Go, And Never Darken My Towels Again

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG, world-renown kvetcher extraordinaire, called a press conference this morning in her kitchen. Over coffee and year-old defrosted kugel that still tasted pretty good, she told an elite swarm of three reporters that something disturbing had happened the night before, something that agitated her on such a deep and meaningful level, she just had to overshare. "What month is it, anyway?" the SJG asked. "April," said Sadie Shapiro of the Daily Bubbeleh.  "Thank you, Sadie. Where was I?" "You were in April," said Yosef Von Winkle of the Monthly Meshugganh. "Right. So it's April and I've already received not one, but two mosquito bites. Can you believe it?" "For this nonsense, you called us to your house?" lamented Shmuel Berkowitz of the Weekly Putz. "Two mosquito bites, you can survive. Two mosquito bites aren't the end of the world. Two mosquito bites won't kill you." "Unless, God forbid, they carry a deadly disease," added Sadie. "Plenty people die from mosquito bites," chimed in Yosef." "So true," said Sadie, tearfully. "My eighth cousin Morty on my mother's side plotzed, instantly, after a mosquito took a nibble of his elbow." "At least it was over fast," said Shmuel. "May his memory be a blessing," said Yosef. "Who the @#$% invited you people over, anyway?" "You did," the reporters said, in unison.

All Over The Passover Thing

Not everyone gets lucky in the mother-in-law lotto. But the SJG is blessed with a funny one, a nice person, an equally short (if not shorter) gal who generously handed me Passover a few years back, as in, "You do it." To which I said, "Okay?" Even though the seder, a loose term for what we do over here, takes place at Chez SJG, my M.I.L. still likes to tell me what I can and cannot do, Passover-wise. But I'm okay with that, too. No really. I am.
"I'll make the chop liver. You buy the macaroons."
"Okay."
"I'll make the chicken soup. You put it in the bowls."
"Okay."
"I'll make the gefilte. You buy the horseradish. Red and white."
"Okay."
"Don't buy the matzoh. I already got it on sale."
"Okay."
"Maybe get some nice honey cake."
"Listen, doll, I'm all over the Passover thing."
"Don't tell me you've already set the table."
"That's tomorrow."

Sometimes There's No Controlling Me

Jake O'Flaherty, Lisa Loeb and Whitefire owner Bryan Rasmussen

Overly-affectionate gal that I am, I tend to blurt out "I love you" when I meet a famous type, but only when I truly mean it. Is it cool? No. It's so not cool. But I can't help it, especially when I'm taken by surprise. Saturday night, there she was at Brushes, Lisa Loeb, whose 90's hit "Stay" tops my list of favorite sing-along at the top of my lungs driving songs. "Lisa Loeb! I love you!" I said, and hugged her like an old friend. She'd come to the show with my yoga teacher Tali, and three other gals. "Carol, say hello to my other friends," Tali said, trying to pry me loose from Lisa Loeb. It was hard to let go, but at some point, I released her. I know, I know, there's no controlling me. My family has pretty much given up. But still. What a treat.  It made my night. Well, that and the fact that we put plenty tushies in seats, enough to fill the house (more or less). 

Theatre Is My Life

It really is. At least for the next five Saturday nights. Then I return to my regularly scheduled life. For someone who grew up going to the theatre, but never stepping foot on stage, the learning curve, the whole megillah of co-producing a show like Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs, has been huge. Excuse me, I meant HUGE, what with the gazillion details and the nonstop salesgal aspect. It's all about putting tushies in seats. Last Saturday, we sold out. This Saturday... check back with me later.

For Cathy and the SJG, it's pretty much a rollercoaster ride. We're hanging on for dear life, and loving every minute. Whatever happens, where in this thing together.

Untoasted

"Honey, the toaster's busted."
"It was fine yesterday."
"Well, I've tried toasting three times and it won't toast."
"Let me look at it."
"You can look all you want. It's busted."
"I think I've discovered the problem."
"Already?"
"It's an easy fix."
"What's involved?"
"You need to plug it in."

Play It Again, SJG

I've seen sofas and I've seen toys. I've seen patio furniture and I've seen TVs. But never have I seen an abandoned piano left curbside in my neighborhood. Immediately, I thought of this wonderful NYC ragtime scene...

.. and thought, okay, let's see if I can channel those five years of piano lessons when I was just a wee lil SJG, practicing my tush off every day and giving command performances in the family room.

Let's just say it didn't go well. I played "Heart and Soul" and fortunately, no one witnessed the debacle, unless you count the cat that hid under a car as I attempted to tinkle the out-of-tune ivories. 

That's me in the mirror.

I won't play it again, I promise. But I will relish the days this piano remains curbside. I hope someone wanders by and tunes it. I hope someone wanders by and plays it like the mom crushing it in the video. I hope someone drives by, falls in love and rescues it from oblivion. 

Have You Seen My Owner?

It's been more than a few decades since the SJG spent any real time in an office environment. Now and then, I dip my toe in and marvel at the technological advancements before me. Take this provocative scene at the IATSE in Burbank where I teach my weekly "Laughing At Life" workshop. Haven't I captured this particular tableau with just the right balance of artistry? Don't answer that. It's obvious to me that I've got it going on, photographically. But why have I zoomed in, specifically, on these rando coffee thermoses? I'll tell you why. Because I've always suspected that inanimate objects come to life at night to play, or possibly plan an evil uprising, and here's my proof. Clearly, this stainless brigade of discarded java warmers assembled on the kitchen counter after hours, and posted a sign that says so much in so few words, I had to pay digital homage: Have You Seen My Owner? If this isn't a question for the ages, what is? Let's face it. Life is all about ownership... of our insecurities, intentions, shortcomings, deep-seated mishegas. In an office setting, employees need a sense of ownership of their job, a feeling of accomplishment. And, under cover of darkness, even abandoned belongings go in search of ownership. What if, God forbid, no one claims ownership of these thermal office warriors that keep the peeps caffeinated and productive? What if no one comes forward to say, "Mine!" ??? What happens then?