Halloween: The Sequel

Today I'll dress up as the SJG and try not to scare too many people.  Today I'll try to resist the lure of the fun size candy that haunts me, hourly.  Can I walk by a bowl of M&Ms and Snickers, Three Muskateers and Reeses and not dive in?  Doubtful.  Look what I wrote two years ago.  The odds aren't in my favor:

Step away from the chocolate, SJG.  So what if it's sitting there, all pretty, in a big seductive bowl by the front door, whispering naughty things, taunting you:  "SJG... SJG...  Unwrap me...  Take a bite... I dare ya."  Gobble too many M&M's, peanut or plain, what's the diff, and you know the results, girlfriend.  Scarf down another Reeses Peanut Butter anything, and Monday morning, the city council will have to approve an expansion plan in the region of your tush.  Don't do it.  Fight it.  Be strong.  (But it's so delish.)  You don't need that candy.  (But I do.)  You're better than that Kit Kat Bar.  (No, I'm not.)  You're Good n' Plenty without a Hershey's Kiss. (Oh, shut it.)  This Halloween will be different.  This Halloween is a new beginning.  Step away from the chocolate.  Step your ass far away.  The next town over ought to do it.  The next county.  The next universe.  Candy is evil.  Remember that.  Say it with me now, people.  Candy is... oh never mind.  You heard me the first time.

The Committee of Two

"This yard looks like absolute kaka."  "I couldn't agree more."

On our daily dog walkies, Cheryl and the SJG like to inspect the neighborhood for proper landscaping etiquette and pass judgment accordingly.  When we see something askew, something unappealing, garden-wise, we like to issue an anonymous citation:

Dear Neighbor,
The front of your house looks like total crap. We are embarrassed on your behalf. Surely, you must be aware of the tour buses that drive by, hourly, and mock your sad excuse for a garden.  Here are a few helpful suggestions to correct this hideous eyesore that is ruining the value of our neighborhood. Perhaps you could fix your sprinkler system so that water may actually touch your grass and therefore revive it from its current weedy state.  We've seen you out front, tinkering with the sprinklers.  How about hiring a professional?  Many people would be happy to take your money and make this problem go away.  Once you've restored water to your lawn, perhaps you could plant some of our favorite flowers to brighten up our day when we're forced to walk by your dilapidated house.  We're particularly fond of roses, but any flower will do at this point, before we declare your front yard an epic fail.
Thank you,
The Committee of Two

Get Me To The Church On Time

It was a night full of memories.  Hubby and I had just been to a big church wedding, which was absolutely nothing like our own wedding many decades ago, but still, it was a joyous event, and joyous events make the SJG a tad nostalgic.  I prefer a joyous event over a crappy sad one, but maybe that's just me.  The late afternoon nuptials didn't include a nosh-o-rama, so the SJG and hubby high-tailed it out of the church and headed south toward a little town called Encino.  We can no longer remember names of restaurants, so it was challenging.  "Let's go to that fish place," hubby said. "Which one?"  "Del... something."  "I love that place."  "Where is it?"  "Somewhere on Ventura." So we drove a while, in our usual carefree style.  "Stop!" I yelled.  "You just passed it."  It's true, I'm a gifted navigator, just like my daddy, who guided airplanes in WWII. 

We hadn't been to Delmonico's in decades.  "Why haven't we been here in 20 years?" I asked hubby, before the alcohol kicked in.  "I have no idea," he said.  Hubby isn't big on the details.  Why would he remember such a thing, unless we had an incident at the fish restaurant and were told never to return.  That, he would've remembered.  Of course, there had been an incident at Delmonico's, one involving me.  "See that big table in the corner?" I said, pointing rudely at a large group of diners.  "We sat there with our friends.  Some are still married."  Hubby nodded.  The evening was coming back to him.  "I was wearing this pretty turtleneck sweater... it was sea foam... and I loved it so much.  I'd just bought it at the temple Hanukkah bazaar."  Hubby stared me.  "How do you even remember that?"  "I'm a little stuck in the past.  Plus, I spilled red wine all over it."  (The afore-mentioned incident.)  The SJG is a spiller.  Have I ever afore-mentioned that?  Well, I am.  I spill sometimes.  "I was so upset that I'd ruined my pretty sea-foam sweater, but somehow I got it out."  "You Shouted it out," he said.  "Or I used a little Woolite.  Woolite is a miracle worker."  "Tell me about it." When you've been married as long as we have, these are the things you talk about.  Stain removal options. 

Later on, a young couple arrived with two young troublemakers and sat across from us.  They hadn't even put their napkins on their laps when the the older son, a spunky three-year-old, took off running.  It was adorable.  Hubby and I smiled at each other.  We have so many wonderful memories of chasing our sons through restaurants, markets, stores, malls, amusement parks, airports, stadiums.  Oh, the list goes on and on.  Our eldest son, till he reached puberty, preferred to dine under the table in restaurants.  That was a fun, prolonged stage.

When we got up to leave Delmonico's, we went over to talk to the young couple, who seemed a little stressed, parentally.  "We have two sons," hubby said.  "They're 20 and 24 now," I chimed in, to reassure the young couple that our boys had survived toddlerhood, more or less in tact, and so had we.  "Does it get any easier?" the husband asked.  "No," I said.  "It doesn't."  Perhaps not the hoped-for answer.  The poor guy started to weep, uncontrollably.  I looked at the wife.  "Get them busy with sports as early as possible.  You have to run them like dogs.  Do anything to get the energy out of their systems."  She smiled at me, gratefully.  The husband wiped his tears on the tablecloth.  "Thanks."

In the car, I said, "It's fun to help others."  Hubby agreed.  "They have no idea what they're in for."  Although, we may have given them a slight preview. 

The Dog Stays In The Picture

Brother John at your service

Friday, my brother John stopped by, dressed exactly like this, in a formal tuxedo that once belonged to our grandpa.  "You're a little overdressed for a quick lunch in my kitchen before I kick you out," I said, in my sweet sisterly way.  "I just had an audition," he said, explaining his dapper attire.  Then he shoved his camera in my hand and commanded me to take some photos for his portfolio.  Actors!   "Say cheese," I said.  "Not yet.  I'm not ready."  He quickly got into character, channeling Fred Astaire.  Dusty wandered into the photo, which I thought added a touch of class.  Click.  "Now take one without the dog."  "You'll hurt his feelings."  "Too bad."  Hmph!  Dusty didn't like being booted from the photo, and later got back at John by stealing half his sandwich.  So there.  Remember this, my friends.  In the home of the SJG, it's wise not to piss off the canine.  You could lose your sandwich, your top hat and your tails.   Once you go there, you can't tap dance your way back into his heart.  You're persona non grata.  "Here's your hat, what's your hurry?" I said, booting my brother out the door.  "I'm sorry if I offended you, Dusty," John said, right before the door slammed shut.  Next time, the dog stays in the picture.

Win, Lose, Whatever

Only a few more shopping days left till November 7, and the SJG is still looking for the perfect outfit, something appropriately snazzy for my solo parade down Ventura Boulevard.  Whatever I wear needs to match the glittery banner I plan to unfurl as I strut past Art's Deli.  And what, pray tell, will my glittery banner declare?  I'm so glad you asked.  How thoughtful of you.  My glittery banner will declare this heartfelt, non-partisan sentiment: 

Thank God It's Over!

Two Gals Video Chatting

Sometimes, a gal wants to see her close friend up front.  But when that close friend, in this case, the one, the only Cathy Hamilton, of BoomerGirl Diary, lives in the state of Kansas, a gal must make a technological leap.  The SJG hasn't attempted such a techno move since the eldest lived in Copenhagen.  "Do you Skype?" Cathy asks in an email.  "I think so," I reply.  Doesn't sound too promising, until the eldest, who no longer lives in Copenhagen, thank God, tells me we can Skype on Facebook.  "How?" I ask.  "How, how?"  "Oh, the Momma," he says, "It's so easy."  He demonstrates, in his usual fashion: rapid fire.  "You just go here and do this and then you're Skyping."  Well, how hard can that be?  Turns out, very.  First Cathy and the SJG have to search around and do some serious clicking and downloading and of course, on her end, it goes well.  How do I know?  We're on the phone at the time.  "Got it, ready, I'm going to Skype you."  "No, wait, I'm not ready."  "Why not?"  "I don't know.  The thingy isn't downloading."  "Why not?"  "Oh, wait, it's working!"  Now her face appears, and my face appears in the corner, a tiny box of SJG.  Immediately we start laughing and gawking, as if this is a historical event.  "I can't hear you," she says.  We're still on the phone.  Lame, I know.  "I can hear you."  "Hang up the phone."  I hang up.  "Can you hear me?" I ask.  "I can't hear you," she says.  "I can hear you."  She calls me.  "I can't hear you.  There must be something wrong on your end."  "Why on my end?"  "Because you can hear me but I can't hear you."  "Oh, so... it's my... oh wait.  I have to click on the little microphone."  I click.  "Can you hear me now?"  "I can!"  Another miracle.  "Hang up," Cathy says.  I hang up and we can still hear each other, and see each other.  We're both completely out of sync, however.  It's like watching a weird foreign movie.  All we can do is laugh and apologize for how we look in the morning.  "Thank God we still have phones," I say.  "Can you imagine only video chatting?"  "It would be awful," she says.  "Let's hang up and call each other back," I say.  "Great idea."

Reunited And It Feels So Good

Hello, Luva! In this prize-winning shot, a certain dog reunites with a certain slipper he hasn't stolen in many months.  Could the seasons finally be changing?  In Sherman Oaks, it's hard to tell.  A certain dog can only tell by the shoes the humans leave on the ground.  Will they ever learn?