Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

(A few years ago, I wrote this "Gypsy" spoof honoring the New Year. I don't remember writing it, but then, I don't remember what day it is. What I do know is this. I think of kugel and break into song. Whether I'm making kugel, serving kugel, or most importantly, eating kugel, there's a song in my soul. And here's the evidence.)  

Have some kugel, Mr. Goldstone!

Have a napkin, have chop liver, have a chair.

Have some tzimmes, Mr. Goldstone!

Any tzimmes that I can spare I'll be glad to share!

Have a dish, have a fork, have gefilte, 

Don’t have pork.

Put your feet up. Feel at home.

Have some brisket, have some Triscuit.

Would you like to hear a poem? 
Put a kippah on your dome? 

Have some challah, Mr. Goldstone!

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Rest your tuches, Mr. Goldstone!

Here's a tallis for you!

Everybody give a cheer.

Abraham is sitting here.

Mr. Goldstone I love you!

Have a Goldstone, Mr. Kugel.

Tell me any little thing that I can do.

Say gut yontif, Mr. Yom Tov.

Have a sweet year, have a few!

Blow the shofar, Mr. G!

Rosh Hashanah's Rhapsody

Mr. Goldstone, I love you!

(apologies to Jules Styne & Stephen Sondheim) 

Good Answer

This morning, on the occasion of our 41st wedding anniversary, I'm happy to report that I can still surprise longtime hubby. By now, you'd think I would've already asked him all the important questions. But today, a new one popped into my keppy. As I repositioned his early morning sweatshirt, draped ever-so-casually over his manly executive schlep bag, I asked:

"Honey, are you going to be wearing this sofa today?"

"Um..."

"Oh, sh*t. Did I just ask if you're going to be wearing a sofa?"

"You did."

"If this isn't early dementia, what is?"

"It's just your brain processing too much at the same time."

Let's face it. The man just gets me. For 41 years, I've been posing all kinds of questions. Nonsensical. Rhetorical. Multiple choice. And he always knows the best answer. 

After the sofa inquiry, I followed up with this: 

"Honey? Would you still marry me today?" 

"Yes, I would, over and over again." 

See what I mean?

The Way We Were

"Oh, Hubbell, remember that time we ate hot wings 

on the beach, and I dripped sauce all over 

my nice blouse?"

Well, it had to happen, I suppose. The Hot Wings Place on Van Nuys, the one that made me think, "Why would anyone want hot wings?" has closed. The only time I ever thought about hot wings was when I passed by the Hot Wings Place en route to Gelson’s, my personal homeland, more overpriced than ever before, and not making any apologies. How do I know the Hot Wings Place has closed? The boarded up windows were a giveaway. So many boarded up windows in my general vicinity. At this point, I feel sad when anything closes, even if I never went there. I'm feeling a little sentimental about The Way We Were, not just the movie, but P.C. (Pre-Covid.) I won't miss you, Hot Wings Place, but I liked knowing you were there. It probably didn't help that another Hot Wings Place just opened two minutes away. I won't go there either, but I'll be sad when it closes, a few months from now. Sometimes, change is a good thing. These days, I'm just looking for a little consistency, hot wings or otherwise.

Synchronized Worry Circle

Aren't they lovely?

(Sherman Oaks) In honor of the Tokyo Olympics, a certain kugel maker will host a special competitive event in her palatial estate, beginning at 2 a.m. this Sunday, and lasting until her pandemic concerns subside. "This could take a while," the SJG warned Sports Illustrated. "Synchronized Worrying is a complicated hybrid of sanitized hand-wringing, mask-wearing and fretting, while performing elaborate choreographed pacing in the kitchen and front hallway. Synchronized Worrying demands advanced over-thinking, gastrointestinal fortitude, endurance, crisis management, flexibility, artistic traipsing and precise timing, as well as exceptional sighing and breath control while bent over, cleaning spots on the floor in perfect syncopation. I can't wait to compete with myself, and of course any other double-vaccinated souls brave enough to take me on. But trust me, you've got your work cut out for you. I've been in training since birth." According to the self-proclaimed international blogger, Delta Dawn and the Variants, currently making waves throughout the U.S.A., will agitate participants and on-lookers with an alarming blend of Acid Rock and Show Tunes. 

Tiny Houses, Big Dreams

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Only 14 months old, and my granddaughter Claire has already moved into her own tiny home. Just between us, it seemed a bit early, but I said bupkis. Rather than ask her parents, "Where's the angel girl going to sleep in this place?" -- too judgy -- I praised my daughter-in-law for realizing her design vision, kvelled over the paint job and offered to stock the non-existent fridge. 

Claire's first pilgrimage to my personal homeland went well. Every aisle of Gelson's sparked extreme joy, as she reached for this jar, that box, giggling, pointing, and exclaiming, "Dat! Dat! Dat!" Of course, the giant Winnie The Pooh mylar balloon at the checkout stand thrilled her the most, and can you blame her? As first outings go, this one was epic. I'll treasure it forever. I can't wait to cook with her on her new stove. Electricity? Who needs it. Just plug in the imagination and away we'll go. 

Cute Is Cute

Just the other day, please don't ask which day, because I never know for sure, as I walked the Royal Rescue Dog of Questionable Lineage, I thought I heard Robin Williams calling out to me from the great beyond.

And he was saying, "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" just like he does in "The Birdcage." I turned my head ever so gently, careful not to wrench the delicate neck parts, and saw a little unleashed dog. I yanked Sir Blakey, assertively, off to the side, for he's not a fan of the Unleashed, but then, who is? Then I heard it again. "Fosse! Fosse! Fosse!" A dog named Fosse. How cute is that? Unless the woman chasing the lil dog was actually saying something else. Something along the lines of... 

"Fauci! Fauci! Fauci!" "You named your dog Fauci?" I asked. "Yes," she said, scooping him up in her arms. "How cute is that?" "Pretty cute." A nice neighborly exchange, and what's better than that? Nothing comes to mind. But then, some days are like that. 

What Freedom Means To Me

Recently rediscovered essay entered in statewide contest:
"What Freedom Means To Me" 
by Carol Starr, 5th grade
Warner Avenue Elementary School

To me, freedom means that I should get to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without getting grounded ever. If I want to talk on the phone with my friends for more than five minutes, I should get to do that without my mom or dad picking up the receiver and saying, "Carol, get off the phone," which embarrasses me and makes me an instant social outcast. All my friends get to talk on the phone for as long as they want. Why shouldn't I have the freedom to do that, too? I don't get it. What's the big deal? 

To me, freedom means that I should get more allowance every week. A lot more. One dollar isn't enough to buy all those groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers I need to make my life complete. To me, freedom means I should get to go in the cool hippy head shop in Westwood and buy the longed-for groovy glow-in-the-dark Flower Power stickers without getting caught by my mother and officially grounded till I'm 30. I don't get it. What's the big deal? 

To me, freedom means I should get to pout all day if want to, and not be told to smile. Maybe I don't feel like smiling. Maybe I feel like pouting. I should have the freedom to make whatever super-mean facial expression I want. To me, freedom means I should get to whine and complain and refuse to come out of my room for days and not be told I'm acting like a big selfish doody-head. If I want to act like a big selfish doody-head, I should have the freedom to do that. This is America. Happy 4th of July. Whoopee. 

Recently rediscovered rejection letter for "Write An Essay About Freedom/Win Cash Prize":
Dear Miss Starr,
The Committee for Freedom has reviewed your essay, "What Freedom Means To Me." The Committee for Freedom feels you've missed the point by about a zillion miles. The Committee for Freedom hereby bars you from ever entering another essay contest for as long as you live.  

You should be ashamed of yourself,
The Committee for Freedom