, Italian, or Gaelic, for so long before a sense of ho-hum sets in.  Last night, we tired of the pithy.  We changed locations in the mansion.   Moved swiftly from the front parlor to the home entertainment center.  The plush velvet seats, the free popcorn, the surround sound.  "What shall we watch tonight, my love?" I asked, searching through our alphabetized DVD collection.  "'The Best of Masterpiece Theater?' Or would you prefer 'Long Day's Journey Into Night?'"  Hubby yawned.  Never a good sign.  "Perhaps something on the telly?" I said.  "Perhaps," he said.  A moment later, we arrived at our decision.  "Salt," starring that gal with the big lips.  Angelina something. Oh, we felt so good about our selection, we invited the college boy to join us.  He lasted all of ten minutes before declaring, "This movie is sh*t," and heading upstairs to write rap lyrics.  He was right, of course, but we refused to admit it till half-way through, when things turned ridiculous.  I started in with the commentary.  "Permission to kick your ass!"  "She's a Russian spy.  She's a CIA agent.  And she's pissed off."  It was terrible.  The worst.  And we enjoyed every minute of nonsense.  What could be more fun than watching AJ kick butt, over and over, for an hour and a half?  If you think of something, please share.  I need options for tonight. 

Head Explosions

"We either live together, or die alone."

It's been a week of FFF: F'd-up Famous Folks.  The keppie of the SJG can't deal.  I am shocked, shocked, I tell ya, along with zillions of other "Losties," by the report that Matthew Fox, aka Jack Shepherd, the handsome-yet-tragically-conflicted hero of my favorite show ever, got arrested for punching a lady bus driver.  He was "allegedly" sh*t-faced, tried to board a private party bus and when the driver blocked the entrance, he smacked her.  I've lost sleep over this one, people.  Nothing helps, not even the flurry of jokes -- "He had to get back to the island!"  A drunken Jack Shepherd, I can handle.  A drunken Matthew Fox?  I am unable to cope.  I am suffering.  Do I visit him in rehab or jail, or both?  Do I attend anger management with him?  Do I cheer him on while he performs community service?  Do I walk away and tell him we're done? 

I think she should have lost the chapeau

And then, this.  A  book about the French fashion icon Coco Chanel claims she was a Nazi spy and an anti-Semite!  Double oy vey.  This is too much info for the SJG.  Too much, I tell ya.  I live by her credo:  "When accessorizing, always take off the last thing you put on."  Not a day goes by that I don't remove an extra bracelet, a nose ring, a diamond chin stud, an Erykah Badu-style turban.  I imagine Coco shaking her glamorous head and off comes the one-too-many.  Without Coco, I'd be a fashion freak, weighted down in finery.  And yet... "Sleeping with the Enemy: Coco Chanel's Secret Wars" claims my personal guru was an agent of Germany's military intelligence organization.  Not a new story, by the way, but the book cites all kinds of just-released documents, etc.  So it must be true.  Or not.  Still, it gives me heartburn to think about.  Nothing irks the SJG more than finding out yet another beloved historical figure was a hater of my people.

 As a result, my head feels like this at the moment. 

Beauty Tips

How To Age Gracefully Like The SJG:
1.  Hire body double for all important public appearances
2.  A spritz of Clorox gets out those stubborn age spots
3.  Daily schmear of mayo under makeup
4.  Never frown, smile or react on any level
5.  A hint of Spackle works miracles
6.  Denial
7.  Apres bath, douse body in olive oil
8.  Keep away from open flame
9.  New mantra:  I don't give a sh*t
10. Burn all photos of self after age of 15

Great Moments In Breakfast

Rice Krispies:  The Opera

One of my all-time favorite commercials, a classic from the '60s.  The quality of the image is for sh*t, but the sound is sensash.  To this day, I can't see a box of Rice Krispies without singing this song.  Enjoy!