Grins and Growls

Here's a gem I discovered in a dusty box that had been sitting in the condo storage bin for 37 years:  A poem my dad wrote to the editor of the UCLA Daily Bruin.  One month shy of 20, he's already disgruntled about writerly mistreatment.  A familiar theme throughout his life.

It appeared on September 23, 1941.  More than a little spooky, that date. My mom died on September 23, 1999. In 1941, they hadn't met yet...

POME (GROWL)

Dear (?) Editor:
I wrote a poem the other day
And sent it in to you.
It seemed to me the right size
But what did you go and do?
From a perfect 16 line poem
Which I thought it to be
You cut it down to 12 --
And brought me misery.
Of course I'm no Bill Shakespeare
But that's no reason why
I should no more couplets write
At least a guy can try.
So hereafter, Mr. Editor,
Or be it Miss instead,
Please print my stuff as is --
My public must not be mislead.
-- Ben Starr

My dear Ben Starr:
We got your song
Upon the "dink" *
We thought it much too long.
We cut it down
To not waste ink.
We still don't think we're wrong.
Now you'd behead
Ye Ed because
Your public's been misled.
Don't worry 'bout
Your public's claws.
It's long gone, long been dead.

P.S.  Henceforth Pote Starr will have to submit his works in person, to receive consideration. -- Ed.

* A quick visit to Wikipedia explained this cheeky reference to "Dink's Song," an America folk standard revived by Pete Seeger, and later Bob Dylan and Dave Van Ronk.  Also featured on the soundtrack for "Inside Llewyn Davis."  "Fare-the-well... my honey." 

Self-Storage

My storage locker looks nothing like Walt's.

Public storage.  There's something I never knew about growing up as a delicate Jewiss in West L.A.  At no point did my parents sit me down in the den and say, "Honey, we're putting a few things in storage, including you.  We're a little tired of the mood swings.  We'll take you out when that phase passes."

Cluttered closets and drawers?  Those, I knew from.  Still do.  I have an office closet full of I-have-no-idea-what. One day, I'll deal with it all. One day soon, in fact. I need to make room for some things. I've got storage to deal with, people.  Public storage. The kind you pay money for, or, if you're Walter White, hide your money in.  Every time hubby and I go to our rented storage locker down the street, I think of "Breaking Bad." I can't help it. I associate public storage with criminal activity. In my brain, public storage is a Major Plot Point.  How long till they find the money/body/stolen jewels in storage.

And yet, down the street, there's quite a parade of literature boxed up. Down the street, there are plays and novels. Old scripts from "My Favorite Martian," "Dobie Gillis" and "Petticoat Junction." Entire seasons of "Diff'rent Strokes." "The Birth of the Baby" from "All in the Family." "Our Man Flint" and "Texas Across the River." "The Pad" and "How To Commit Marriage." All written (or co-written) by Mr. Ben Starr. There's so much history crammed into one storage locker, it's mind-boggling.  All I can say is this:  Oy gevalt. What to do with it all? Procrastinate?  I like that idea very much.

But no, I need to deal with it. I need to get 'er done.  There's more donating and shlepping in store for the SJG. Am I up for it?  Uh, no. Not really. It's tempting to freeze time, to put it all on hold.  But something tells me (in the form of a steep monthly bill)  that I need to pull into that long cold driveway, and try to remember the code that opens the gate.  With hubby by my side, I'm going to check inside those boxes one more time, and figure out what the eff to do with all that treasure behind the bright orange door.

When The CIA Tried To Recruit Me

Sometimes it's important to remember why I didn't become a CIA agent when I had the chance.  Sure, they tried to recruit me once. One day in the parking lot of Gelson's, a man approached me as I was loading the groceries in the trunk. "You look like the type of gal who can keep a secret," he said. "You ever think about becoming a government agent?" "Not really," I said. "I don't think I'd do that well under torture. I'd probably cave within seconds." My honesty impressed him. He handed me his card. "You ever change your mind, ma'am, give me a call."  With that, he disappeared under cover of dark sunglasses. "Hey," I called after him, "don't call me ma'am."

Last night, hubby and I saw a promo for an NBC show called "Crisis," and the memory of what might have been came rushing back.  "We need to lock down the capitol," a CIA gal says, in a serious actressy way.  I looked at hubby. "I can say that line better than she just did." "Give it a shot." "Honey, we need to lock down the capitol."  "Try it again, without the 'honey.'" "Sweetie, we need to lock down the capitol."  "Say it just like this:  'We need to lock down the capitol.'" "Very convincing," I said. For the rest of the evening, we tried out the line with various accents and intonations.  Yiddish, Irish, Scottish.  Texan, Parisian, Sherman Oaks-ian.

Turns out, "We need to lock down the capitol" sounds pretty awesome no matter how you say it. But hubby does it with far more authority.  If he told you to lock down the capitol, you'd do it, no questions asked.  If I told you to lock down the capitol, you'd call the authorities. "Yeah, there's a Short Jewish Gal pretending to be a CIA agent. You should probably lock down the capitol as a precaution.  She looks dangerous." So I guess I still have some work to do before I lock down the capitol. But I'm going to keep trying until I get it right.

Creative Calorie Burning Activities

Dear SJG,
I may have eaten a little too much on my weekend trip to Santa Fe.  Any suggestions on fun calorie burning activities?
Thanks,
Blue Tortilla

Dear Blue,
Of course you stuffed your face.  You were on vacay!  That's not a time to cut back.  It's a time to indulge, and word on the street is, you indulged plenty.  Did you really need that second margarita on the plane?  The folks over at Shlepwest Air are still trying to figure out how much to charge you for all that airborne damage.  Guess no one ever told you that standing on the wing and shaking your expansive booty mid-flight was a no-no.  Who raised you, anyway?  I hereby sentence you to one hour of aerobic pacing, two hours of high-impact regretting, and three hours of emotional landmine jumping. These calorie-burners should rejigger your shluffy metabolism and help you shed some of that extra tonnage everyone's been talking about behind your back.  People can be so hurtful.  Screw them.  Have another cookie on me.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Matzoh Denial

When my brother John asked me what he should bring for Passover, I went into Instant Matzoh Denial.  Passover?  That's so far away.  So I wrote back, "Let's talk about it when it gets closer."  Then I checked the calendar, something I like to do now and then, in case I get to cancel something I don't feel like doing.  Like Passover, which is soon, people. I better set the table. I better make some decisions.  Except, I want to stay in Instant Matzoh Denial.  Passover involves loved ones gathered around the table, fressing up a storm and editing the Haggadah down to the basics:  "On this night, we recline.  Let's eat."  But how can I do Passover without my dad?  Every year, he told the story of being a little boy at Passover and waiting to eat.  Patience in a restaurant was never his forte, and his boyhood memory always reminded me why.  In Brooklyn, his family and assorted relatives would read the entire Haggadah before anyone ate as much as a matzoh crumb.  It took hours.  Guests would faint from hunger.  Passover was an endurance test, not to mention, the source of my dad's lifelong impatience when it came to food.  At our Passovers, no one has to wait very long for anything.  No wonder he loved this holiday. I think I'll set a place for him anyway.  Something tells me I can squeeze in another chair.

It's Never Too Late To Kick Up Your Heels

Joan Pierce and personal dance guru Doug Rivera

In honor of my new role model, Winnie of the Fishnet Stockings, I tried to demonstrate her signature moves in dance class last night for Joan, my former role model.  Winnie and Joan are in the same octogenarian mindset of "I'll do whatever I want, I made it this far." I'd like to stress, however,  that Joan, a glamorous actress, is a much classier version of Santa Fe-based Winnie.  If only I'd taken a photo of Winnie, mid-interpretative dance, I could show you what I mean, but then this blog would spill over into a type of pornographic terrain I try to avoid, after the last warning I got from the nice folks in charge of my personal blogosphere.  The shaming went something like this:

 "Dear SJG, that last post featuring your bare ass made us rather uncomfortable.  Please refrain from posting future naked shots of yourself, or anyone else, or we'll have to shut you down, thereby disappointing your ginormous worldwide readership.  Love, Blogger."

The tush shot:  My parents had this photo 
blown up in honor of my 40th.

The fact that the photo in question happened to be a baby pic of the SJG was beside the point.  So, no, I'm not showing you Winnie's ho-ha*-revealing leg lift (*first time usage of ho-ha, a term I stole from Cathy without asking her permission).  But this will give you an idea of how limber Winnie is:

Not Winnie, but this is the exact move I'm still milking 

I'm afraid today's post has gotten off course. What the ho-ha did I want to tell you today? Aw, yes.  Last night, I copied the first portion of Winnie's spontaneous Ode to Spring right down to the arm flailing. And then I got to the crazy leg extension and couldn't lift mine past my hip bone. Joan gave my re-creation a thumbs down. "That's it?" "Sorry, Joanie, that's as far as I can go, but you get the general idea." "Not really," she said.  "You're just mad that I found a new role model." "Actually, I'm okay with it. All those daily phone calls were starting to get on my nerves." "But Joanie, I thought you liked my phone calls." "I was just pretending." Hmm.  I wonder if Winnie's number is listed.

Oh, The People You Meet

Oh, the people you meet while shlepping your deep-seated baggage to the airport, through the airport, onto the plane and off the plane. So many people out there in the travel universe. Who knew? The SJG likes to stay in my comfort zone most of the time, where no one orders me to put my plot devices on airplane mode, tells me to shove my personal mishegas under the seat in front of me, or forces me to eat little salty packets of oily nuts I don't even want.  But listen, if you put it on the plastic tray, chances are excellent that I'll eat it. That's just how I roll.

Throughout our fun weekend in Santa Fe, Cathy and I would discuss our levels of hunger, in between pithy discussions of what overpriced must-have item I should consider buying.  Now, as you already know, or don't know and really don't care, which offends me, but I'll get over it, I come from a far away time zone two hours behind my Kansas companion.  In Santa Fe, we split the difference. I was one hour ahead. Cathy was one hour behind.  Hence we never knew what time it was, or whether we were actually hungry.  Not that it mattered.  We managed to eat whatever the nice Santa Fe people offered us at any time.

In this way, we're highly-flexible middle-aged gals, and I don't mean flexible like that elderly Rockette from the piano bar.  We're still not over Winnie of the Fishnet Stockings, but we certainly hope that by the time we reach her age, God willing, we can get out of a chair without assistance, let alone raise a leg in the air to prove we've still got it, and whoomp, there it is.  Already I miss my friend, and yet, I'm happy to be home in Sherman Oaks with the basketball-loving menfolk I insanely adore.  I don't know how they managed without me, but based on the condition of the house and the empty beer bottles in the recycle bin, they did just fine.