The Newly-Revised Dress Code

"Dinner!"

After much deliberation and legal counsel, the Upstairs Management of the SJG Palatial Estate has decided to up its game and revise its long-standing Dress Code. Just this morning, the team informed all occupants to, "Dress for the occasion, or face the consequences. Pretend you're going somewhere, even if you're not, which, knowing you, is generally the case." The list of intolerable attire includes: Drawstring daywear, denim nightwear, infamous footwear, wrong-headed hatwear, inside-out shirtwear, and offensive sockwear. After 4 p.m., formalwear is now mandatory. All occupants, vaccinated visitors and canines must abide by the rules or face immediate expulsion. Children under two are exempt. Thank you for your cooperation. 

"What part of 'bring up the sleeves' didn't you hear?" 

Skip This Month

Today I received the dreaded email that wants to shame me on the first of every month. Sure, I could've unsubscribed from this monthly guilt fest years ago. But God forbid I should miss a big discount on celebrity workout clothes that might make me feel and look celebrity-adjacent. Today I decided to spruce up my attitude, reframe the email's not-so-hidden agenda, make a healthier choice. I called forth the Second Shot Euphoria. I proved that all the therapy I've endured in the past has been worth it. This morning, when the celebrity workout website asked me if I'd like to buy some super slimming, life-changing, discounted body-hugging leotard, I didn't even hesitate. I clicked,"Skip this month!" And when the second opportunity to rethink my dumb decision appeared, complete with photos of highly-toned gals who look good in anything tight, and asked, "Are you sure you want to skip this month?" I clicked again, damn it. I clicked with unbridled glee. Embedded in my two-step clickery is my own empowering message. This isn't just the chance to skip this month, bitches! By clicking skip, I'm skipping the guilt, the tsuris, the chazerai that comes with the package. I'm making a bold statement here, not just to the celebrity workout website, but to myself. I'm immune from the shaming, the fear, the uncertainty of a missed discount I may regret, and so much more. One day, I may work up the courage to unsubscribe from the celebrity workout website. But not yet. Not when I've just discovered the joy of clicking, "Skip it!" Not once, but twice. 

Double Jeopardy!

The other night around 7:12, I asked the cute guy in the nice leather recliner, "Did you see that?" "See what?" "Oh my God! You didn't see it?" "Can you be more specific?" "I don't think it's ever happened before." He nodded, supportively. His longtime wifey was in the midst of processing. It might take me a while to form a declarative sentence. This is the newish me, Pandemic Version. Most stories start off well: "Honey, I wanted to tell you..." Then I drift off. Sometimes I reclaim whatever it was I wanted to tell him. Sometimes I don't. But the other night was different. I hadn't forgotten. I was just dragging out the suspense, waiting for Anderson Cooper, the guest host of "Jeopardy!" and my personal favorite of the guest hosts in rotation, to acknowledge the typo on the big blue board. That's right, you heard me. The Typo. The answer in Potpourri for $200 began: "Aafter..." Two A's. Come on. If that's not Double Jeopardy! what is? But Anderson said nada. On a rare occasion, the "Jeopardy!" host comes back aafter a boo-boo, and says, "Hey, viewers, listen, we really eff'd up, it happens, and we're sorry."  Not this time. There was no oops, no shout out to the SJG, possibly the only human in the known universe to have caught the afore-mentioned "Aafter." I can picture the legend himself, A. Trebek, looking down from his heavenly perch in dismay. As you can see, I'm still not over it. I may never be over it. Anytime I make a typo, it hurts my soul. But a typo on "Jeopardy!" is a whole other kind of personal trauma. My spouse, however, has moved on. Which is why, from this point on, I'll keep reminding him of the typo. But only every time we watch "Jeopardy!" 

The Four Questions of Easter

1. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we pray for peace, but on this Sunday, we pray for Peeps? 

2. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we eat bonbons, but on this Sunday, we eat bunnies?

3. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we hunt for bargains, but on this Sunday, we hunt for painted eggs?

4. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we breakdance, but on this Sunday, we bunny hop?

A 2nd Pandemic Passover Poem

Got a brisket right there in the oven,

Heatin' it slowly, givin' it some lovin'.

Carrots and onions, ketchup and red wine, 

Pray my big ticket brisket sure tastes fine.

Made a gluten-free kugel, oy gevalt,

If it's too gooey, gonna be my fault.

Pandemic Passover a second time,

A two-minute Haggadah ain't no crime.

Elijah may come, Elijah may go,

Hope he's vaccinated, you never know.

I Can't Wait To Forget

This New Yorker cartoon posted today on Instagram really hit home. The past year has been a learning curve, teaching me things about myself, some good, some not so great. Take an impatient SJG and ramp that up by a thousand. That's me during quarantine, restless, testy, foggy-brained, wondering where I left my phone or the TV remote, and what's the name of that actor or the title of the book I just read or that darkly violent Dutch/German/Spanish/Israeli series I never would've watched pre-pandemic, but now can't stop bingeing? Like everyone, I miss my beloved routine. Going to the gym. Taking a dance class. Popping by the market on a whim. My happy places, my personal holy lands. First-world problems, I know, but they haunt me just the same. Loss is loss. Yours, mind and ours. This past year, there's been plenty to go around. Whether my old routine will return in some reedited version gives me hope. 

Still, I've found new routines. Zoom Yoga twice a week, during which Sir Blakey barks throughout, hovers over me, licks my face, exits and returns two seconds later to make sure I'm still there on the mat, repeating, "This too shall pass" between soothing breaths. Early Monday morning visits where I have the market to myself and follow a list, religiously, so I don't have to go back till the following Monday. Nightly cooking sessions with longtime hubby as my sous-chef. Give the man an assignment that involves chopping and out come the fancy knives and unbridled glee. I've never cooked this much before and have the burn marks to prove it. Endless, hilarious hours with our tiny bubble of millennials. Babysitting the granddaughter who brings more joy than I ever thought possible. And while I wouldn't mind forgetting a lot about the past year, I'll always treasure the surprising and magical times, the resilience I mustered, the fears I set aside, the books and music, family and friends that made it all manageable. One day, maybe sooner than I expected, life as we once knew it will return, in updated packaging. Whatever comes next, I'm ready to take notes and learn about the latest new normal. 

Just Say No?

When I was a newly-minted mom, I had no problem saying no when my baby boychicks pushed the boundaries of safety and my own sanity. Before they could break a body part, wound a keppy, wedge under a sofa or climb onto a glass table, I said, "No!" Added in another, "No!" Punctuated it a third time with a nice strong, "NO!" A swear word may or may not have been attached to the command, depending on the degree of danger. In this way, I pretended to be in control and mostly kept them out of harm's way. Saying no was my best defense, my intro to disciplining the wild ones. I'd like to mention here that I wasn't home, parentally speaking, that time the eldest shoved a plastic bead up his nose. In any event, I've never been shy about saying or yelling no and repeating as needed. 

Could you say no to this punim?

Until Claire. How can I say no to this angel, as she crawls around, adorably getting into all kinds of trouble? When she grabs onto the bar cart and pulls herself up, is it wrong of me to say, "I'll take a gin and tonic on the rocks"? When she cruises the TV cabinet, hoists herself up via the wobbly plant stand, and nibbles on the speakers, is it wrong of me to say, "Look what you can do!"? Isn't it my right to marvel at her growing list of abilities? To praise everything she does? It's in my job description. I did my time saying no to this, no to that, no, no, no. I'm a certified grandma now. And yet, as my stunning daughter-in-law gently reminds me, along with the marveling and the praising, I need to start saying, "No!" to the 9-month-old whirling dervish . Chomping down on the marble coffee table or licking a leaf are the kinds of baby moves that apparently require, "No!" The other day, we had a practice session. "Non!" Chloé said, Frenchly. "No, little angel girl!" I said. "Don't say angel girl." "Why not?" "Because you don't sound serious." "How about, 'No, little angel girl, I'm serious.'" "Just say no." "One no? Two no's?" "One or two." "What about 10?" "That's too much." What can I say? I'm still learning.