The Witch Doctor, The Lion and the Wardrobe

How much is that witch doctor mask in the window?  How much? Never mind.

Sometimes I argue with inanimate objects.  Here I am, giving this lion a piece of my mind. He thinks I spent too much on my new wardrobe. Sheesh, Lion.  I only bought a scarf, a bracelet and some comfy shoes. Oh, and a really cool necklace. Stop with the guilt already.

Cathy, a Tall Catholic Gal (who wrote a wonderful blog about our day) finally got the SJG to go to church.  

"You're not going to get me to convert," I said, as she dragged me into this pretty cathedral.

After church, where I confessed all my sins and sent the poor priest running for the hills, I dragged Cathy to the Georgia O'Keefe Museum, where she's been many times before. But she didn't mind going...

... thanks to pretty desert scenes like this. And so today, I say goodbye to Santa Fe, and to Cathy, grateful for the great time we had and the work we actually got done, by some miracle, in between tourist-avoidance, shopping and drinking big girl margaritas. 

Today, I fly back to beautiful downtown Burbank, where, God willing. there won't be another earthquake the minute I step off the plane. 

In Search of the Weird

I'll admit, at first I found Santa Fe to be a little too touristy, and this is the off-season.  But Cathy told me to give it a chance, and so, open-minded SJG that I am, occasionally, I did. Good call on my part. We got away from the plaza in search of the weird and the wonderful, and we found it.

At the farmer's market, we mingled amongst the locals, a funky group of the friendliest folks selling the weirdest sh*t imaginable. When's the last time you priced worms?  I'm happy to say I haggled with the worm seller, rather capably.  "I'll give you nine bucks for the worms and not a penny more." "No deal," the worm seller said. "Fine, be that way, I'm going elsewhere."

At this point I'd lost Cathy. She'd sauntered off to find something  more appetizing.  Bread over worms?  I can't argue with her selection.

Later, we wandered up and down Canyon Road, looking at things we had no intention of buying, but we convinced many art sellers we'd be coming back to make a purchase. That was cruel of us. We felt so guilty, we needed to drink it off last night in a piano bar, recommended by the giddy concierge gal.  "Oh, you HAVE to go to Vanessie, you'll have so much fun!" And fun, we had.  Maybe a little too much.

We really got into the musical stylings of Bob Finney.  We sang along with the locals, an eccentric bunch that included John and Winnie. Once John came up to the mic, all bets were off.  He sang a la Sinatra and Tony Bennett and was surprisingly good.

But then, Winnie, a limber gal pushing 80, presumably married to John, took things to a whole new level.  Without warning, she got up and did an interpretative dance, the likes of which the SJG has never seen. Now, if anyone appreciates such a freeform expression, it's me. But Winnie stepped over the line.  After a bit of swaying and arm flailing, Winnie of the Fishnet Stockings suddenly lifted a leg straight up to her earlobes, and gave everyone a peep show of her lady business. Quite a shocker, I must say, one that sent Cathy and me into unbridled hysterics.  "I think Winnie's going commando," Cathy whispered.  "Yikes," was all I could muster.

And then the bartender who'd served us outstanding margaritas joined in on harmonica.  I wonder what Santa Fe has in store for us today. I'm almost afraid to find out.

A Big Girl Margarita

Look, I made a new friend.

Well, how selfish of the SJG.  I go away for a few days and L.A. has an earthquake without me.  And I only found out about it this morning.  I feel a little left out, L.A. A little hurt.  Last night, I talked to hubby around 8:30 his time.  I'm one hour ahead in Santa Fe.  Didn't I just spring forward a few weeks ago?  This seems unreasonably cruel to make me do it again.  Anyway: "Hi, honey. Do you miss me?" "Uh huh." "Are you watching basketball right now?"  "Uh huh." "Put Scotty on." "Hi, Ma." "Hi angel, how was your day?" "Fine." "Okay, sweetie, talk to you later." I'm so glad I called.

The pretty restaurant where I had
a big girl margarita.

This morning, I called and woke up hubby.  How selfish of me.  But I really don't know what time it is.  On my laptop right now, it's 6:38 a.m.  But on my iPhone, it's 7:38 a.m. Ring, ring. "Hemlmlmlo?" "Oh, sorry, honey, I woke you up." "That's okay." "I was worried about the earthquake."  "Yeah, we were watching TV and things started shaking.  It wasn't bad.  I don't think Scotty even felt it."  "But I'd just talked to you." "It happened right after." "Why didn't you call me?" "I didn't want to worry you."  Nice hubby.  He knows worry is my default mode.  See what I did there?  

Why don't I have a tree like this in my house?

Canine Guilt

There is human guilt and there is canine guilt.  Human guilt can take many forms.  Pointing, shrugging, head-shaking.  Audible cues.  My person favorites: sighing and weeping. And just one word can spread guilt quickly and efficiently, which is always the goal.  "Why?" Any sentence that starts with "why?" isn't going to end well.  Start with "why?" and go from there.  I promise "why?" will make the other person feel guilty. Well done, you. I've taught you a lot these past few years. You're welcome.

Canine guilt.  That's a different animal altogether.  Canine guilt is an art form, involving highly-developed senses and intuition. A dog can't say much. He can bark and whine. But he just knows stuff.  He sees luggage by the door. He knows someone is going away. He smells the excitement.  He picks up on the impending betrayal.  He hears snippets of conversation.  This morning, Dusty took one look at me and started circling.  The tail started going.  He was doing some serious detective work.  And then he got it.  I was going away.  "I'll just be gone a few days, Bear-Bear.  You won't even miss me." Another hurt look, a little sad, a little pathetic.  Canine guilt.  There's only one way to deal with it. Treats.  Give treats and more treats and hope at some point you'll be rewarded with forgiveness.  But don't count on it.  Canine guilt never goes away.  Every time you leave the house, you get that same look that says, "When you comin' back?"  You can say "soon" over and over, but the dog doesn't buy it.  And why should he?  He's the master of guilt.  Well done, you.  I've taught you well.  You're welcome.

SJG Anti-Aging Tips

Back by popular demand, a post from two years ago.  Reading it makes me feel two years younger.  I hope it does the same for you.  If not, I'm sure you'll tell me.   You'll file a claim of deja vu.  

Let's face it.  Getting older has its challenges.  We'd like to look young, feel young, and act young.  Well, not to worry.  On a daily basis, strangers stop the SJG on the street and say, "Bitch!  Why you look so good?"   It is my honor to share a few of my secrets with you now. 
1.  Quit Snorting
One of the most important anti-aging tips. If you snort while laughing, stop that.  Continue snorting, and be prepared for the consequences. Reduced levels of coolness are one of the primary reasons a snorter's skin ages quicker than a non-snorter's.  When you snort, your eyes crinkle, your lips pucker and you promote added wrinkling.  Plus, it's kinda lame.  When it comes to snorting, don't. 
2. Protect Your Skin from Magnifying Mirrors
As we age, weird things happen to our skin.  The last thing we want to do is get a larger look at what's going on.  Do we need to see our age spots exaggerated?  I think not.  Protecting your self-esteem is the best anti-aging advice of all.  How can you feel young when those mirrors make you look 80?  When it comes to magnifying mirrors, keep away.  Several miles, at least.  
3.  Avoid Young People
Hanging around young people won't make you feel any younger.  It will have the opposite effect.  Young people look young.  When you stand next to them, you look old.  For younger-looking skin, stay away from young people altogether.  Try never to be in the same room with them, or trust me, someone with a cruel streak will draw a hurtful  comparison.  "Gee, I never realized how much the SJG has aged until I saw her next to a 20 year old college girl!  What a difference 34 years make!"  Keep away from young people.  Problem solved.
4. Take a supplement of denial
Boost your antioxidant intake with a daily supplement of denial, on sale now at Trader Joe's.  Go for one with the highest levels of "I still look great, damn it" and wait for miracles. In no time, you'll look and feel better than you have in years.  Your driver's license may say you were born in 1958, but after a month's worth of denial, you'll be telling people you popped out in 1988.  Will they believe it?  Who cares?  You're in denial.
5. Moisturize your ego
The best ego repair cream, selected carefully and applied properly, will hydrate your confidence, assuage your flagging self-worth and protect your psyche from further free radical damage.  Follow this regimen daily, exfoliate negativity twice a week, and watch the years peel away.  You're welcome!

The Madness of March

Who said this:  "That's it, I can't take the madness, I'm outta here."
a. A beleaguered basketball bracketeer.
b. A Labrador that can't make a basket to save his life.
c. A short Jewish person who doesn't understand what all the fuss is about.

The answer is... well, I'm going to let you figure it out, but I will tell you this:  Someone in this house of  sports maniacs is going out of town, and it's not hubby, it's not the college boy, it's not the dog. In a few days, someone is hopping on a plane, or as George Carlin would say, "I'm not going ON the plane, I'm getting IN the plane... it seems less windy in there."  Someone is winging it to Santa Fe for the weekend. Okay, okay. It's me.

I haven't been to Santa Fe since I was 15 and went on a Teen Tour of America (and a few parts of Canada).  32 guys.  14 gals.  Funny how I still remember that statistic.  At 15, I ate my first blue tortilla in Santa Fe.  At 56, I plan to have my first Santa Fe margarita.  I don't care what color the tequila is, I'm ordering two.  One for me, and one for my wonderful and persuasive friend Cathy Hamilton of  Boomergirl.  Cathy lives in Lawrence, Kansas and has the most amazing ability to talk me into anything.  Years ago, she said, "I'm starting a blog.  I want you to write about show business." "Okay," I said.  Then, about a year ago, she said, "Let's write a play together." "Okay," I said.  So we started writing a play.  We're still writing it.  We're about half-way there.  We have no idea what we're doing, but we keep laughing, so that's a good sign.

Plus, Cathy thinks if we drink tequila and throw on a poncho and big turquoise jewelry, we'll get some work done.  Along those lines, about a month ago she said, "Let's go to Santa Fe."  "Okay," I said.  I wonder what she'll force me to do next.  Sit in a chair and actually write?  I may have to draw the line at that.  Then again, I'll probably say, "Okay."

Printed!

Today's L.A. Times:  "The Man Who Died Laughing" 

The first time my name ever appeared in a publication (other than the high school newspaper or literary magazine) I was so excited, I called up a certain someone at his office, and in the giddiest,   voice ever, said, "Daddy, I've been printed!" I was 16.  I still had some vocabulary issues.  After that, nothing has quite matched the initial buzz of recognition, or the joy in my dad's over-the-top response. It was one of our best shared moments, one we kept reliving for the next 40 years.  He loved to say it no matter the occasion, at random, non-sensical times, whether I was arriving condo-side with his favorite salad or leaving after a nice visit. He said it to cheer me up when I was feeling discouraged.  He said it just to get a laugh, or at the very least, a smile.  And he mimicked my 16-year-old voice, perfectly.  So today, I can say, "Daddy, I've been printed!" even though it's bittersweet, but then, these days, that's the recurring theme.