That's Not On The Menu

"Did I hear that correctly?"

Let's just say that a belated b'day celebration with the lovely Carla created beacoup de confusion in our crowded keppies when we went here over the weekend:

Ladurée in Beverly Hills 

Our "authentic French experience" went something like this:
"I feel terrible."
"Don't feel terrible."
"Should we leave?"
"Don't be silly."
"Let's leave."
"I don't want to leave. It's so pretty here."

"It really is."
"Plus we look good in here."
"We really do."
"I should always surround myself in pastel."
"So you don't mind staying?"
"Not at all."
"They should've told me when I made the reservation."
"They wanted it to be a surprise."
"It wasn't like this the last time I was here."
"When was that?"
"Two years ago."
"Ask the waitress what the @#$% happened."
"Excuse me, when did this place go vegan? Not that there's anything wrong with that."
"No, of course not."
"Five months ago."
"But why?"
"Corporate decision."
"What about Beverly Hills screamed vegan?"
"Honestly? I have no idea. Please don't tell the manager I said that."

"So are you saying the macarons -- ?"
"Vegan."
"What's the filling made of?"
"Cashew."
"Oy vey."
"I was dying for an omelette."
"You can still have an omelette."
"Made of?"
"Not eggs."
"I'll have the French toast."
"You'll love it."
"What about the Not Egg spinach omelette?"
"It's my favorite."
"But will I love it?"
"You won't know the difference."
"What's it made of?"
"Tofu."
"I'll know the difference."
"If it doesn't work for you, tell the manager, Thierry, the French guy in the suit."
"Wowza."
"I know, right? Isn't he hot? Please don't tell him I said that."
"We would never."
"Speak for yourself, Carla. I might, depending on the omelette."

Beware The Guacamole

The Super Bowl's on Sunday

Line your snacks up for half-time

In terms of guacamole

Pick your seasons and your rhyme

It's easy to make homemade

Not that store-bought is a crime

Be careful what you shop for

If you want that dip sublime

Be sure to wear your glasses

To read what's between the lime

And tell the mild from spicy

Or the heat will start to climb

The jalapeño pepper

Might reset your body's clime

Don't forget to ask your host 

How hot's that guac, Wisenheim?

Don't you scorch your 'lil tongue off

And get stuck in pantomime

You Must Remember This

"Tell me again so I don't forget." 

These days, the memory is a bit iffy. There's just too much to keep track of before the expectant parents move into a very old, but incredibly charming house that needs a lot of love, what with all the people coming and going to fix things, change things, make things better. The only way the rapidly aging enablers, that would be longtime hubby and myself, can keep things straight is to communicate as only we know how:

"Honey?"
"Yes, my devoted first wife of 40 years?"
"Not to correct you, darling, but..."
"That's never stopped you before."
"It's 39.5 years."
"Shouldn't we round it up to 40, dearest?"

"Let's not. That will only confuse me."
"Very well. In any event, what were you going to say? And can you say it, swiftly? I don't wish to be late for my job. The network falls apart without me."
"I was going to remind you to do something very important."
"You've got my full attention."
"Do I?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you're looking at your phone."
"I can pay attention and look at my phone."
"That's hilarious."
"I'm putting the phone down."
"I was going to remind you to... oh, dear God in heaven, I can't eff'n remember what the eff I was going to remind you to do."
"Well, when you remember, text me."
"If I text you, will you actually read it?"
"Don't I always?"
"Only when I remind you to read it."
"Then call me first, remind me to read it, and I shall do so, immediately."
"Excellent plan, honey."
"Kiss kiss, see you later."
"Not if I see you first."

Imaginary Support Animal Barred From Flight

(Sherman Oaks) A short Jewish rapidly-aging goddess threw an epic hissy fit when she learned that airlines no longer would be required to accommodate imaginary emotional support animals under new federal rules proposed Wednesday. "I've been bringing my imaginary emotional support guinea pig Stuart Little on every flight I've been on since I was a little girl growing up in the humble village of Westwood," she told reporters gathered in her palatial kitchen. "Look, Stuart Little was a mouse in the book, I get it, tell me something I don't know, but in my world, I made him a guinea pig. Why? I'll tell why. Because I needed a sense of power, capiche? I hope that's cool with you there in the back. Save some kugel for the others. Stuart Little was everything to me. Imagine my shock and surprise when I got him a buddy, King Saul, named during my biblical phase, and Stuart not only gave birth, but plotzed on the same day. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. This explains why I take Stuart with me as my spirit animal, my emotional rock, on flights to keep me calm. The one time I left him home, I started doing the hora up and down the aisle, involuntarily, on a turbulent flight to Kansas and spent a little time in airport jail. I don't like to talk about it. So they can't take him/her or should I say them, away from me." At this juncture in the press conference, the same kugel-hogger/reporter raised his hand. "Not to upset you further, but there's nothing in the rules about banning imaginary emotional support animals." "Say what now?" "They're trying to block the poorly-behaved live ones, the peacocks, snakes, pigs and turkeys that people try to pass off as emotional support animals to avoid paying the fee to transport them." "So you're saying I misread the rules?" "Yes." "Oh well. That's very different. Never mind."

The Other Side

Dear SJG,
I just found out that my best friend Azalea has moved to the other side. I'm so shocked I could plotz, but I've got a lot on my plate. Azalea and I have always been on the same side. She didn't even give me a heads up. I'm hurt, betrayed and altogether confused. How should I handle this? I've known Azalea since I shared my cream cheese and olive sandwich with her in second grade.
Sincerely,
Verklempt in Valencia

Dear Verklempt,
Listen, sometimes friends move to the other side and forget to leave a forwarding address. Try not to take it personally. I'm kidding. Sure, Azalea might've mentioned it, but maybe she knew you'd get mad so she took the easy way out. The good news is you have choices. You can beg her to come back. You can let her go. You can try to see things her way. You can bring her a nice coffee cake from Gelson's and let the crumbs fall where they may.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Every Year

Every year I light a candle in his honor. Every year I put a photo of him next to the candle. Six years in, this is the first time I thought, "I wish I had a more current photo." Just a simple shot of him, seated in the best booth at the Big Deli in the Sky, where there's no draft and no waiting. In front of him, a nice bowl of chicken soup. Next to him, Mom. Sharing the booth, their closest friends, the Libermans, the Danzigs, swapping hilarious Hollywood stories. Wouldn't that be something? 

Milk It While You Can

Let's face it, nobody knows how to milk her birthday better than the SJG. Here I am, a day before my birthday, which, if I haven't already told you, is today, wishing for something very special, kina hora, poo poo poo: "I wish that this year, unlike last year, and the year before that, Blakey finally barks out Happy Birthday, just like I've spent many hours teaching him to do."

I may have to wait another year, maybe two, till the lessons kick in.