The Bathrooms Are Coming!

I'd heard about it from a Facebook friend and knew I couldn't resist "Bathtubs Over Broadway." I just couldn't, and trust me, neither can you. If you love musicals, you'll love this documentary on Netflix about the secret world of big budget, Broadway-style Industrial Musicals from long ago, some starring such Broadway talents as Martin Short, Andrea Martin, Chita Rivera and Florence Henderson, some starring people you've never heard of, but will fall in love with, believe you me. Produced by David Letterman, and set in the closing days of "The Late Show," the doc explores comedy writer Steve Young's crazy, life-changing obsession with this uplifting sub-genre of pop culture. General Electric, McDonald's, Ford, DuPont and Xerox are just a few of the corporations that get the splashy song and dance treatment. The one that stands out, of course, is called, "The Bathrooms Are Coming!" Enjoy, nice people. Enjoy.

To The Château One Must Go

Lately, certain "friends" having been flipping off the SJG. I get flipped off at the gym. Even my lovely Laughing At Lifers have started flipping me off during class. "Poor you," one of them said the other day. "I've never liked you," said another. Normally, I would take such vitriol personally. But I've evolved so much, what with all the mindfulness and reality-avoidance exercises, that I recognize and embrace their envy. It's hard not to turn green when I say such things in a snooty, faux British accent as, "When one is invited to a wedding in France, one must go. It would be terribly rude to decline. Skip a party in a castle? I think not. How does one say no to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?" Rarely do I reach the end the sentence before I get, "Oh, eff you." I get, "Bitch." I get, "Go to hell." All I can do is smile and nod, sympathetically. I've been on the other side. I've said, "Enjoy your safari." I've said, "Four weeks in Spain? Wowza. That's... great." I've said, "You're renting a home in Maui for the entire summer? I'm so.... just... so....so... thrilled for you." So yeah, I get it. Still, I've never flipped anyone off as they board the plane to Japan, Tahiti, Thailand, Costa Rica. I'm above all that bad karma. I wait till they're gone and then I unleash.

The Way I Was

Listen, I'm very big on recycling. Plastic bottles. Newspapers. Old blogs. Long before Marie Kondo became a cottage industry, 10 years ago, to be exact, I wrote this piece, and guess what? Nothing has changed. So here it is again, nice people. 

The other day, I took on the only place in the house that is truly mine. That’s right. I cleaned my closet. The strange and wondrous contents of my walk-in nightmare often parallel my state of mind: Cluttered, not to mention, painfully honest. Each hanger, occupied by dress, skirt, blouse, pick your obsolete fashion, sends a mean-spirited message to my central nervous system: Too young. Too old. Too small. Too big. It all adds up to a disorganized display of, “Seriously, what was I thinking?” The hours flew by as I purged my closet of outdated outfits I never should have bought in the first place. And I was feeling good. I was feeling strong. Unattached, unsentimental. And then, without warning, I converted to mush. As I reached for ancient-looking handbags I'd held onto for eons, I spiraled down memory lane. The tears started flowing. I couldn’t stop myself. The floodgates opened. I started singing. I sang for every woman I know. Join me now, won’t you? Let it out! Sing it for me, sing it for you, sing it for Babs, and her very bad perm that, God forgive me, I once duplicated.

Memories like the corner of my purse 

Misty, inky, smudgy memories 

Of the way I was 

Scattered pictures of the movies that I saw 

Crusty blush and ruby lipstick 

Made me look just like a whore 

Can it be I was hormonal then? 

Or has menopause twisted every thing 

I stopped needing Tampons long ago 

Tell me, why this bag has two or three? 

Memories may be questionable at best 

What’s so clear becomes so foggy 

Middle age makes me forget 

So it’s the kvetching 

I will remember 

Whenever I can remember 

The way I was 

The way I was...

G-L-O-R-I-A

Always a fashionable gal, this is my mom Gloria at 37 in 1964. The red lipstick, the red checkered shirt, the perfectly-coiffed hair, in our first home high atop Beverly Hills, clutching the ever-present cigarette. I didn't see it lodged there between her pretty manicured fingers till I photo'd this photo. She started smoking in her teens, just like all her friends, just like all the glamorous movie stars. After endless attempts, self-hypnosis, therapy, you name it, she finally quit for good at 52. It was the hardest thing she ever did, and we were so proud of her. Yet 20 years later, it caught up with her, anyway. Every year on this day, my dear sweet brother John tabulates the age she would've been had she lived. Today he's imagining her at 92. I prefer to keep her frozen in time, in a happy, healthy place, sipping a Bloody Mary and laughing hysterically at one of my dad's jokes. 

Hanging Out In Beverly Hills

There are moments when the rapidly aging anatomy launches a rebellion. Why? I'll tell you why. Because it can, that's why. After sitting for two hours, lunching with a dear friend in a fancy-ass Beverly Hills restaurant, all I did was stand up. That's all. I stood up, as one does, when one finishes a pricey meal. Cue the oy veys, the overall agony of the tightest hip flexors "in the world," according to a physical therapist I once spent quality time with, thanks to the whole Bursitis Mini-Series, no longer streaming on Netflix. As I made my exit, I thought I'd done a fine job hiding my discomfort, until the hostess noticed my limp and offered to call me a concierge ambulance. Thoughtful, don't you think? But no, I decided to power through the pain and began my trek. Pre-sitting injury, I'd parked the futuristic auto many, and I do mean, many blocks away. I started hobbling up Canon Dr., trying to retain the SJG Mystique and keep the geschreis to a minimum. By Little Santa Monica, I considered crawling the rest of the way. But then, why should I get my nice pants dirty? I leaned against the street light, pushed the walk button, and did a series of yoga stretches, not giving an eff how lame I looked. "Hey, do you mind if I hang here?" someone asked. I turned around to find a handsome young dude with shocking white hair. It wasn't clear whether he want to hang with me, or... oh, okay. He wanted me to move. So I did. Like an Olympic gymnast, he jumped up, grabbed the metal bar connected to the pedestrian crossing sign and dangled. "Oh, wow," I marveled. A few seconds later: "Yes!" he said, jumping back down. "Cracked my back. Awesome. Thanks." "You're welcome?" I said, not sure what I'd done, other than give up the pole for his chiropractic needs. But still, it felt mitzvah-adjacent. The light changed and my good deed-ish not only propelled me across the street, but also helped ease my suffering. At this point, I'll take it.

My Editorial Assistant

He's got a nose for silly news 

Well, I might as well confess. Again. Yesterday, I admitted under oath that it's me going around the neighborhood, depositing the poopy bags of a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage in neighbors' curbside cans (city-owned, according to my friend/city expert/former editor Mr. Steven Lantz). And now, I'd like to admit that all these blogs of mine that you sometimes read, and for that, big kisses and thank you's, have been enhanced by the editorial prowess of, who else, Sir Blakey. I mean, look at that schnozola. He juts it into my left hand whenever I'm typing, his way of giving feedback that only I can understand, because I speak Nose. It's my third language, after Yiddish. I've been speaking Nose since my first baby sneeze. I spent my childhood in an allergist's office. You'll have to trust me on this. I speak Nose, canine and human. Next time you see me, go ahead, do something nose-worthy and I'll diagnose you free of charge. I'll decongest what's ailing you. I'll... oh, you get the point. Back to Blakey and his all-knowing Nose. We have a whole system worked out. If he noses me when I'm typing, he's telling me, "Make it funnier." If he noses me when I'm not typing, he's telling me, "Make it about me." Only moments ago, he did just that, hence today's blog.

Suburban Shandalabra!

"Quelle horror!" "The nerve!" "Who does she think she is, anyway?"

Sometimes I dangle it around my wrist. Sometimes I hold it casually between my fingers. But no matter how hard I try to turn it into a chic accessory, a bag full of doggy do just doesn't work with the rest of my ensemble. And yet, every day I face the same dilemma when I walk Sir Blakey. What to do with the poo?

Carry it around, block after block? That's a big ick right there, people. I tend to stop and schmooze with my neighbors. When they see me walk by, naturally, they get so excited, they run out to greet the SJG. "She's here! She's here!" echoes down the street. Yes, that's just how popular I am in these parts. I walk around, lighting up the empty lives of my friends in the immediate vicinity. It's a mitzvah just to be near me. But can I honestly retain my status, while clutching a stinky poopy bag? Let me put it another way: Would you invite someone in for refreshments under these circumstances?

Too many times, I've stood outside, Sir Blakey's leash in one hand, and a tiny biodegradable porta-potty in the other, while neighbors sip mid-day martinis and trade quips indoors. So now, just to jazz things up a bit, I've taken to breaking a city ordinance or two. Oh, I can't tell you how reckless I feel, how alive, each time I dump my little poo poo depository in someone else's trash can. It's such an adrenaline rush.

Only once have I been scolded and openly shamed. Only once have I been caught in the act. It went something like this: "What do you think you're doing?" "Um...." "Who told you it's okay to throw that bag in my trash can?" "No one?" "Take that out right now!" "Okay, sorry." "How'd you like it if I threw a bag o' crap in your trash can?" "Not good?" "Don't ever do it again!" "I won't." 

I felt so horrible, I swore I'd never throw my doggy doody bag in anyone else's trash can again. My vow lasted exactly one day, then I was back to my old tricks. I get a cheap thrill each time I skirt the law. I look around like I'm breaking and entering. I lift the lid and in it goes. If it's so wrong, why does it feel so right?