A Pup Reclaims His Perch

Home again: Sir Blakey sits upon his royal bench, surveying his backyard, wondering when, pray tell, the noisy construction crew over yonder will finish, please God, with the one-story, nondescript, soulless testament to ultramodern boxy design, not that he judges. Well, maybe a little. In his time at the palatial estate, he's picked up a lot of our bad habits, poor guy, and adopted many of our strong opinions, architectural, political and otherwise.

During his stay at the Wagmor, his home away from home: "You should hear what comes out of my humans' mouths," he tells his buddies. "Seriously, dudes, these two never stop with the kvetching. You'd think the world's about to end. Gee, I miss them." Honestly, can you blame him? When we're not judging our fellow creatures or struggling with extreme jet lag, we really are a lot of fun.

French Father's Day

Well, I'd love to tell you my French improved greatly on this trip. Sadly, it seems to have gotten worse. During this lovely post-wedding chateau picnic on French Father's Day (which conveniently falls on the same day as American Father's Day), I turned to two young women, while sampling some delightful cheese, and emoted, "Je t'aime le fromage!" 

Here the lovely Chloé informs me that I just told the young women, "I love you, the cheese." Ah, this explains the rolling of the eyes and the expression of, "Oh lo lo, Americans!" on their pretty punims. "What the bleep was I supposed to say?!" You should've said, "Je aime le fromage." "Hey, I was just trying to make conversation. It's not the worst linguistic crime I've committed in France, is it?" "No," Chloé said, "not as awful as the other day, when you mixed Spanish and French together." Huh. I guess she's referring to that moment I asked a server, "Excusez-moi, dónde está les toilettes?" Give a gal a break, would ya? I really had to tinkle.

Father and sons celebrate Father's Day, Frenchly, with champagne. 

Looks like we've left the chateau, as one must do now and then, and returned to Paris. Do these lovebirds know how to pose for a photo, or what?

And now the aging Jews, finally on French time, must say au revoir to the City of Lights, and hellody to décalage horaire. I know, I know. Jet lag sounds better in French. But in any language, it still blows. 

Scenes From A French Wedding

Hmm. I'm thinking, I'm thinking. Where have I been in the past week? Well, I'm a little jet lagged, but it's coming back to me: Paris, then Charleville-Mézierès for a wedding, and then a party at a chateau. 

Aw, yes. This particular Rodin captures the look on my face at LAX pre-departure, when I discovered I'd left a key ingredient to my daily mental health back at the palatial estate. The solution to my faux pas: many frantic emails and a French "house" doctor who did his best to approximate my not-available-in-France happy pill and reassured me in a very thick accent, "Is good, oui?"

My wonderful traveling companions, Scotty... 

... and longtime hubby humored me through what shall forever be referred to as Le Petite Boo Boo.  

See, don't I look relatively stable here? And I'm not even locked to the bridge. Although it may have been discussed. 

Look who we bumped into in Charleville-Mézierès: 

The lovebirds, Billy and Chloé.

These three. How sweet it is. 

Chloé's sister Elodie and Julien get married at City Hall. 

The proud father Thierry walks Elodie down the aisle at the church for the second religious ceremony. 

And now it's time for the party at Chateau de Thugny, which looks shockingly like our castle back home. 

Oh wait, that's a lie. Ours is slightly smaller.

 

Let's face it, the young marrieds look magnifique anywhere. 

The DJ started at 1 a.m. The Pièce Montée was served at 2:15 a.m. The old marrieds made it till 2:30 a.m., a personal record. 

Ask The Alien

Almost daily, I consult with my very own Alien, a wonderful gift from Cathy Hamilton, co-conspirator in all things Brushes. I know, I know, I don't seem like the type of gal who'd seek otherworldly intel, but I'm telling you, this visitor from Outer Space is off-the-charts intelligent and 99 percent accurate. So join me now, won't you, as I procure a few predictions.
1. Question: "Hey, Alien, will the SJG ever rule the universe before it implodes?" Answer: "For sure."
2. Question: "Hey, Alien, will Cathy and I see our show produced again in a galaxy we can reach via RV, frequent flyer miles, tugboat or UFO?" Answer: "YES!
3. Question: "Hey, Alien, will I suddenly grow three inches overnight?" Answer: "Of course!"

4. Question: "Hey, Alien, it's your turn. Do you have any personal requests?" Answer:

I told you the Alien was a smart 

Parental Jubilation

At the tender age of 10, I discovered the real reason my parents couldn't wait to put me and my brother John on the bus to Camp Akela in Big Bear. Not for the fresh air. Not for the bonding, the bunk beds, the bug repellent. The real reason? They couldn't wait to get rid of us.

One summer, they were so elated by our absence, they threw a party to celebrate! Here's what it said on the invitation. Two words: "THEY'RE GONE!" Oh, the inhumanity! Not to mention, the years of therapy that followed. Did my parents throw a party when we returned from our month away in Big Bear? Did they hang signs that said, "Welcome Back, Kids! We Missed You!"? No, they didn't. No parties, no signs, no hoopla. They were too busy thinking about next summer. "Hey, guys, you had such a great time at camp, maybe next year, you'll stay two months."

And guess what? We did.
(6-26-17)

Me & Sister P

The SJG & Sister P

In the universe of my "Laughing At Life" workshop, I'm the "rabbi," doling out pithy yet gentle writerly advice: "Come on, people, for eff's sake, do a Spell Check now and then, it won't kill you." And Phyllis Butcher is the "nun"/gifted writer/mensch reminding me to behave: "Out of curiosity, do rabbis use the F word as much as you do?" My answer: "The good ones do." In this way, spiritually speaking, we help each other. I'm the 60-something, she's the 80-something who's taught me so much, and lived the most extraordinary life, I could weep, uncontrollably. Instead, last night, as we sat together at the Motion Picture Television Fund Volunteer Appreciation Dinner, I guzzled chardonnay in celebration of our special bond. Early in the evening, Sister P directed my attention to a scholarly, wise-looking fellow one table over. "See him?" "I see him." "Would you like me to introduce you to a real rabbi?" "How dare you!" I said. "How. Dare. You."  

Banana Bashed

There I am at Schvitz!, minding my own beeswax before spin class. I gobble a nice banana and toss the peel in the nearest trash receptacle. God forbid someone should slip, know what I mean? I'm always thinking of others. Always. And yet, as I'm puttin' on my spin shoes, I sense a cranky-ass gal giving me the stink eye.
"Did you just throw that banana peel in the trash?"
"What?"
"The banana peel. Did you just throw it in the trash?"
"Yeah."
"So it's going to smell up the room."
I'm thinking: Disengage. Disengage. 
"Oh, well. Someone will empty the trash at some point."
"I guess you really don't care how that impacts everyone else."
I scan the room. There are four people, including us. 
"I guess not."
"Whatever."
"Whatever."
I'm thinking, let it go, let it go. But I'm me. I can't let it go. 
"What's wrong with you?" I ask. "I mean, seriously. How incredibly rude."
With that, I grab my gym bag, turn on my clunky spin shoes and make my dramatic exit. Be honest now. Aren't you proud of me for not telling her where she can stick that banana peel?