How To Nurse A Room of Male TV Execs

Or not. Your call.

As a lifetime member of the Society of What-Iffers, I've spent countless hours imagining the worst-case scenarios, all variations on the same theme. In each episode of What-Iffery, my fears take over.  My mind goes blank. I fall apart. I lose control. I laugh and snort. I hyperventilate. I bolt for the nearest exit. It's an oy vey of utter humiliation. Fortunately, not one of these eff'd up mini-dramas has ever happened in real life. Of course, I've had to work very hard to keep my anxiety at bay. I've self-hypnosed. I've behavior-modified. I've soul-searched. I've self-medicated. I'm cured! Sort of. Still, there are moments I look back on now, when things I never could've what-iffed in a million years actually occurred, and yet, I managed to live to tell the tale.

Mr. Love 'Em & Leave 'Em

Throw me a crumb

The Royal Rescue Pup. He's all about love and devotion. Take this morning. There we are, snuggling on the sofa, reflecting on the state of things. "It's not good out there," I say, gently petting him. "Not good at all. But as long as we're together...." He snuggles closer, puts his paw on my lap. No question, Sir Blakey and the SJG are having a moment. Until... the ding of the toaster. One ding and his loyalties shift. He jumps off and runs toward the early morning dude, you know, the guy who gets up at an ungodly time to walk him, while I lounge in bed. "There he goes," I say, "Mr. Love 'Em & Leave 'Em." Forget snuggles. He needs something a little more substantial.

He needs toast. He'll take whatever longtime hubby throws his way. A crumb, a morsel, makes no diff. Once it's out of the toaster and buttered up, the dog sits patiently and awaits his reward. Three years after rescuing us, has he got us well-trained, or what? Day after day, his wish is our command. Just between us, we wouldn't have it any other way.

The Butt Text

This morning, just like every morning, there he was, longtime hubby, in the corner of the kitchen, staring into his phone, reading updates and whatevers on his phone, when suddenly, he registered a kind of shock. It was the drawn-out kind, not the horror movie kind. There was no screaming, no grabbing of the heart, just a low-key, lowercase oh...my...god. From my comfy perch on the couch, I couldn't ignore his reaction. On a daily basis, I'm the one who says Oh! My! God! with at least three exclamation points. He's the one who pretty much underplays everything. Except when he's watching sports. Or Meet The Press. Or MSNBC. Or driving. In those cases, he's cursing loudly, for sure, but rarely, if ever, referencing God in his rant. So this morning's oh...my...god got my attention. And it went something like this:
"Oh...my...god."
"What?"
"I just got a butt text."
"A butt dial?"
"A butt text."
"Someone texted you with their butt?"
"Someone texted me their butt."
"WHAT???!!!"
"I'm looking at a woman's naked ass."
"Oh dear God, in heaven, show me right now."
I grabbed the phone out of his hand, and yep, there it was, a very suggestive shot of a gal's rear end, along with a text. "Hey, it's me, Jenni from Badoo, wasn't last night the best, gimme a call."
"My first spam text."
"Mazel tov."
"I'm deleting it right now."
"You don't seem thrown by the tushie shot."
"If you've seen one ass, you've seen them all."
"Look," I said, pointing to the TV, "there's an orange one right now."

Meant To Be

We never expected our feelings to be this strong. What if it's not right? What if it's not meant to be? Then what? Would we be filled with regret? It had happened before, you know, many years ago. The wall-to-wall carpet install? Big mistake. We held each other and quietly sobbed. "What were we thinking?" "It's filthy after one day." "Do-over?" "What's done is done." Years later, we ripped it all out and went with bamboo. Good decision. This time, we didn't have years to debate. This time, much like any project that survives Development Hell, there was a ticking clock, a looming deadline, a make-or-break moment. After eight long noisy as @#$% months, the behemoth behind us, the ultramodern eyesore leering at us from the other side, was finished.

The contractor dangled the options over the fence that his workmen had bullied into submission. "Friday, we're putting up white vinyl. Your share is $$$. Let me know by tomorrow." We didn't need a deadline. We already knew we weren't in love with the white vinyl. "We want brown vinyl." "Brown?" "You heard us, mister." "Interesting direction." "You can have white, we want brown." "Then you'll have to pay for your own." "No going halvies?" "No what?" "50-50 splitski?" "You'll have your fence, I'll have mine." "Fine." "Fine." Longtime hubby cut to the chase, one of his specialties. "How much?" "Triple the cost of white." "Whatever."

We expected to hate it so much. But here's the thing. It's love at first sight. We keep going outside to gloat. We couldn't be happier. We adore it in a way no two humans should ever adore something that's the opposite of alive. Yes, we are the proud owners of a brown vinyl fence that cost way too much. From a distance, it looks like wood. It's everything you could want in a fake fence. If that's not something to kvell over, what is?

Louie Louie, You Gotta Go Now

Different friends, same question: "Have you seen the Louis Vuitton Exhibit?" The answer, always the same. "The what's-that-now?" "The Louis Vuitton Exhibit." "Uh, no." Different friends, same shaming: "What's wrong with you?" "Where to begin?" "It's the biggest global event of the year!" "I can think of bigger." "Get your tush over there before it closes November 10th." "Fine, fine, I'm going, leave me the eff alone."

I forced Carla to join me. "But I don't like Louis Vuitton." "I'm going and you're coming with me." "Nat n' Al's first." "Obviously." So yesterday, after deli fortification, we went, we saw the vintage monogrammed luggage and bags, perfume bottles, furniture and so much more. Who knew? We had the best time exhibit-shopping.

The Taylor Swift Met Gala Dress

The Emma Stone Met Gala Dress

The Michelle Williams Academy Awards Dress

Can you say wowza?

I may or may not have gone home and framed all my scarves after seeing this part of the exhibit.

I've always wondered the best way to make my banana portable without squishing it in my handbag. Dangling it by a string? Genius. I never would've thought of that. 

The ArtyCapucines limited-edition handbags by artists
I've never heard of. Retail price: $8,600!

Carla and I made many imaginary purchases, but sadly, the exhibit people didn't take I.O.U.s for a million bucks and change. So get over yourself and get over there. It's free. 468 N. Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. Hours: 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday-Saturday; 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. louisvuitton.com

Act Surprised

Janie feigned surprise so beautifully, 

we thought she'd gone into shock. 

The Laughing At Life birthday gals had their orders. The evite stated, "Show up at your double surprise party. Act surprised. Or don't bother coming." A little harsh? A little too blunt? Maybe, but these two show biz pros followed instructions. They didn't just rehearse, they brought visual aids.

Props to Phyllis, aka Sister P,  for adding nunsense to the festivities. 

And even though their faithful, unordained rabbi openly displayed their joint birthday cake right there on the counter...

... they still acted surprise.

The mandatory selfie: Half of Carol II (aka Tappy), Rabbi SJG, Phyllis and Janie. It's true our gang has shrunk, but we're still sillier than ever, and that's all that matters. 

Eighteen Years Ago

Eighteen years ago. I think everyone remembers what they were doing when they found out. On the West Coast, we woke up to the news. It was a Tuesday. I told our sons, 13 and 9, as they got ready for school. Their day was filled with stories. Classmates. Teachers. Someone's son-in-law worked in one of the towers. Someone's father might've been on one of the planes. At Hebrew school in the afternoon, the parents and their children gathered in the sanctuary. The rabbi led us in prayer. All around me, I heard the tears of temple members waiting to hear back from loved ones. Someone's niece... friend... cousin... co-worker.

When it comes to Hebrew, I'm not a maven, far from it, but there are a few things I know, and one of them is this: Chai is the Hebrew word and symbol for life. The letters for chai... chet and yud... add up to 18, a number that represents all good things in life. L'chaim. To life.

But today, on the 18th anniversary of 9/11, the number takes on different meaning. Today, 18 means life and all its tragedies. It means sacrifice and heroism and the courage to begin again.