I Didn't Mean To Do It

Sometimes things just happen.

Medical researchers have discovered a little-known condition called Early Onset Jet Lag to explain a recent phenomenon in the home of the Short Jewish Gal.  In anticipation of travel-related exhaustion, the internationally-acclaimed kvetcher/offspring enabler/kugel maker managed to DVR beloved television programs in the wrong language. "I didn't mean to record 'Game of Thrones' in Spanish," she told the New England Journal of Medicine, "but I was already tired thinking about how tired I was going to be in New York, and it clearly contributed to some screwy DVR choices.  I also recorded 'Silicon Valley' in Nerdish and 'Fargo' in Minnesotan.  Next time I travel, I'll take a pre-jet lag nap before I attempt to record anything."

Good Morning, Sherman Oaks!

Good morning, Sherman Oaks.  Did you miss me?  Not even a little? How hurtful, Sherman Oaks.  How dismissive.  I missed you.  Well, okay.  Not really.  I missed the sons.  I missed the dog.  But I kept hearing about your heat wave.  I wasn't too excited to come back to that, not when I've been luxuriating in New York icky-sticky humidity that gives my baby fine ka-ka hair extra, much-needed lift, and temps in the 70s.  Despite all my non-stop kvetching about packing, this time, I nailed it.  I brought the right clothes, the right shoes, the right attitude.  I'll admit I was a little worried, weather-wise.  This trip marked the first one without my dad working his magic on the weather gods.  Good thing, Bubbles offered to take over.  She promised me a "no rain" week and she delivered... for the most part.  Every time it got a little misty, she sent a quick text of apology.  "Yeah, sorry about the two seconds of drizzle.  I'll get rid of it." And she did.  That's just the kind of friend she is.  But on Friday, Bubbles dropped the ball.  It rained, big time, but not until we were on our way to the airport.  "You did the best you could, Bubbles," I reassured her.  "Maybe next year, you'll do better."  Did I say next year?  Every year, when I tag along with hubby to the CW Upfront, I'm so spacey the first few days, so turned-around, so ill-equipped to cope, I announce that next year, I just might skip the trip.  And then, much like pregnancy and childbirth, events I didn't think I could do more than once, I'll forget I ever said "never again" and next year, I'll come back to NYC.  This is pretty much how the SJG gets through life:  Kvetch.  Rinse.  Repeat.

My Work Here Is Done

At the CW upfront presentation, where hubby runs around in a nice suit, making sure everything sounds and looks right and that everyone is happy, more or less.  I sit in the audience, doing nothing.

The Neon Trees perform.   I send photos to the youngest son to prove, once and for all, that I'm hip and happening.

All dressed up and bejeweled for the CW party, wearing fancy shoes that will later hurt my feet and make me kvetch about the tortured state of my toes.  Did we really have to walk the 10 blocks back to the hotel?

The Diamond Horse Shoe, a loud, pulsating night club where performers hang upside down and pole dance and make me feel old and past my prime.  I can do that at home, where I'm headed today. Makes sense.  I'm finally over my jet lag.

Frozen

"This area is frozen." New York, seriously, you crack me up.  I thought we were impatient in Los Angeles, but we are Zen-like and decidedly gluten-free in comparison to you.  I refer you to the POTUS situation that occurred right after Bubbles and I exited the very entertaining "Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder."   The barricades went up.  The streets shut down.  No one was allowed to cross this way, that way or any which way.  "This area is frozen," announced a New York cop, unhappy info that left many locals ornery.  "We have an important meeting to get to," a woman told the cop.  "You're gonna be late," he said.  "We've got a car waiting for us," another woman said.  "They're gonna have to keep waitin'." "How long is this gonna take?" a man asked.  "It'll take however long it takes," the cop said.  "What the @#$%'s goin' on here?" another concerned citizen inquired.  "The President's in town," the cop said.  Agonizing groans and lively curse words could be heard up and down 8th Avenue.  The general consensus:  "He should stay in Washington where he belongs." Yet Bubbles and I found the whole incident thrilling... even though it interfered with our desperate need for caffeine.

Debbi "Bubbles" Fuhrman waves hi to POTUS.

The last time I saw two Broadway shows in one day was... never.  I needed to be caffeinated and semi-alert.  Finally, the limo carrying POTUS zoomed by, presidentially, and Bubbles and I waved and shouted like good liberal Jewish gals.  And then the crowd started to turn.  POTUS or not, these New Yorkers were done waiting.  They intended to cross the street and get wherever they were going right now.  The general consensus:  Screw the barricades.  We're outta here.  "Follow me," Bubbles shouted, and off she went, the SJG trailing behind, praying I made it to the other side.

"Bullets Over Broadway"

Later on, we met up with the lovely and talented Connie Ray, and saw "Bullets Over Broadway," the strangest combination of fabulous tap dancing and old standards that have no business being in this particular musical.  The big finale: "Yes, We Have No Bananas." That pretty much sums up this hit or miss, not very good show.  But we had fun, regardless.

Two blurry gals:  The tall, lovely and talented Connie Ray 
and the short out-of-towner

From Heisenberg to LBJ

Next time I pose backstage with a famous close personal friend, I'll make sure the flash is on.  You live and learn, or in my case, you unlearn the things you learned when you were young and paying attention.  Flash or no flash, here I am, the humble SJG, with the wonderful, Tony-nominated Bryan Cranston, after seeing him in "All The Way."  Bryan disappears into whatever role he's playing, from LBJ to Walter White, so I was relieved when the real Bryan came out to greet me (and 25 other close personal friends), even though he was still wearing his fake LBJ ears, which I found disturbing, and pointed out, immediately.

My family has known Bryan forever, long before fame tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Right this way, sir."  Bryan is married to the wonderful Robin Dearden.  My brother John met Robin at UCLA and then I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Right this way, you're my friend now, madam."  When Robin met Bryan, he was stuck with us, too.  This is the way it works in Hollywood. You never get rid of anyone. Of course, my dad liked to take credit for all of Bryan's success, mainly because he had absolutely nothing to do with it.  In case Bryan forgot who taught him everything, he'd send him a note every now and then, just to remind him where to send the check.  We're all so proud of Bryan, we don't even mind that he always forgets to mention at least one of us in his many acceptance speeches.

Robin and Bryan at the Met Gala last week.
They dress this way every day.                   

The Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. SJG

The New York Public Library 

Sometimes the SJG gets a little turned around in NYC, a little mixed up.  I think I'm going west.  I walk for many blocks and then I realize, oh sh*t, I'm supposed to be going east.  Or maybe I think I'm heading in the direction of Central Park, when in reality, I'm heading... well I don't know where I'm heading.  In NYC, I'm directionally-challenged. On Monday, I was on the Avenue, Fifth Avenue, strolling along, not paying attention, when I realized, I have no eff'n clue where I'm going.  Then I saw the lions.  You know the lions?  Patience and Fortitude?  There they were, standing guard.  I went up to say hello and wound up going inside the library.  I'm so glad I did.  I felt instantly smart and highly educated. This feeling didn't last long, however. The second I left the building, my brain emptied out and I got a little lost again. I went up to 56th, walked and walked and realized... hmm... I'm not seeing the hotel.  They must've moved it while I roamed mindlessly in my jet-laggy stupor.  Bad hotel!  Sadly, I never found it again.  Oh well.  I'm sure hubby will notice my absence at some point.  In NYC,  I'm just a wandering Jew.  

We meet again.

Where else did I wander?  Thank you for asking.  Always good to bring the focus back to me.  I wandered beneath the scaffolding, where the men in hard hats tend to hang out and argue in a lively fashion about various sports-related subjects.  "What's with all the scaffolding?" I asked one of them.  He shrugged.  "It's New York."  I found his answer unsatisfactory

                                                    The Haggling District

I wandered into the Diamond District next, a mistake on my part.  I couldn't even look in the window at all the sparkle plenties without someone coming outside to try to sell me a nice heirloom for a mere $38,000.  "Darling," a man said, "I'll give you 40 percent off right now.  Come inside and have a look.  Your earrings are lovely by the way, darling."  "Thank you." "Come on in."  "No thanks."  "40 percent off! Come back.  Where you goin', darling?"  

The 21 Club:  Jockeys line up to meet me

It was rude of me not to tell him where I was going, but then, I had no idea myself.  Eventually, I wandered over to the famous 21 Club.  Spent some quality time with all those cute jockey boys.   They seemed so happy to see me, even if I did look a little lost. 

The City That Never Lets Me Sleep

And so here I am in NYC, the city that never sleeps, a condition that must be contagious, because it's 1:15 a.m. and I'm wide awake.  Hubby, on the other hand, is peacefully snoozing.  Maybe I should wake him up to keep me company.  No, I'll let him sleep - that's the kind of considerate gal I am.  I should be exhausted after the long plane ride and battling the mass of humanity at the baggage "carousel" of non-progress.  Round and round it goes, a circle game where every piece of luggage looks exactly the same.

Maybe I'll nod off before the sun comes up.  That would be nice.  Or maybe I'll drift off while window shopping.  Of course, no one will bother to tell me I'm sleep-snoring.  This is New York, after all.

I'd like to go on the record as saying that whoever invented the term jet lag definitely had the SJG in mind.  If they held a Jet Laggers Olympics, as opposed to a Jet Setters Olympics, something I'd never qualify for, I'd enter the Kvetching Competition in a total daze, trip over myself at the finish line and still wouldn't know what time zone I'd just medaled in, heroically, on behalf of America.

I will now attempt to fall asleep again.  Wish me luck.  This may take a few hours.