Amazingly Lifelike

Amazing Lifelike! So plush! 

On Saturday at the gym, I told my friend Genie, a retired school shrink, my "brilliant idea" to help me through my Dusty-related grief. "I know exactly what I need." "Would you like to share it with me?" "A fake dog." "Let's explore that." "I'm talking about a low-maintenance pup." "Here are some crayons. Would you like to draw me a picture?" "Not really. I suck at drawing." "You might feel better." She pulled a pack of crayons out of her handbag that she keeps for emergencies. "What color?" "Gimme a yellow Crayola." She hovered over me while I drew something resembling a dog. "Very good, Carol." "Thanks, Genie." "Do you feel better now?" "Not on any level." "Maybe you need to give it a tail." I drew a tail and showed it to her. "It's lovely and low-maintenance. Now go home and put it on your fridge." "I feel like you're not understanding me, Genie." "Let's explore that." "I need something with a little more dimension." "I see." "Do you, Genie? Do you?" "I'm visualizing it now." "Visualize a fake dog." "How fake?" "So fake it doesn't eat, poop or get older." "Go on." "You know those gals who walk around with the pretend lifelike baby dolls?" "Uh-huh." "Why can't I walk around with a pretend lifelike dog?" "You could, but people might think you're meshugganah." "So what else is new?" "Carol, why don't you just get another dog? A real one?" "I'm not ready, Genie. Stop pressuring me." "Let's explore that after Boot Camp on Monday."

Strut, Strut, Strut

I look good here. 

Sherman Oaks super blogger the SJG, who doubles as hubby's wife, made her inevitable entrance at the Opening Ceremonies, strutting down a catwalk in a spectacular silvery schmatta with a slit that threatened to expose her pipik. The SJG entered to the iconic song “The Girl Originally From Westwood,” as she strode toward a large photo of Davy Jones, the Monkee she loved for longer than she cares to admit. The SJG had retired from shlepping the runway last year, but she was coaxed out for this colorful, head-scratching event.

Time Me

Sometimes the SJG forgets I'm not in training for the Olympics.  Competitive gal that I am, I forget that no one's about to hand me a medal or play Hava Nagila on my behalf.  Ever the athlete, striving for perfection, I forget that how fast I climb the stairs or speed walk through the supermarket is of no consequence to anyone.  And even though I sometimes call out the following commands --  "I'm making dinner.  Time me!" "I'm doing the laundry.  Time me!"  "I'm re-writing something. Again. Time me!" -- doesn't mean anyone in the universe cares how fast or slow I accomplish the task at hand.  All the things I attempt to do on a daily, weekly, yearly basis are going to take however long they take.  What's the rush?  Schedule your life according to a carefully thought-out plan, and there's going to be a delay.  Sometimes we get in our own way.  Sometimes it's hard to step aside and let ourselves through.  Listen, if life ran on time, we'd have nothing to kvetch about, and kvetching, as all the best philosophers know, is how we stay sane.  To vent is human.  To suppress buys you an ulcer.  So take your time, people.  Take as much time as you need to shuffle the deck, reflect a little, and complain.   You'll get there when you get there, guaranteed.

A New Olympic Event

Synchronized Worry Circle

(Sherman Oaks) In honor of the Olympics, famed blogger/kugel maker the SJG, will host a special competitive event in her sprawling estate, beginning at 2 a.m. Friday morning, and lasting at least till Saturday afternoon, maybe longer:  "It's called Synchronized Worrying," the SJG told Sports Illustrated.  "It's a complicated hybrid of hand-wringing and fretting, while performing elaborate choreographed pacing in the kitchen and front hallway, accompanied by Klezmer music. Synchronized Worrying demands advanced over-thinking, gastrointestinal fortitude, endurance, crisis management, flexibility, artistic traipsing and precise timing, as well as exceptional sighing and breath control while bent over, cleaning spots on the floor.  It's taken me years to perfect this sport. I've basically been in training since birth. I can't wait to compete with myself.  If anyone deserves a Gold Medal for Worry, it's me."

Happy Yoga To You & Yours

Grandma Shorty, is that you?

My Russian grandma was many things. A funny storyteller. A matzoh ball soup-maker. A skilled Gin Rummy player. A Yoga teacher? Let's think about that. The only exercise I ever saw her do was pace with worry. Back and forth on the driveway she went, obsessing about this, that and everything else. "Where are they? Why aren't they here?" In this way, I'm very much her granddaughter. But yoga-wise, Grandma Shorty doing Downward Dog? It's hard to wrap my brain around. And yet, yesterday, the family historian (my brother John) sent me a snapshot of a program guide listing "Happy Yoga With Sarah Starr" on the schedule. "How did you get this?" I asked. "I'm not telling," John said. "Tell me!" "Make me." "You tapped into a program guide from Heaven, didn't you?" "Maybe." "Admit it." "Make me." I guess I'll never know how he procured this celestial intel. My brother works in mysterious ways. All I know is, the thought of my Russian grandma Sarah Starr teaching yoga in the Great Beyond, while dispensing her classic wisdom -- "Everything is old, including me" -- makes me smile. Wherever you are, Grandma Shorty, namaste. 

Next Guest!

"I'll take a tall, hot blonde." -- Dude at Starbucks
"You used that line yesterday.  Order denied.  Next guest!" -- Barista
"I'll take a short Jewish gal."  --  Offspring Enabler
"Remind me what that is again?"  -- Barista
"An un-tall iced coffee with room for disappointment."  --  Frequent Kvetcher
"You want that sweetened?"  -- Barista
"I'd prefer a teaspoon of guilt." -- Cognitive Therapy Drop-Out

Monday, Monday

Monday starts with a shrug, a sigh, an ugh.
A feeling of dread, a kick in the head.
But Monday isn't that terribly bad,
Not compared to some other days I've had.