If I'm being honest, and when am I not being honest, I didn't think he could do it, and I said so, in various ways: No way. No possible way. No eff'n way. In hindsight, I realize, this wasn't the most supportive wifely approach. I could've been more of a cheerleader. But I was only a cheerleader for one game in 9th grade, so I'm a bit rusty when it comes to "rah, rah, rah, go take that ball, go down the field and score, score." It's true. I dropped the ball on this one. I did some eye-rolling, some heavy sighing. I may have laughed, derisively, once or twice. But this thing he wanted to do, this impossible feat, struck me as so out of reach, so unrealistic, that I couldn't muster much enthusiasm, especially when he set a specific goal: End of September. End. Of. September. Cruel SJG that I am, I just sat back and did nothing. And guess what? Yep. He did it. He emptied the storage unit. The eldest's fancy-ass bike? Side of the house. His barbecue? Side of the house. The boxes of CDs and books and stuff I schlepped from my sweet daddy's condo? Inside the house. Every closet? Filled to capacity. Still. For the first time in years, Public Storage can kiss our tushies. We're out of there. All thanks to hubby. He did it. With no help from me. Maybe if I play my cards right, this trend of me sitting back and doing bupkis will continue.
A Short Jewish coffee thief was spotted this morning in the kitchen of a home in Sherman Oaks, stealing a cup of java before the coffee had even finished brewing. "She does this every morning," said an anonymous hubby. "Why she can't wait till the coffee's done, like normal people, I can't tell you." The anonymous hubby described how the impatient coffee thief manages this daily crime: The coffee maker has barely started up and there she is, complaining about a sinus headache, wielding her coffee mug and mumbling, "Coffee, need coffee, must have coffee." Oh, and it's not just any mug, according to the anonymous hubby. "It must be a pretty one. She hates the plain beige mug. She says it doesn't work for her. She needs the nice one with the green glaze." He went on to say that the Short Jewish coffee thief honestly thinks the coffee will stop brewing long enough for her to snatch her first morning jolt of caffeine. But it just keeps brewin', it just keeps brewin' along. The coffee pot stops for no one, not even the Short Jewish coffee thief, despite what the owner's manual says.
"So I have this theory," I tell my friend over eggs and toast. Actually, she has toast. I have an English muffin. When sharing a theory, it's important to be accurate.
"I can't wait to hear it," she says.
"My theory is based on 58 years of existence on this particular planet."
"Closer to 59," she says.
"Right." I look down at my plate for dramatic effect. "Anyway, you know how gals are born with only a certain number of eggs? Something like, what, 200?"
"I think it's 400."
"Right. Anyway, I believe gals are also born with only a certain amount of patience."
"Let's say the equivalent of... 400 eggs."
"Which, on the surface, sounds like a lot, but over the course of a lifetime, it's not that much. At some point, that basket of patience empties out and you can't hatch anymore. Not that anyone tells you that. Your mother doesn't tell you. Your doctor doesn't tell you. No one pulls you aside and says, parcel out that patience, honey, 'cuz one day, it'll be gone and your protective shell will officially crack."
"Something tells me you've officially hit your quota."
Gloria Starr: Well-dressed. Well-coiffed. Well-read. Well-liked. Beloved, in fact. Adored. Elegant. Stylish. Political since Adlai Stevenson. Big on JFK. The original SJG. Come to think of it, she had an inch on me. Couldn't leave the house without makeup on. "I'm putting my face on," she'd say, when I called in the morning. Couldn't look schlumpy if she tried.
June 4, 1927 - September 23, 1999
Great laugh. Great smile. Great friend. Great mom. The best. Seventeen years today. Still miss her. Always will. Some things never change.
As a lower-level presidential appointee, Tom Schmirkovitz never imagined something intestinal would happen that would catapult him to higher office. When a devastating attack of flatulence takes down the president and most of the Cabinet, Schmirkotvitz, the only one not invited to the Oval Office Chili Cook-Off, finds himself promoted to Designated Kvetcher of the free world. Suddenly tasked with sorting through all the stomach complaints issued by Americans in the past 18 years, Schmirkovitz struggles to keep the USA from tooting itself out of existence. A new, critically-panned disappointment premiering tonight on SJG-TV. Sponsored by Gas-X. Check local listings. Scheduling is iffy.
Set in Sherman Oaks during the mid-2000s, Sarah, a former Israeli folk dancer who grapevines lopsidedly through life, and her hot, but troubled husband, Mordechai, an American wall-paperer/former male stripper, travel the San Fernando Valley together. They argue about traffic, and why he switches lanes like a lunatic, and why she switches radio stations like a hyperkinetic kangaroo. They argue about where to eat. They argue about where to park. It seems Sarah and Mordecai have hit a dead-end. But when Waze sends them down the wrong street, they find themselves on a mysterious cul-de-sac, Thousand Oaks-adjacent, where Sarah and Mordechai draw close to some of the more eccentric inhabitants, such as Floyd, a local RV owner/jacuzzi repairman, and Sheila, a fetching leaf-blower operator/former exotic flower grower who just got hitched in Vegas. Exposure to newlyweds Floyd and Sheila, co-founders of Nudists Anonymous, will either reignite the passion in Sarah and Mordecai's dying marriage, or send them Googling for affordable divorce attorneys. Will the magic mushroom-infused humus Sheila serves at a barbecue help Sarah and Mordecai hallucinate how much they belong together? Or, God forbid, send them to a crowded Emergency Room that doesn't take their insurance? "By The Freeway" soon available on WhoJew, VatsNu and OyTube.
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 kugel-maker. I'm a champion kvetch. At this point, everything hurts.