Thursday, April 19, 2018

The Confession

An 80-year-old man walks into a Catholic church and goes straight into the confessional. There he hears a voice. "Yes, my son? Tell me your sins."
"Well, Father," says the old man, "I just had sex with a beautiful young woman."
"Was it consensual, my son?"
"Consensual, yes. Not to mention, wonderful. Just between us, Father, oy gevalt, it was the best sex I've ever had in my life. And I'm 80 years old!"
"Hmmm," says the Priest, "if you don't mind my asking, are you Jewish?"
"Only since birth."
"Then why are you telling me this?" asks the Priest.
"Telling you? I'm telling everybody!"
-- courtesy of the one, the only Dan Harrison

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Put A Sock In It

Sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself. Sometimes you just have to reach into the dark night of your soul to see what's lurking there. Yesterday, I reached in -- not so much into my soul, but the second best locale, one of my dresser drawers -- and found the sweetest pair of dainty-girly black socks with scalloped edges ever created, and with zero hesitation, put them on. That's right, I put these adorably soft tootsie coverings on, knowing full well that they didn't belong to me. Sock-wise, it was wonderful. I wore them all day. I wore them to bed. I was in need of comfort and found it, courtesy of these socks. And yet, there were only a few explanations for their existence.
Either a Magical Sock Fairy slipped them into the drawer.
Or a Sock Thief squirreled them away from their rightful owner. 
In this case, the SJG pleads guilty. Someone make a citizen's arrest. For I am the Sock Thief. I am the klepto-sock-squirrel in this disturbing scenario. I am ashamed to admit this, but the SJG didn't even know I was pilfering these short stockings until early this morning, when reality hit me like a frozen challah. Somehow I snatched these petite offerings from either my French daughter-in-law, or my son's Finnish girlfriend. With all the Sunday laundering, all the multi-owned clothing getting washed, dried and sorted, the socks accidentally got left behind. And I called "Mine!" So now I'm coming clean. (See what I did there?) I'm willing to give back the socks to their rightful owner. So gals, if you're reading this, you have 10 minutes to claim your lost property via text, phone call, email or carrier pigeon. Otherwise, and there's no easy way to put this: I call "Mine." 

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Now Taking Applications

Well, the SJG always suspected that the family tree had a southern branch, and here's proof, courtesy of Amazon Photos. I was expecting a giant poster-size pic of the newlyweds, in honor of their six-month anniversary tomorrow, to go with the life-size statue I commissioned, but a big ol' glossy shot of these folks arrived instead. At first, I thought Amazon had messed up. But after a few hours of staring at this friendly assembly, I'm starting to see the resemblance.  No question, the adorable dog in the corner is a cousin of Sir Blakey's. The big dude in the cowboy hat is the spitting image of my Grandma Shorty's Great Uncle Moshe from the Shtetl. Let's face it, along with the pretty gal in the middle and the trio of boychicks, this is one photogenic bunch. Yep, these people are clearly my long-lost relatives by way of Texas. They must've seen the ad I posted a while back:

SJG SEEKS MORE MISHPOCHA!
NICE PEOPLE ONLY!
NO ONE WITH A NASTY TEMPER!
GET A FREE KUGEL UPON ACCEPTANCE!

Can an invite to their ranch be far behind? Just picture it: The SJG on a horse! The SJG dancing the hora round the campfire! The SJG in a cowgirl hat! Does it get any better than that? If I ever find out, you'll be the first to know. 

Monday, April 16, 2018

Close Encounters of the Gelson's Kind

I'm not sure why people tend to lose their kaka, metaphorically, in my midst. Maybe I just attract the unhinged moments in life. I wouldn't say I enjoy watching others lose it. As someone always trying to keep it together, I marvel at their ability to let 'er rip. It's the moments they pick that baffle me. So much injustice in the world. So much bad behavior. So much all-round awfulness. Losing it in my personal homeland of Gelson's, my happy place, feels wrong and misguided. It's so spacious and courteous and friendly. People smile and nod and move aside if they're blocking the aisle and even apologize.

A typical Gelson's encounter of the normal kind:
"So sorry, I'm just standing here, paralyzed and amazed there are so many types of olive oil."
"I know, right?"
"What's your favorite olive oil?"
"Oh, it's so hard to choose."

As opposed to:
"Uh hello, could you move your @#$%'n cart! I'm trying to get by."
"Oh, bleep you! Who died and made you Pope?"
"Are you gonna move it, byotch, or do I gotta call for back up?"

On Sunday, at the peaceful time of 10 a.m.-ish, I witnessed a gal unravel before my eyes, at the deli counter, where else? If you're going to lose it in a tranquil locale, you might as well pick the zone of too many choices, what with all the salads and the overpriced Boarshead, the fancy artichokes and assorted kale offerings that always sound better than they taste. But it's kale.

Here's what happened, and I warn you, it's deeply disturbing.
"Who's next?" said the counter guy.
"I am!" said a tightly-wound gal. (No, not me, how dare you.)
"What number?"
"I don't have a number."
"I have to go with a number. Who has a number?"
"I'm 80," said a customer.
"Okay, what can I get you?"
"But I'm first in line," said the numberless gal.
"Sorry," said the counter guy.
"I'm first," she repeated. "Eff you!" She turned on her heels and left the store.

I did what I always do in such cases that are equal parts hilarious and alarming. I started to laugh and spent the rest of the day re-enacting it.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Put Your Money Where Your Basket Is?

Wait, sorry, that's not the expression. Last night at the sushi place, the waiter respectfully picked my handbag off the floor and placed it in a basket. "A purse on the floor is money out the door," he said. "Say what now?" "In Feng Shui, it is bad luck to put your purse on the floor. It means your money will fly out the door." "Oy vey, my whole life, I never knew this." He bowed and went on his waiterly way. But I wasn't done with this theory. I turned to longtime hubby, 100 percent ferklempt (or if you prefer, verklempt.) "Did you know this and not tell me?" "I didn't." Just between us, it's so hard to find something that he doesn't know, I wasn't unreasonably ecstatic, but only for a moment. I still had the whole "purse on the floor" thing to unpack. "I'm always putting my purse on the floor." "You need to stop doing that." "But you don't understand. When I'm enmeshed in any of my many fitness endeavors, flashing the jazz hands, spinning the wheels, stretching the aging body like a humble warrior, lifting the Bang Ball... did I leave anything out?" "What? Sorry?"
Just between us, sometimes longtime hubby's attention wanders, but only when I'm talking to him. "I'm telling you I'm often forced to put my purse on the floor. I knew it was a disgusting locale, and I've learned to accept it. But to know this simple act of resignation has meant near-financial ruin, well -- " "Do you have any proof of that?" "Of what?" I said, the Saki taking hold. "Of financial ruin?" Bring up money and he snaps to attention. "Well, no but -- " "Oh, good, there they are," he said, waving hello to our friends, thinking we were done with this talk of superstition. Fat chance. The minute they sat down, I relaunched the topic. "I keep my handbag on my lap," said the wife, "and money still flies out the door." "Aw, but is your handbag open or closed at the time?" "It depends." At which point, I realized I'd completely exhausted this subject, and, from the looks on their faces, everyone else at the table. It was time to move on to cheerier topics. Like... um... full disclosure. We didn't find a cheery topic. So we talked about life, instead. 

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Wisdom On A Saturday

Only I can change my password. No one can do it for me.

Be kvetchy for this moment. This moment is your time to kvetch.

Because of your smile, you may need orthodontia.

Where there is coffee there is caffeine.

Schlep and the world schleps with you. 

Friday, April 13, 2018

A Rollerblading Yoga Dude

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Did Down Dog on a mat today.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Bowed his head and said nameste.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Wore a weird-looking unitard.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Got a vibe that's très avant garde.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Rocked a tight man bun, so trendy.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Struck a limber pose, so bendy.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
A free-wheeling, hip Zen guru.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Put a smile on this short lil Jew.