Top That! (Part 2)

I can top that!

A while back, I googled "kvetch" and up came my photo and blog.  I'll admit, it was a personal highpoint.  It pleases me to know I've made a slight dent in my on-going quest for fame and glory.  Well, this morning, another highpoint.  I googled, "Can you top that?" and up came another blog I'd written, about people who always try to top you with a better story.  I'd forgotten I'd written about that particular quirk of human nature.  And now I'm going to write about it again.  At the gym on Saturday, I told my friend Gene about my parking lot nightmare, embellishing it as I went along.  "It was awful," I said.  "I felt like I'd never get out of there.  I thought it was my fate to stay in that parking lot, till the end of time, that my sons would go on with their lives, get married, have children, and I'd still be in that parking lot.  'Has anyone seen Mom?' 'Not since she went to Westwood, back in 2012.'"  Gene nodded and smiled.  She's an empathetic gal.  She'd never try to top me with a better story.  Oh, wait, that's not true.  "My husband was stuck in the Galleria parking lot for two hours," she said.  "They had a power outage and everyone tried to leave at the same time.  For two hours, he kept calling me. 'I'm still in here.  I'm never going to get out.' He was going insane."  I looked at her.  "You topped me."  She buried her face in her hands, horribly ashamed.  "Oh, my God, I hate when people do that, and look what I just did."  "You topped me."  "I'm so sorry."  "Don't let it happen again."

Moon Over Mojito

Super Moon!

Super Moon or Super Mojito?  Which one won the night?  It was a toss up.  Both were divine and in generous supply at the fancy backyard soiree.  The SJG loves a pretty moon and a pretty drink now and then.  Lightweight that I am, one mojito is more than enough, so naturally, I had two.  Two mojitos make for a very silly SJG.  When I wasn't laughing, indiscriminately, I was wondering about my mojito.  What is it, exactly, that makes a mojito so delish?   A little rum, a little lime.  Some mint, some sugar.  A splash of Club Soda.  That's a mojito.  Add a super moon and you've got yourself an evening.

Super Mojito!

Stuck

Why, yes, I am.  What gave it away?

As a rule, I've never been all that fond of enclosed places.  A little claustrophobic, you could say. Working on a submarine?  Not a good career path for the SJG.  So, getting trapped in a parking lot in Westwood for 45 minutes wasn't my idea of  "fun."  And yet, there I was yesterday, stuck in my car, inching along, wondering what the eff was going on.  I never got an answer.  It was just one of those inexplicable L.A. things.  There was no bomb threat, thank God.  No one's battery died, which might've explained the hold-up.   And yet, I still needed to ponder why I was stuck.  Why was this happening to me?  Why had my little world ground to a halt?  Was the universe telling me something?  "Just sit there, SJG, and have a good think."  I didn't need to have a good think.  I think too much as it is.  What I needed to do was not think. Of course, I wasn't the only one stuck in the parking lot.  There were 20 cars in front of me, and 20 cars in back, snaking toward the exit.  But you know how I like to personalize things.

Had there been a sense of camaraderie, of hey, we're all in this together, I might've enjoyed the collective hostility.  But it was all pretty Darwinian in there.  When a passenger in the car in front of me got out to investigate, and came back to report to his friends, I yelled, "What's going on?"  He ignored me.  If he knew, he wasn't sharing.  It was every car for itself in that parking lot.  I was on my own, baby, with little cell phone or radio reception.  All I had was the sound of my own kvetching to keep me company. 

Finally, about 35 minutes into my quest to escape parking lot hell, a woman in beige khakis and a white polo shirt walked by, projecting a hint of authority.  "Excuse me, do you work here?" I called to her.  "Yes," she said.  "I've been sitting here forever, inhaling toxic car fumes.  What's going on?"  "I don't know.  I just got here." But that didn't stop her from blaming the new girl in the booth.  "I'll go see what's going on.  Sit tight," Miss Khaki Pants said.  She never came back.  Another 10 minutes crawled by before I found myself at the pay booth.  "I'm not paying!" I barked.  The new gal shrugged.  Big whoop.  Whatever.  "And I'm never parking here again!" I added.  The new girl didn't seem too upset about not seeing me again.  The fact that I'd just spent 45 minutes trapped in a twisted version of my favorite Seinfeld episode -- "The Parking Garage," when Jerry and the gang can't find their car -- didn't hit me till later.  "We're like rats in some experiment," George says.  My problem was a little different.  I found my car, but was stuck in it, indefinitely.  Just part of some weird cosmic test, I guess.  Oh well.  That's L.A. for ya.  Onto the next episode.

3 Golden Sisters

The Golden Sisters react to the Kim Kardashian sex tape

If you haven't heard of Mary, Teresa and Josie, aka 3 Golden Sisters,  let me introduce you to these hilarious Italian ladies/YouTube sensations who grew up in the Bronx, but now live in Tarzana.  Teresa and Josie are 72-year-old twins, Mary is 81.  They’re all hairdressers who like to dispense free advice and offer outrageous commentary on Kim Kardashian, bong usage, and other important topics of the day.  A while back, Teresa set down her scissors and bought a talent agency (why not?) and wound up discovering Shia LaBeouf when he was 11. Leave it to my friend Mr. Eric Schotz, reality show maven/topper of LMNO Prods., to find the Golden Sisters before they went viral and plan a reality show around them.  Such a smart boy, that one.

Men At Work, And One Gal

No one enjoys a road closure more than the SJG.  What could be more fun than coming home to find you can't turn onto your own street?   Oh, the challenges of suburban living!  So character-building!  Sure, the discovery of a bright blue outhouse parked in front of your home might throw some folks off their game.  But the SJG refuses to be defined by useless rage and bitter resentment.  When giant trucks and jackhammers mess with my peaceful existence, I turn Zen-like.  I say pithy things like, "This too shall pass."  I remain positive.  "Look, honey, there's a pretty blue outhouse in front of our house!  I feel so blessed.  You know what this means, don't you?"  "What?" hubby asked.  "It means the only creatures peeing on our lawn will be canines, not humans.  God forbid the men in neon green, and the one woman, shouldn't have a comfy place to relieve themselves."  Naturally, hubby admired my upbeat attitude.  The outhouse, the road construction, the endless noise are signs of progress.  Inconvenience is a good thing, depending on how you look at it.  "I bet when they're done putting in those new pipes, they'll pave our street with gold," hubby said.  "Fingers crossed," I said, and went outside to watch my neighbor try to back out of his driveway without crashing into the bulldozer blocking his path.  Oops.  Better luck next time.

Men at work, and one gal

Quiet On The Set

Johnny the Mime

My brother John likes to send me hourly updates on what he's doing, especially when he's working, or trying to get work as an extra. So pretty much, I'm getting updates all the time.  This morning he sent me the above photo, in case I wanted to hire him as a mime, or know anyone hiring mimes. That's a no on both fronts.  Go on, say it:  What kind of sister are you, SJG?  Correct answer:  A quarter Ethel Merman, a quarter Mother Teresa, a quarter Joan Rivers, a quarter Freud.  When I'm not dispensing brilliant advice, unconditional love and blessings, I'm singing show tunes and cracking off-color jokes.  Anyway, during our daily morning call -- you heard me, daily -- I asked John to regale me with some of his recent adventures in mimeland.  He was more than happy to share a few tidbits he'd probably already shared with me, but I can't keep track of everything, can I, I'm not a memory bank:  "Recently I had a mime commercial callback that went great until the director asked me to walk against wind. It has been over 30 years since I had learned it and I couldn't do it. I tried a pathetic attempt at doing the moonwalk instead, but it didn't cut it. Johnny the Mime needs to work on his wind walking. That said...they loved me leaning on an invisible pedestal. I've got that down. And my 'stuck in a box' is pretty good. Just don't ask met to pass wind."  Trust me, I won't.

Dear NYC

Hey, NYC:  None of this while I'm there

Dear New York City,
Hi, it's me again.  The SJG.  Last year, right around this time, we had a long talk about the weather, and you completely ignored my requests.  I'm still a little resentful, but even so, I thought I'd give it another try before I arrive in your city that never sleeps and never removes scaffolding.  I notice you're raining today.  That's okay.  The eldest is visiting you and he's not bothered by such inconvenience.  He thinks the rain is cool.  I beg to differ.  I don't think the rain is cool when I'm visiting you.  Precipatation makes for a soggy, cranky SJG.  So, NYC, please, for once, would you just listen to me?  I give so much, and ask for so little. I don't need a parade down Broadway to welcome me.  I understand that's hard to coordinate.  I don't need your permission to get up on stage and dance.  I'm doing it with or without your blessing.  All I need is five days, rain-free.  Five freakin' days.  Can you do that for me, NYC?  Can you put your own selfish needs aside, just once?  What must I do to make this happen?  Is some sort of payment involved?  Do you take VISA, Amercian Express, the SJG Gold Card?  Just tell me, NYC.  Must I pay in full or can we do this monthly?  What sort of interest are we talking?  Come on, NYC.  Don't be chintzy with the info.  You've got two weeks to get your sh*t together.  I anxiously await your reply.
Hugs,
the SJG