Isn't Nature Wonderful?

"She's sound asleep."  "Not for long."

Hello, and welcome to the wonderful world of sound.  Early-early morning sounds, in particular.  While the rest of Sherman Oaks sleeps, the SJG awakens, courtesy of the joyous tweet-tweet-tweets of the tweety birds outside the window.  I am so deeply honored, birdies, so thrilled you've selected me for this overly-amplified Ode to Spring.  But it's 3 a.m., silly birdies.  And it's the third morning you've warbled your adorably loud song at 3 a.m.  What are you trying to tell me, birdies? That the early bird catches the SJG? That nature is wonderful?  I get that.  I do. Helpful.  Thank you.  Now, if you don't mind, please fly away, birdies, fly far away and let me sleep.  I'm starting to take these wake-up calls personally.  And that's never a good thing.

The Early Works of the SJG

As any writer worth his/her dream of literary glory knows all too well, the opening sentence of any creative endeavor determines whether the reader keeps reading, or gives up and throws your long-gestating beloved oeuvre out the window, or worse, in the reject pile.  Whether you've spent years and years slaving over your masterpiece, what it comes down to is this:  nobody gives a mangled mandel bread.  You have one sentence to hook 'em, folks.  Just one.  Good thing I didn't know that back in 1969, when I cooked up two important works of fiction, published, I'm proud to say, by Bungalow Seven, Inc., an exclusive literary hut based on the campus of Warner Avenue Elementary School.

My first effort, "A Different Kind of Friend," is a riveting adventure tale of a girl obsessed with a horse named Soldier.  I was only 11, but already sensed that animals understood me much better than boys.   The first sentence did me no favors:  "Hey, Mom, could you come here for a minute, please?"  Hmm.  Not exactly an attention-grabber.  The best part is the final page. Turns out, the SJG had some noble dreams back then:

About The Author
Carol Starr was born on January 16, 1958 in Los Angeles.  She resides in Westwood, California, with her family, which includes her mother, father and two older brothers.  Her hobbies include horseback riding, which may have been the inspiration for this book, swimming, collecting pennies, reading and watching television.  Her plans for school include junior and senior high, and college, but she hasn't decided her major yet. She would like to travel and be a housewife and an on-and-off interior decorator. Her plans for writing another book are indefinite, but she does have several ideas on future projects.

An on-and-off interior decorator?  Such spooky accuracy.  Tomorrow:  "Harry Visits India."

Give A Shrug

This gal's shrugging inside and out

So many months, I had so much to worry about, so much to obsess and lose sleep over, and then the worst of the worst happened, and now everything pales in comparison.  I've become alarmingly philosophical. Lately, I just give a shrug and say, "oh well." When the broker tells me there might be a mold situation at my dad's condo, I tell him it could be worse.  What is wrong me?  Why so sanguine, so accepting?  This me is a very different SJG.  I'm all "whatever, it'll work out." It's a little bit disturbing.  Neighbors stop me on the street.  They ask if I'm okay.  The other day, Joe came out of his house and stared at me for three whole minutes before pondering my whereabouts.  "Excuse me, ma'am, have you seen my friend Carol?  She's short and a lot less relaxed than you. Always fretting about something.  Everyone on the block is worried about her."  "No need to worry.  It's me, silly.  This is just the more together me.  And I've asked you never to call me ma'am.  I prefer Your Royal Jewess."  "I like the less together you better." I did my best to reassure him. "I'm sure she'll be back soon.  This is just a phase." "When you see her, tell her I miss her.  She's more fun to tease."

A Walk On The Moon

My dad really enjoyed this trip

The first time, I didn't think much about it.  The phone rang.  I answered.  "Hello?" I said, in my friendly voice, as opposed to my bitchy-why-are-you-calling-what-are-you-selling voice.  I was at my dad's condo.  I thought I should answer the way he used to answer his phone -- full of happy expectation, as though someone nice were calling to tell him something good. Of course, this was rarely the case, but he was the optimist in the family, always looking on the bright side. Important to have one of those types in the family, so that everyone else can project unhealthy skepticism, if not all-out doom-and-gloom, whether the phone is ringing or not.  Not that my dad was perfect, phone-wise.  There were times he wasn't great on the phone.  If you caught him while he was making lunch or dinner, watching the Lakers, writing an email, reading the New Yorker, putting away his groceries or watering the few plants he hadn't killed, his voice carried an impatient, I-can't-talk-to-you-now-I'm-very-busy tone.

But back to hello.  "Hello?" I said again.  No one said anything.  On the other end, it sounded, well, there's no easy way to put this, dead. "Hmm," I said to no one, mainly because no one else was present, at least not from a metaphysical, spooky sense.  It was just me, back at the condo, sorting through stuff, debating whether to throw out an important stack of statements from 1954, or keep it just for old time's sake.  And by old I mean really old.

Yesterday I found myself at the condo again.  When the phone rang, I happened to be sitting at his desk, reading through the most wonderful letters he'd sent me at camp.  I'd just laughed out loud at one of his lines from 1969 -- "Back from my big walk on the moon.  It went well, in case you're interested." Ring, ring. "Hello?" I said.  On the other end, bupkis.  "Hello?" I said again.  Nothing.  "Dad?" I said, which was silly of me, but then, I'd read that book, "Phone Calls From The Dead," and figured, hey, why the eff not?  "I love you, Daddy," I said, waited a few beats, then hung up, positive it was him, just checking in.  Listen, not everything has to make sense all the time.  And this, I'm happy to tell you, was just one of those times.  Next call, I'll make sure to send him your love, too.

Lawsuit-Ready Barbie

Tall Jewish Barbie

The SJG only has one regret in life.  Just one, but it's a whopper.  Why did I give away my Barbie collection?  Why?  Why?  Dumbest thing I ever did.  So dumb.  Oh, well.  I only get a painful reminder of this epic blunder every few days, when another Barbie story hits the news. Someone should start a 24-hour Barbie Channel and fill it with boomer Barbie nostalgia and devote the rest of programing to Barbie-related legal matters. For Mattel, the makers of Barbie, a tall Jewish gal like no one you've ever met in your life, is highly litigious. Anyone who tries to copy Barbie, anyone who used to work at Mattel and makes a doll that sells better than Barbie, gets sued. The SJG would now like to go on record and predict another big lawsuit in the future. The guy who came up with "normal 19-year-old Barbie" is going get his ass in a legal bind for selling his version.

Comparison shopping:  Leggy Barbie vs. Lammily

Lammily, courtesy of artist Nikolay Lamm, suggests the "average" proportions of a 19 year old, as reported by the Centers for Disease Control.  She's short and athletic and looks like she could run a marathon and not plotz from exhaustion.  But she still has Barbie's goyish nose, retro makeup sense and flat tummy.  CDC statistics or not, she's still an ideal, rather than an authentic college co-ed who needs to dial down the pizza and beer consumption if she wants those jeans she shlepped across country to ever fit again.  In an ill-advised move, Lammily's creator is now raising money to get this reimagined Barbie on the market. Good luck to you, Nikolay. Here's hoping you raise enough for your legal defense. Copying Barbie's likeness and giving her muscular SJG-style legs is admirable, but dumb from a legal standpoint. Almost as dumb as me giving away my Barbie collection.  On second thought, maybe dumber.  And that makes me feel better, so thank you for that, Mr. Lamm.  I promise to visit you in Barbie jail and bring you a nice kugel.

Rise and Shine

Watch "True Detective," wake up mumbling like McConaughey.

Lie down like Snoopy, wake up allergic to Monday.

Spring forward, wake up like a zombie.

Enforced Sleep Deprivation

Go ahead and smile.  Tomorrow you'll be exhausted

No one likes a little extra sunlight more than the SJG.  I'm a sunlight worshipper from way back, and I have the sunspots on my punim to prove it.  And yet, every time we are forced to turn the clocks ahead, and by forced, I mean, we have no choice in the matter, no vote, no power, I'm filled with deep-seated resentment.  Don't get me wrong.  I simply adore the chance to frolic outside past my 6 p.m. dinnertime curfew, as much as anyone.  I love to prance down my block and yell, "Woo-hoo, it's still light out!"  What I don't love is the sleep deprivation.  One hour doesn't sound like much, but it effs me up, big time.  It throws off my circadian rhythm.  It messes with my well-being.  This makes for a tired and cranky SJG, which, I assure, isn't a good situation.  Spring forward.  Lose an hour of sleep.  Gain an extra hour of kvetching.
(3-10-12)