The Empty Driveway

Early this morning, longtime hubby wandered into the bedroom, post-walkies, accompanied by Sir Blakey, and updated me on a D.D.D. 

A Deeply Disturbing Development:

"Are you sitting down?"

"What does it look like?"

"From where I stand, it looks like you're sitting."

"Spill it. I can take it. I'm one semi-tough SJG."

"The driveway is empty."

"Don't tell me that."

"I can't hide it from you."

"Are you sure?"

"I've checked 10 times."

"Ten times?"

"Okay. Two times." 

"You're saying there's nothing on the driveway." 

"That's what I'm saying."

"This is outrageous."

"It really is." 

"Did you call them?"

"Um. No."

"Why didn't you call them?"

"You're so much better at calling."

"It's one of my gifts." 

"So you'll call?"

"Hell, yes, I'll call. They're going to be sorry I called." 

"Go get 'em, tiger."

With that, he hits the treadmill, and I hit the phone. 

"Is this a delivery issue?" asks the pre-recorded voice. 

"I'm calling, aren't I?"  

"There's no need for sarcasm. Press 1."

"You press 1." 

"We're sorry for the delay."

"Sorry, my tush."

"Would you still like your paper delivered?"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." 

"Press 1."

"Hang on a minute, Missy. When will it be delivered?"

 "Eff if I know. I'm only a machine."

Click. 

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.