He Did It!

If I'm being honest, and when am I not being honest, I didn't think he could do it, and I said so, in various ways: No way. No possible way. No eff'n way. In hindsight, I realize, this wasn't the most supportive wifely approach. I could've been more of a cheerleader. But I was only a cheerleader for one game in 9th grade, so I'm a bit rusty when it comes to "rah, rah, rah, go take that ball, go down the field and score, score." It's true. I dropped the ball on this one. I did some eye-rolling, some heavy sighing. I may have laughed, derisively, once or twice. But this thing he wanted to do, this impossible feat, struck me as so out of reach, so unrealistic, that I couldn't muster much enthusiasm, especially when he set a specific goal: End of September. End. Of. September. Cruel SJG that I am, I just sat back and did nothing. And guess what? Yep. He did it. He emptied the storage unit. The eldest's fancy-ass bike? Side of the house. His barbecue? Side of the house. The boxes of CDs and books and stuff I schlepped from my sweet daddy's condo? Inside the house. Every closet? Filled to capacity. Still. For the first time in years, Public Storage can kiss our tushies. We're out of there. All thanks to hubby. He did it. With no help from me. Maybe if I play my cards right, this trend of me sitting back and doing bupkis will continue.

Well-Dressed, Well-Coiffed

Mom, Dad and the first son

Gloria Starr: Well-dressed. Well-coiffed. Well-read. Well-liked. Beloved, in fact. Adored. Elegant. Stylish. Political since Adlai Stevenson. Big on JFK. The original SJG. Come to think of it, she had an inch on me. Couldn't leave the house without makeup on. "I'm putting my face on," she'd say, when I called in the morning. Couldn't look schlumpy if she tried.

June 4, 1927  - September 23, 1999

Great laugh. Great smile. Great friend. Great mom. The best. Seventeen years today. Still miss her. Always will. Some things never change. 

Coming This Fall: The Designated Kvetcher

As a lower-level presidential appointee, Tom Schmirkovitz never imagined something intestinal would happen that would catapult him to higher office. When a devastating attack of flatulence takes down the president and most of the Cabinet, Schmirkotvitz, the only one not invited to the Oval Office Chili Cook-Off, finds himself promoted to Designated Kvetcher of the free world. Suddenly tasked with sorting through all the stomach complaints issued by Americans in the past 18 years, Schmirkovitz struggles to keep the USA from tooting itself out of existence. A new, critically-panned disappointment premiering tonight on SJG-TV. Sponsored by Gas-X. Check local listings. Scheduling is iffy.

By The Freeway

Set in Sherman Oaks during the mid-2000s, Sarah, a former Israeli folk dancer who grapevines lopsidedly through life, and her hot, but troubled husband, Mordechai, an American wall-paperer/former male stripper, travel the San Fernando Valley together. They argue about traffic, and why he switches lanes like a lunatic, and why she switches radio stations like a hyperkinetic kangaroo. They argue about where to eat. They argue about where to park. It seems Sarah and Mordecai have hit a dead-end. But when Waze sends them down the wrong street, they find themselves on a mysterious cul-de-sac, Thousand Oaks-adjacent, where Sarah and Mordechai draw close to some of the more eccentric inhabitants, such as Floyd, a local RV owner/jacuzzi repairman, and Sheila, a fetching leaf-blower operator/former exotic flower grower who just got hitched in Vegas. Exposure to newlyweds Floyd and Sheila, co-founders of Nudists Anonymous, will either reignite the passion in Sarah and Mordecai's dying marriage, or send them Googling for affordable divorce attorneys. Will the magic mushroom-infused humus Sheila serves at a barbecue help Sarah and Mordecai hallucinate how much they belong together? Or, God forbid, send them to a crowded Emergency Room that doesn't take their insurance? "By The Freeway" soon available on WhoJew, VatsNu and OyTube.

Splitsville Supremo

"Ma, guess who broke up?"
"I don't want to know. I'm trying to stay positive."
"Angie and Brad."
"Brangelina? No eff'n way! Says who?"
"People Magazine."
"Oh, dear God in heaven. If People says so, it must be true."
"You sound upset, Ma."
"Upset? No. More like shocked. I didn't expect this. I needed some warning. A head's up.  I may need a tranquilizer to calm down. We're talking Brangelina! It's sad. I could weep, but who has the energy? Plus, they've got 18 kids."
"They don't have 18 kids."
"How many kids have they got?"
"I don't know, Ma."
"Who do you think did the dumping?"
"He did."
"Oh, honey. Honey, have I taught you nothing? She did the dumping. Definitely."
"How do you know?"
"A mother knows things. Like, right now,  Jennifer Aniston is going, 'Really? REALLY?' "
"Ma, I gotta go."
"What? We're not done talking about this, young man."
"I'm done."
"I'm not. I'm just warming up."

The Carpet People

On Saturday, the paintners came. They painted this room and that room. They left. How much do I love when they leave? So much. Leaving means they're done. Today the carpet people will come. Any minute now, they'll arrive in a van and block the driveway. They'll schlep up and down the stairs with big rolls and they'll make things nice, especially the bedroom that has housed two sons over the years. First it was the eldest's room. Then he went to college and the youngest took over, vacating his smaller room. Then he went to college and the eldest moved home. Then... oh you get the picture. The two sons have left their marks on the walls and the rug, taping posters up, spilling Coke on the floor. Pizza stains, ice cream stains. Memorable imprints that never go away unless you paint over and rip out and put in new. "Where are the trophies?" the sons want to know. "Over here, in this closet." "Where are the school reports?" "Over here in this drawer and that box." "Where are all my Harry Potter books?" "In the hall closet, near the towels." "So you haven't thrown anything out?" "I wouldn't go that far." "What did you throw out?" "Stuff you didn't even know was there. Not the good stuff. The good stuff is squirreled away, ready for you to revisit some day. Years from now, you'll open a drawer or a box or a closet, and see the family tree you made in 4th grade, 8th grade and 11th grade. You'll see the team photos from hockey, soccer, basketball; the medals for showing up and playing your heart out. You'll see that picture you drew in pre-school, that kindergarten class photo, and you'll be glad we kept it."

Best Emmy Look

Pre-Emmys, 1990.  Nice shoulder pads

Thanks to hubby and his various network jobs, we've attended the Emmys more times than he'd like to remember. I loved every second. He felt otherwise. I couldn't wait to get there. He couldn't wait to get home. Give me glam. Give me celebs in sparkly gowns and loaner jewels. Give me a dance floor, an after-party, a glass of champagne. Hubby could've done without the pomp, the parking situation, the heat. Give him football. Give him basketball. Give him a team of manly men running back and forth and smashing into each other till they bleed. My first outing to the Shrine, the eldest was an only. It was 1990. I wore my mother's black dress, her earrings, her pearls. I was a thirty-something, clocking in as a stylish sixty-something. Who cared? I was going to the Emmys. Another year, I borrowed my mom's black silk pants suit. My whole life, I borrowed her gorgeous clothes. "Let's go shopping in my closet," she'd say, and I'd step inside a magical place.  It was so chic in there, so beautifully-tailored. I loved to visit, but I never stayed long. Always been a casual SJG. T-shirts and jeans. Except when it's dress-up time. I'd give anything to get back into that closet, with Mom at my side, saying, "You'd look great in that," and "Try this one on." But I emptied it in 1999. Gave a lot away, kept a lot for myself. Some of her outfits still hang in my closet today. I used to wear them, but I don't anymore. A gal can only pull off that shoulder pad look for so long.