The Infamous Puffy Coat

Wisest shopping decision: the puffy coat, purchased online at a nice discount, perfect for those nippy, 21-degree Kansas mornings. Wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day from the Heartland. See what I did there? I came all the way here just to be able to say that. Who says I don't love you more than life itself?

What Happens In Lawrence...

Before and After

... Winds up in my blog, no matter how ridiculous. Seriously, people, this is what happens when I'm under the influence of Cathy Hamilton. She just gets me to do stuff, especially if I've had a little wine. Case in point: the above photo. Not how I wish to be remembered, and yet, here I am, posting these silly photos of my humble self, poking my head through "before and after" hairdo cut-outs -- props for our play, "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs." Of course, I wasn't the only model in this scenario. There are photos of Cathy poking her head through "before and after" cut-outs, too. Not that you'll ever see them. I'm under court order not to reveal them: "Don't you dare post these or you're sleeping outside," she said. Well, it's 20 degrees here, so I decided to heed her warning. I'm no dummy.

Welcome Back, SJG

Old-fashioned parade in Lawrence, Kansas 

that may, or may not be, in my honor 

On the phone yesterday, I reminded Cathy Hamilton, my Kansas-based co-conspirator, "I'm arriving Thursday at 4:05, God willing." Even though she currently feels like ka-ka, what with the sinus issues, she couldn't have been more elated. That is, until I asked her if all the important arrangements had been made on my behalf. "Your room is ready, Madame," she said. "Not those arrangements," I said. "I bought the real cream for your coffee, m'lady, per your instructions." "Not those arrangements, either," I said. "Then what arrangements are you talking about, your highness?" "The parade, Cathy." "What parade?" "The parade you promised to throw in my honor when I came back." "I never promised you a parade, missy." "You never promised me a rose garden. You did too promise me a parade." "I'll get right on it." "That's my girl."

Our first official performance: Valentine's Day
The Fish Tank in Kansas City 

Put Another Candle On...

Hmm... Looks like the bakery gave me the 

wrong birthday cake for hubby.

"Happy birthday, honey."
"Thank you."
"You are so much older than me."
"Not that much older."
"Would you like your birthday gifts now, old man?"
"Not yet."
"When?"
"When I'm more awake."
"When will that be?"
"I'll let you know."

Advice For The Lovelorn

Dear SJG,
Every year, I try my best to look gorgeous on Valentine's Day. I pull out my finest fishnets, my skintight couture, my sky-high stilettos. I slap on my purple eye shadow, smear on my shiny red lipstick, rouge my cheeks and tease my hair into a fetching beehive, and wait for romance. Still, no takers. What am I doing wrong?
Sincerely,
Still Single in Outer Monrovia

Dear Single,
It's all about location, location, location. This year, I suggest you stand on a street corner in Outer Monrovia, wave to passing cars, show a little leg and there's a good chance that love, or something in the vicinity, will find you. If the cops find you, instead, SJG Bail Bonds is just a phone call away.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
I'll be out of town on Valentine's Day. For the first time in 35 years, the man I gave my tender heart to so long ago will have to wing it alone. I'm concerned that he may spend the entire holiday weeping and/or scarfing all the Girl Scout Cookies I hid from him. What are the odds that he'll survive Valentine's Day without me?
Hugs,
Worried in Sherman Oaks

Dear Worried,
Take the cookies with you, leave him an extra box of Kleenex and call him every 15 minutes to make sure he hasn't fallen in love with someone else during your absence.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Mrs. Sherman Oaks Dethroned

A former Mrs. Sherman Oaks Rapidly Aging Beauty Queen is fighting in court to get her tiara back after claiming that pageant officials harassed her for packing on Girl Scout Cookie poundage. The cruelly dethroned Mrs. Sherman Oaks, aka the SJG, claimed pageant organizers told her to "get off the thin mints, you porker," the Associated Press reported.

Linda Bloomstein, president of the Mrs. Sherman Oaks organization, said that a recent rear-end photo of the SJG yielded "unfortunate" pictures that did the SJG "no favors." "I was born with this butt," said the SJG, in self-defense. "Plus, I can't help myself. Those Thin Mints... they're just too eff'n good."

But Bloomstein says they stripped the Mrs. Sherman Oaks 2015 sash from the SJG, "because she's left-handed and her thank-you notes for gifts are illegible. The fact that she sent the wrong message modeling at important functions in a cheap, ill-fitting Vera Wang knock-off is besides the point. Although I did suggest to her that she might want to get off the Thin Mints. She took it very personally."

The SJG says the charges of insubordination and wardrobe offenses are an attempt to cover up the initial complaints about her Thin Mint habit. "They really made my butt a big deal," she told the Today Show. "I think they're trying to cover up for their big butt prejudice. I've been eating Thin Mints since I was a Girl Scout selling them door to door to support my family. I'm not about to stop now."

Two Degrees of Separation

Ellen Bloom Underhill, my almost sister 

She writes a blog. I write a blog. She's five years older. I'm five years younger. Her grandparents come from Kiev. My grandparents come from Kiev. She loves funky glasses. I love funky glasses. She knows people I know. I know people she knows. At the Hamburger Hamlet yesterday, we had a bowl of lobster bisque, the soup we were both raised on, and played a wild game of Jewish Geography that made our keppies spin. "You know her?" "How do you know him?" "Get out of here!" "Shut up!" "That's insane." "Wait!" "What?" "You're freaking me out." "This is getting weird."  Such a fun, menschy gal, this Ellen person. A laugh riot, a music lover, a knitter, a mondel-bread maker, a Facebook friend who's now a real live friend. But how did this happen? How did the cyber gods put us together? I'm so glad you asked. I just love your curiosity. The story goes something like this: After my sweet daddy passed away, Ellen contacted me via Facebook. Turns out, her mother and my father dated at UCLA for a year. Then, her mother, a lovely lady, I'm sure, because she showed me photos (what a looker! and such great hair!) dumped the man she called Benny when her future husband returned from war. And that was that. In the '50s, their paths would cross again, at the tennis club where my dad's best friend and Ellen's parents belonged, or on the streets of Beverly Hills. Her mom followed my dad's TV career. She was still proud of her Benny. Ultimately, it all worked out fine, didn't it? If her mother hadn't dumped my father, they might've married, and then neither one of us would've been at the Hamlet, playing Jewish Geography and enjoying our lobster bisque. And yet, somehow Ellen still feels like my almost sister, which makes no sense from a DNA standpoint, but my heart knows better.