A Kick In The Tush

A friendly SJG reminder:  Tonight remember to turn your entire life forward one hour.  This is the universe's way of giving you a swift kick in the tush.  The message is clear: No more falling back, lazy bones. No more dwelling on the glorious past. That was so one hour ago.  Get over yourself.  Enough with the procrastinating.  All those things you've been pretending you're going to do? Well, what are you waiting for?  Get on with it already. You've run out of excuses. There's no time like the future, capiche?  Tonight the universe is shoving you head first into tomorrow.  But if you're anything like me, you're probably wondering, what's the big rush, universe? Why you gotta be so cruel? Why you wanna deprive me of an hour of sleep?  Haven't you seen the bags under my eyes, universe?  I need that eff'n hour.  Don't take it away.  Give it back, bitch. Oh, hang on, I think the universe just sent me a text.  Let's read it together, shall we?  "MAKE ME." Never mind.

Hump Day

A conversation with the college son:
"How was your day, honey?"
"Fine."
"Anything interesting happen today?"
"No."
"Not one thing happened that was interesting?"
"Actually, one thing happened that was interesting."
"Tell me."
"There was a camel on campus today."
"A camel?"
"Yeah.  I looked over and there was a camel."
"Any particular reason?"
"It was Arabian Day."
"Is that a thing?"
"I guess."
"Did you take a photo?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"There was a long line."

Who Will Buy?

"Please, sir, I want to buy this bowl.  Is it an antique?"

Who will buy
My father's old sofa?
Such a buy
You never did see!
Who will schelp
It out of the condo
And put it in a truck for me?

To sell it would give me such pleasure
The relief would be strong
The condo is full of such treasure
Worth more than this dumb song

Who will buy
This creaky old table?
I'm won't lie
I swear I could cry!
Me, oh my!
I'm ready to chuck it
So what am I to do
To make this stuff look new?

There must be someone who will buy...
Must be someone...
Must be someone...
Who will... buy?

Moon Envy

The question of who owns the moon raises all sorts of issues for the SJG. I'm deeply disturbed, but then, you knew that already. Apparently, no one owns the moon. The moon is everybody's moon.  For now.  But one day, maybe sooner than you think, the moon will go on the market and start a galactic bidding war like nobody's business. Just imagine the qualifications a real estate broker would need to sell the moon. That's a lunar challenge of a lifetime, am I right? And yet, when I see the moon and the moon sees me, all I can think of is how easy it would be to get the moon ready for its first open house.  From what I can tell, the moon has no closets to empty, no books to donate, no tchotchkes to relocate, no furniture to redistribute, thoughtfully. The moon isn't in escrow so fast your head could spin. Call me loony, you wouldn't be the first, but this morning, I'm jealous of the moon.

Culture Alert

"Wake up, SJG, you're missing the show."

This weekend, the SJG learned an important lesson. Too much of a good thing makes me do something in public that I prefer to do off-camera:  Doze off.  To ward off unwelcome snoozing, I try to limit my dosage of culture, lest my brain shut down and I commence inappropriate siesta-taking. Here's what pushed me over my cultural limit:  I saw not one, but two plays this weekend, both matinees. "Brief Encounter" (fab!)  and "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike" (ditto!)  I'm happy to report that I made it through "Brief Encounter" without nodding off on Saturday, a personal victory. Alas, by "Vanya and Sonia" Sunday afternoon, the sandman stalked me for two and a half hours. "Sleep, SJG," he whispered.  "No Sandman, no," I whispered back. "You so tired, SJG. You soooo tired." "Oh, eff off, Sandman," I whispered, fighting to keep my eyes open. Every time the audience laughed, which was every other minute, it was my own personal Culture Alert, reminding me to "wakey wakey, you're missing something great here." Thanks to these frequent outbursts of appreciation, I'm pretty sure I saw or at least heard most of "Vanya and Sonia." So there's that. On a positive note, the brief power napping did pay off later.  I was fully recharged in time for the Oscars, a delightful evening of star-powered selfies, pizza deliveries and only one or three uncomfortable moments, involving Liza with a Z (sit down, Liza, no random hugging of winners), Kim Novak and a be-wigged John Travolta, mispronouncing Idina Menzel's name. Dozing off during the Academy Awards?  Not happening.  Not in front of a room full of relatives who would never let me live down that particular shanda.

My Acceptance Speech

"You like me!  You really like me!"

As we like to say in show biz, it’s an honor just to be nominated – pretty much for anything. But it’s a lot more fun to win. The nature of the award, the size of the statuette or plaque, doesn’t matter. Best Kisser. Best Slacker. Best Cell Phone Yakker. Whatever you’re offering, we’ll take it and prop it on our mantle or hang it on our wall. We have no shame. Hand it over and we’ll find a place and spotlight for it. When it comes to acknowledgment we can’t get enough. The other day, I picked up an award in a little-known category of achievement. The venue was understated, if not altogether lacking in glitz. There was no red carpet, no paparazzi snapping my mug. I left my gown, tiara and stilettos at home. I dressed properly for the occasion. I was in my casual goddess mode, as I stepped into the office of my esteemed dentist, Dr. Dixit. All I had to do was sit down in the chair and open up my pricey, ortho-dontured mouth, to receive instant recognition, delivered in a charming, Indian accent, to boot:

“Carol, I have to say, you are, without question, the very worst teeth-grinder I have ever seen. In all my years of practicing dentistry, I have never seen anyone destroy a bite plate the way you do. These appliances generally last my patients for years and years, and yet, you mangle them in record time, within the first few months. You seem so calm and happy, at least while you’re awake. I am really at a loss.” In between tears of joy and embarrassed giggles, I thanked Dr. Dixit, not to mention the Academy of Dentistry, for this honor. I felt so touched, I could barely speak. Of course, I hadn’t prepared my acceptance speech. This award took me by surprise.

“Dr. Dixit, I’m deeply humbled by…” I paused here for dramatic effect, gazing at my X-rays, as if reading a teleprompter… “your awareness of my talent, my gift for pulverizing my molars till there’s nothing left. I may appear calm and happy to you, but it’s only an act. I’m really a tortured soul. Naturally, I blame my sons.  What they've put me through. The late nights, the early mornings, and everything in between. I'm not one to hang onto grudges, but with them, I make an exception.  Is it any wonder why I’m a champion teeth-crusher, a gold medalist in mastication? And so, with heartfelt emotion, I accept this award, along with whatever new appliance you dream up to help save what’s left of my mouth. There are others to thank, but I’ll narrow it down to hubby, who puts up with my nightly chomping and gnashing, and my sons, for their endless supply of angst.”

Thoroughly Modern SJG

SJG and Grandma Shorty 

Back by popular demand, or sheer SJG laziness, my Oscar memories.  Grab a tissue box, peeps.  You may or may not be moved.

I grew up in a house where watching the Academy Awards was a religious experience. My family took it very seriously. The five of us gathered in the den and on this holiest of nights, we reclined in front of the TV, feasting on cold cuts and potato salad and Pepperidge Farm cookies. The evening took on heightened importance because my dad voted for the awards. Whenever one of his picks won, we all shared an inflated sense of pride, as if we had something to do with it. In the months leading up to the big night, weird and wonderful promotional gifts started arriving: Fortune cookies endorsing “Thoroughly Modern Milly.” A “Butch Cassidy,” giant chocolate bar in the shape of a dollar bill, with Paul Newman and Robert Redford’s faces carved into it. Sheet music and soundtracks from “Oliver” and “The Thomas Crown Affair.”

It was like Hanukkah all over again. My brother John (an aspiring actor in those days) and I fought over this prehistoric swag, racing to get the mail first. Of all of us, John has always adored the Oscars on a deeply spiritual level. Once he hit driving age, deli on a fold-out table had lost its allure. And since my parents had no interest in going, throughout high school, college and beyond, he escorted a different date to the awards. My dad had a whole system worked out for scoring primo tickets: a three-pound box of See’s candy, addressed to the nice Academy lady in charge of seating. 

Brother and sister on their way to the Oscars

Year after year, I'd ask,“When do I get to go?”  By the time John took pity on me, I was 24 and already married. The year was 1983. The hot movies: “Gandhi,” “E.T.”, “Tootsie,” “Sophie’s Choice,” “An Officer and a Gentleman.” It was my turn and I was going to make the most of it. First I had to figure out what to borrow. Buying new clothes was out of the question; I worked at a bankrupt newspaper. So, I ventured into my tiny closet and pulled out a one-piece, snazzy black velvet number left over from New Year’s Eve. It some needed help.

I turned to friends and family, and they delivered accessories. From Carla came a rhinestone belt that dressed the outfit up significantly. From Mom came a long strand of pearls and black silk, strappy shoes, size seven narrow. I’m a six and a half. By the end of the night, I was crippled in pain, but it was worth it. The final wardrobe touch came from my 83-year-old, Russian grandmother. Don’t pelt me with blood: I wore her mink stole! Back then, it was acceptable. That mink hasn’t gone out in public since.

Off we went to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.  John sported a red cummerbund, and I looked like a little girl playing dress-up. We walked the red carpet and no one took notice, not that we could blame them. We were nobodies who felt like somebodies that night. Before the show, big time stars surrounded us. It was an adrenaline rush. I could barely catch my breath. Over there was Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. Across the room, Fred Astaire, looking frail yet elegant. I stood this close to Jessica Lange in the ladies room, side by side in our stalls. When Julie Andrews walked by, I nearly had a coronary.  We're talking Mary Poppins, people!

A pre-show favorite: The sight of Liza Minnelli, several rows ahead of us, smacking and chomping on her gum. It was a white trash moment, not befitting Judy Garland’s daughter. I wanted to run over, stick my hand in her face and say, “Liza with a Z! Spit it out, girlfriend!”

The show was filled with technical glitches, mismatched presenters, and uncomfortable hosts – gum-chomper Liza, Dudley Moore, Walter Matthau and Richard Pryor. A high point: Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes singing “Up Where We Belong.” A low-point: the Mickey Rooney tribute, when he kept talking. And talking. Who cared!  We loved every minute.  Of course, I could go on and on. I could tell you how we waited over an hour for our car, alongside a young, dashing Christopher Reeve. But I hate to name drop, it's beneath me.  So instead, I’d like to close by thanking the Academy. And all the people who’ve helped me get here. You know who you are. And most of all, my brother John for an unforgettable evening.