Put a group of gals together, gals whose bodies ache and creak and demand constant TLC, and you get a hodgepodge of iffy medical advice. In dance class, where we stretch and groan and flash the semi-arthritic jazz hands, we split into two camps: The Holistic Types, who believe the body can heal itself. And the Advanced Kvetchers, who believe there's a nice pill for whatever ails you. Which camp do I fall into? I'm so glad you asked, even though something tells me you already know. Before I divulge the answer, let me give you some medical back story. I never met a flower, a tree, a blade of grass that didn't make me sneeze. Growing up, I got allergy shots twice a week. I had my own Ear, Nose and Throat specialist before I hit puberty. Every morning, my mother gave me a yellow spoonful of something so icky, so repugnant, that I'd pretend to swallow it, then spit it out on the black rug in the dining room. Yech. What prompted me to tell you that? Sometimes, I overshare. As a grown up, and I use that term loosely, Googling disturbing medical conditions is a hobby. God forbid I shouldn't be up on the latest life-threatening disease. I like to stay informed. Advanced Kvetcher. That's me. I'm the leader of the pact. In dance class, I'm the Short Jewish Pharmacist. Need an Advil? Hit me up. I got a stash in my handbag. Need a tranquilizer? Yeah, I got that too, in case I need to jump on a plane at a moment's notice. I'm all about disaster preparedness. You need a nail file? A stick of gum? A doctor recommendation? Look no further. I'm here for you.
To make sure everyone in the surreal, un-cyber world knew it was my birthday yesterday I carried a lit sparkler (just like the one pictured here) with me all day and encouraged anyone in my path to sing me "Happy Birthday." Sometimes they cooperated. Sometimes I got chased by hunky fireman and told to, "Put the sparkler out, ma'am." To which I replied, "Make me." Seriously. The things I do for attention. I should be ashamed of myself, but at 59, what's the point? I was born silly and plan to stay silly. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Yes, here it is again, the story of how the SJG entered the galaxy on this very day. Way back in the sweet, innocent late '50s, when my sweet mom was in her last trimester with baby me, she got chicken pox, courtesy of the brothers. Complications ensued. She became so sick with double pneumonia, that her gynecologist – “that man who almost killed me three times,” as she decribed him – kept her out of the hospital so she shouldn't spread germs.
Drama queen from the git-go, I hand-picked the middle of the night for my Hollywood debut. My sweet daddy loaded Mom into the Oldsmobile and took off down Sunset Boulevard for County General, the only hospital that would admit a pregnant gal with an infectious disease. He had never been to County General and had only a vague idea that it was somewhere downtown.
He deliberately ran every red light on Sunset to try to get arrested. But there’s never a cop around when you need one. So he stopped another car, asked for directions, and the driver said, right out a B movie, “Follow me!”
By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the SJG, a touch claustrophobic, wanted out. As in, right now.
Handsome doctors ran out and delivered me in the back seat of the car. My mom and I were immediately separated, which no doubt made me very, very nervous out the gate. "Where's the nice lady?" I asked. "Where'd she go? Are you bringing her back?" They put her in quarantine and saved her life with a new medicine called Cortisone.
Meanwhile, I handed over a list of demands and got upgraded to Cedars Sinai, the ritzy hospital where famous people go to die. Within a day, I had chicken pox too. They booted my baby butt out of there, and I went home, feeling like a displaced citizen. Naturally, I took the whole thing personally, as I tend to do. My new mommy had to slum it over at County General for two weeks before they let her come home to meet the miracle that is the SJG. And that, my friends, is the story of mine humble beginnings.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, a 1958 Oldsmobile commercial that forgets to mention how comfy the backseat is for emergency birthing situations.
There's still one more shopping day before the SJG turns, are you kidding me, 59. There's still time, people. I urge you to go out and spend, slap a bow on it and drop it off via helicopter, flying saucer or drone. What's that? You want an address? Just look for the neon sign that says SJG Palatial Estate. Okay, so here's what I want, what I really, really want. A lot less of this:
Thank you in advance. I've always liked you the best.
It has come to our attention that in two days, despite your tendency to bump into things, drop things, and kvetch about assorted bupkis, you've made it another year. Mazel tov. Your friends at Mentally Yours would like to celebrate this important occasion by offering you 18% off your next mental cleaning. We're eager to polish off the rough edges of your psyche, scrape the tarter off your frontal lobe, and restore the luster to your tarnished keppy. Let us floss between the crevices of your personal mishegas and help delay your inevitable descent into "Has anyone seen my glasses? Oh, @#$%, I'm wearing them." One of our skilled mental technicians will be calling you shortly to arrange an appointment. Please don't hang up on us again. Your parents raised you better than that. Forget calling. How's Monday at 7 a.m. sound? If we don't hear from you, will assume you're coming. Cancellations will be ignored. Don't disappoint us. Haven't you disappointed enough people already?
See you Monday!
The nice people at Mentally Yours
Judith goes into a Picture Framing shop and says to Skippy the manager, "I have something here that's worth over $100,000 and I would like that you should personally frame it." "Oy, lady," says Skippy, "I've never ever been asked before to frame anything so expensive. Can I please see it?" Judith hands over to Skippy her son's college diploma.
Minky's Grammar School in is not known for producing brilliant students. Nevertheless, Brian the teacher says to his class one day, "OK class, listen up. Can anyone here put together a sentence with the word 'cultivate' in it?" Only one boy's hand goes up. It's Shlomo, a student who, if truth be known, is a bit farmisht. "OK Shlomo," says Brian, "let's hear your sentence." Shlomo replies, "Venever you're vaiting for the school bus and it starts to snow, you should go back home because it's too cul ti vate." http://www.awordinyoureye.com
"Can I ask you something?" "Sure." "I don't think I've ever asked you this before." "I can take it." "In fact, I'm 100 percent positive I have never even thought to ask you this before." "So ask." "What do think we'd be like if I'd been raised by your parents and you'd been raised by mine?" "That's an interesting question." "I know." "We'd be different." "Do you think I'd be the one fixing things all day, and you'd be the one worrying about everything?" "Sounds about right."
I'm a writer: TV movies, plays, humor blogs. I'm the mother of two amazing sons, so menschy I could weep with pride, and often do, spontaneously. I'm a remarkably loving wife. I'm a crazy dog lady. I'm a kugel-maker. I'm a champion kvetch. At this point, everything hurts.