Thursday, August 21, 2014

Dog Vs. Pool

So this happens:  After the big strong men leave for the day, I'm outside, watering plants and talking to hubby on the phone at the same time. I'm that coordinated. Dusty wanders around, free to explore the dirt pit that is now his backyard. A giant sheet of plastic covers the pool, a thoughtful gesture on the part of the big strong men. Dusty hovers nearby, sniffing to his heart's content.  He takes a step and then another. And now he's at the edge of the plastic-covered pool. And he's thinking, "Doesn't smell like a pool.  What happened here?  I better investigate."  He sticks a paw on the plastic and just like that, he's in the water.  At this point I should mention that Dusty is anti-pool.  If there were an organization against pools, he'd be president. Sure, his breed is all about swimming and water, all about dog-paddling.  Not Dusty.  Dusty went in the pool once as a puppy, and that was that. Dusty goes ape-sh*t if we dare to swim in front of him.  We put him in a room and close the door when we swim. What I'm saying is Dusty and the pool are not friends.  And yet, now he's in the pool and there's plastic all around him.  I yell, "Oh, no!" and throw the phone high in the air, leaving hubby in suspense.  I jump in the pool in my shorts and powder blue tank top. I rescue Dusty and shove him out of the pool seconds before we are both swallowed in plastic. Dusty is okay. The phone, however, is another issue. Where the eff did it go?  I have no idea, but I have other issues that trump the missing phone.  Dusty is now covered in mud and running through the house.  I coax him into the shower and call hubby on my cell. I update him.  "I'm a super hero," I say.  "I'm that strong." Later I find the elusive phone perpendicular to the pot of begonias in the far corner of the backyard. All in a day's work, people. I wonder what today will bring.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Man Vs. Patio

"Hear that?  You hear that?"
"What, Mom?"
"Jackhammering, son.  Nothing else in the world sounds like that.  I love the sound of jackhammering in the morning... the shattering noise... the demolition of concrete.  The pulverizing of my sanity.  Don't you see, son?"
"See what, Mom?"
"The big strong men.  Men with heavy equipment.  Men on a mission of destruction.  A battle of Man vs. Patio.  Smell that, son?"
"What, Mom?"
"The dust, son.  The dust of ancient civilizations.  Powdery white dust covering the entire neighborhood.  Dust and dirt.  Grass and pollen.  So much pollen, son.  Pollen infiltrating the enemy that is my sinus cavity. The dust and the pollen, son. The dirt and the grass. The little that remains of what once was a simple patio.  A simple patio now in ruins... cracked and decimated beyond recognition."
"Why, Mom?  Why?"
"Why not?"
"When will it stop, Mom?"
"When they're done, son.  When they're done."

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

In Season

Three guys are about to be executed and are asked what they wish to have for their last meal.
The Italian requests a pepperoni pizza, which he is served and then executed.
The Frenchman requests a filet mignon, which he is served and then executed.
The Jewish man requests a plate of strawberries.

"STRAWBERRIES?" asks the executioner. "But they're out of season!"
"So," the Jewish man says, "I'll wait . "
Mrs. Goldstein goes to the post office to buy the newly issued 2014 Rosh Hashanah stamps so that she can send them out with her New Year's greetings.  
She says to the clerk at the post office, "Nu, can I have 50 Jewish New Year's stamps?"
The clerk says, "Yes, ma'am, but what denomination?"
"Oy," she says, "has it come to this?  OK.  Give me 6 Orthodox, 12 Conservative and 32 Reform."

Monday, August 18, 2014

The SJG Bar & Grill

(Sherman Oaks) Starting today, as opposed to yesterday, the famed SJG Bar & Grill launches an extended Unhappy Hour, from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.  Patrons can come in, sit down, kvetch a lot, weep if necessary, drink something and leave.  The internationally-renowned blogger's signature cocktails include:  The Altacocker Alka Seltzer Fizz, the Shut-Up Bitch, the Don't Give Me That Look, and the Matzoh Matzoh Manic Twist.  Unhappy hour at the SJG Bar & Grill is a lot like therapy, only cheaper and with booze.  Expect some good advice, some questionable advice and some advice you should probably ignore.  

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Don't Panic

Dear Valued Hotel Guest,

Early this morning an insanely loud fire alarm was triggered for no apparent reason other than to make sure that you still had it in you to jump out of bed and follow instructions.  Some of you did better than others.  We refer you to a short Jewish guest who chose, unwisely, to take the opportunity to run into the lobby and perform a medley of songs from "Fiddler on the Roof:  The Disco Version." As part of hotel protocol the San Francisco Fire Department arrived to assess her level of hot air, ability to hold a note and overall psychological state, which is questionable at best, even on a good day.

Fortunately the SJG was silenced and the non-existent fire was deemed a false alarm.  We sincerely apologize for the disturbance.  We assure you the SJG will not perform another selection from any of her favorite musicals in our lobby today.  Thank God, she's leaving town shortly- see what we did there?

If you have any further questions and/or concerns, feel free to contact the SJG through her International Kugel Culinary Institute.  And please, help yourself to a complimentary cup of coffee in our lobby.  It's the least we can do.  Actually, we could comp you a night's stay for robbing you of much-needed sleep, but we're running a business here.

Thank you,

The nice people at the front desk

Friday, August 15, 2014


Vell, as my grandfather would say, I didn't think I could do it, but I done it.  Victory is mine, sayeth the SJG.  Sure, I struggled.  I did some serious deep thinking.  "Do I really need that extra top?" I asked the universe.  The universe came back with, "When in doubt... more is less."  Well, thanks a bunch, universe.  That's not the guidance I was seeking.  So I turned inward.  Less is more, except, of course, when it comes to chocolate.  But I'm not bringing any chocolate with me to San Francisco.  I expect the eldest to present me with a giant bar of Ghiradelli something, by way of thanking me for being me, his only mother.  I leave today with a humble carry-on.  I may have to shop a bit to fill in the blanks.  I may have to purchase another carry-on.  But I'm leaving with that afore-mentioned carry-on.  Thank you for your support, bitches.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Carry On

This time, I'm going to do it.  As God is my witness, I'm going to find a way.  I won't give in to fear and doubt.  I won't talk myself out of it.  I won't surrender to negativity.  I will shut off the doom-and-gloom dude residing in my keppy.  I will prove the naysayers wrong.  This time, unlike all other times before, I will carry a tiny-ass piece of luggage the size of a baby's butt onto the plane.  I see people do it all the time.  And tomorrow, I will be one of those people.  I will not, repeat not, check my bag, curbside.  I will not send it off into oblivion and hope it arrives at the same airport as the SJG.  I will shove and smush.  I will widdle it down to the necessities.  I will not over pack.  I refer you to every trip I've ever taken.  I'm a what-iffer.  A what-iffer needs too much stuff, just in case.  What if it rains?  What if it's cold?  What if... well, you get the point.  But not tomorrow.  Tomorrow, hubby and I fly in a northerly direction to visit the eldest, who selfishly moved to San Francisco to follow his heart and God willing, find employment.  I'm looking at a three-day getaway.  Three days, people.  I can pack for three days and not four, can't I?  I can carry on a carry-on without all the extras I don't really need.  I can do this, right?  Yes, I can, bitches.  Yes.  I.  Can.