The Scornful Eye Rollers

They all looked at me like I was losing it. Longtime hubby, the eldest, the lovely D.I.L., the youngest, even Sir Blakey sighed in my general direction. The overall vibe was less than encouraging. A sort of "Who wants to tell her?" Followed by, "I'm not telling her, you tell her." In fairness to myself, and the brain I currently lodge at a reduced rate, is it really possible to keep track of what I've said or not said?
"Mama Bear," the eldest began, "you already told us."
"I did?"
Here his younger brother weighed in. "Last Sunday, Ma."
"No way." I looked at my darling and devoted daughter-in-law for reassurance. In return, I got a smile and a nod. A glance at longtime hubby revealed utter despair. As in, "Bring back the gal I met in 8th grade."
"So, what you're all saying is I already told you I was going to Eggslut on Monday?”
A round of cruel "yeses" followed.
"But how often do you get to tell someone you're going to Eggslut?"
"In your case, at least twice, Ma," the youngest said.
"Go to your room."
Whereupon he got up, grabbed his 32 baskets of laundry and exited through the front door of the palatial estate. Or maybe he stayed for dessert, then left. Who can remember?

Did I mention I'm going here today? 

Wardrobe Malfunctions: A Memoir

When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of grade school, my brownie uniform catching in my sash, riding up my left side, exposing my undies to the boys on the school yard, along with my under-developed anatomy. Not a good moment for the SJG. When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of train stations. Specifically: Brighton, England, the bottom of my skirt tucking into my undies. (How do I not know this?) A British woman, straight out of Monty Python, takes pity on the clueless American exchange student. I thank her and board the train without flashing the passengers. A good save for the SJG. When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of dance class, when my bra snaps open to say "hello" in the middle of the warm-up. I could discreetly excuse myself and take care of the issue, but no, that would be too demure. I break into manic laughter. "What's going on?" asks Doug Rivera, dance teacher supreme, as I stand there like a fool, cracking myself up. "I'm having a moment with my bra," I say, and head out the door. I do an off-screen adjustment, come back in, laughing. In this way, I'm a total goofball. Once again, I disrupt class with my silliness. Doug forgives me. By now, he's used to this. Today, as I venture out into the world, I will try to pull myself and my clothing together, but I can't make any promises.
(6-22-11)

That's Me In The Dog Cone

Sometimes I must put myself out there. Sometimes I must don the Cone of Shame. But then, who hasn't donned a metaphorical Cone of Shame at some point in his/her sad existence? This one just happens to be real. Why? I'll you why. Because I take my silliness very seriously. Oh, I see. You need additional proof. Fine. The following conversation took place a few days ago at PetSmart. 

"Hi, I'm looking for dog cones."

"What kind?"

"The kind humans can wear."

He doesn't even flinch. "I know just the one." He proceeds to show me a variety of "protective e-collars," as they're called, before asking, "What are the cones for?"

"A play."

"Oh, really? I'm an actor." He rattles off his credits, adding, "I'm just doing this part time. What I really do is props."

"Props? Pray tell!" If anyone needs free prop advice for the upcoming free staged reading of "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs" (by Cathy Hamilton, a tall Kansan Catholic, and a short Sherman Oaks Jew), c'est moi. 

"Well," he begins, sharing a list of shows he's done props for, "you really need velcro."

"Velcro is everything. Where are the velcro ones?"

He shows me a few. But they won't work. They need to be clear. Why? You'll have to come see the show to understand. 

"Here's what you do." 

"I'm listening."

"Get these clear ones -- "

"Size?"

"XXL."

"Okay."

"Then go to the fabric store and buy velcro, then attach -- "

"Hang on there, mister. I'm not attaching anything. I was born without the craftsy gene."

"In that case, buy the velcro ones at PetSmart online."

"That I can do."

"If you run into any trouble, you know where to find me."

"Here."

"Part time. Tuesday, Wednesday -- "

Before he can recite his hours, I'm in the car. I'm driving away.  

Shameless plug: Staged Reading of "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs," Sunday, July 22 at 7, Theatre West, 3333 Cahuenga West. 

The She Shed On The Left

Coming Soon to SJG-Flix:"The She Shed On The Left." Shayna Maidela and Patty Von Punim, besties since pre-school, look forward to a mini-vacay at a remote Sherman Oaks She Shed, where they can craft assorted crap, bake teeny-tiny bundt cakes, prank-text ex-loser boyfriends and guzzle sun-brewed peach tea to their hearts' content -- until they realize, oy vey, there's no bathroom in this here She Shed! WTF! And don't even get them started on the sucky Wi-Fi! With no one to kvetch to but each other, they accept the absence of a luxury commode and take turns going wee-wee in the woods... unaware that an imbalanced, crazy core-blasting Pilates instructor named Carlotta Crisscross has invaded their nirvana! Carlotta holds them hostage and forces Shayna and Patty to plank till they nearly plotz. Thank God, Shayna manages to escape Carlotta's cruelty and make her way back to her beloved yoga hang, Namastay Home. Faster than you can say "Shavasana," Shayna recruits Hatha hotties Tali, Trisha and Toots to help take on Carlotta, strap her to her own reformer and free Patty Von Punim. Can you say happy ending? Not so fast. Look out for the crew of Taekwondo kaka-kickers up ahead... 

Rewriting The National Anthem

This morning out of nowhere, in an attempt to get in the 4th of July spirit, I started singing, "I like the USA." A snippet from a favorite Albert Brooks album, circa 1973. The SJG was but a high school lass back then. Give a listen, nice people, and you'll see that some things about our country are still exactly the same.

There Once Was A Call From Nantucket

There once was a call from Nantucket

That warned of a case filed by Pluckett

But the case was a fraud

I alerted the squad

And as for the call, I said suck it

SJG Bobblehead Night

Three people I adore.

On the way to Dodger Stadium, I asked the gang, "How excited are we for SJG Bobblehead Night?" "What is a bobblehead?" my daughter-in-law inquired. Turns out, in France, they don't randomly hand out bobbleheads in honor of the famous people. What fun is that? So I did my best bobblehead impression, but I don't think she was all that impressed. "I am very happy for you to receive this award," she said, with a soupçon of sincerity. As we sat in the swanky-swank luxury suite, courtesy of hubby's network, she demanded to know when the bobblehead would be presented on my behalf. I hated to disappoint her, this being her first baseball game ever, but just then, a text arrived from the front office, informing me there'd been a horrifying change in plans. "Oh, dear God, no. Apparently, SJG Bobblehead Night has been postponed." "Indefinitely," her husband added. "That is very cruel," she said. "Welcome to America," I said.

The view from swanky town