Adam, an arrogant, careless young accountant, falls under the spell of Kvetch, a short wicked blogger who turns him into The Vildabeest after learning she owes a bundle in back taxes, thanks to his sloppy work. The spell won't be broken until he undoes the damage to her pocket book. Enter Shayna Maidela, a fetching accountant trainee from down the hall, who offers to help The Vildabeest sort through this self-made disaster. But first she screams a little -- he was much cuter without the furry pelt.
Shayna to the rescue!
With the help of Felicity, an enchanted singing file cabinet, and Mrs. Glezel Tei, a tap-dancing Starbucks iced tea container, Shayna teaches The Vildabeest the error of his accounting ways. Kvetch, the short wicked blogger, no longer owes the government a penny. The real miracle? It all gets untangled before April 18 yet! In celebration, Shayna and The Vildabeest do a romantic hora round the conference table, and faster than you can say, "Kugel's ready!", the spell is broken. The unbecoming pelt gives way to well-fitting Armani. No question, sans scary CGI, Adam is a hot mensch. In the end, Adam and Shayna stare dreamily into each other's eyes. So, is love in the air? Or is that burnt popcorn from the office microwave/spy camera? You'll have to wait for the sequel.
In the mall, a billboard for the live action "Beauty and the Beast." I start to sing, "tale as old as time... song as old as rhyme... Beauty and the Beast." The eldest smiles. He's used to me breaking into song. "Do you remember when we took you to see 'Beauty and the Beast' "? "Not really." "You were almost four. You sat on my lap. I was very pregnant with your brother. It was your first movie. You stayed for the whole thing. That was a big deal." "Why?" "Cuz before, you never wanted to stay. You hated the noise in movie theaters." "My ears were so sensitive." "Do you remember when I took you to see the musical of 'Beauty and the Beast' "? "Not really." "I shlepped you to the Shubert in Century City. You were seven, I think. I brought candy and kept giving it to you, just plying you with sweets." "Did it work?" "You stayed for the whole thing."
Today is the L.A. Marathon, an event I've never trained for, or even understood. The thought of running and running and running some more, from one end of the city to the other, a big sprawling city, no less, seems completely insane and misguided, but best of luck to y'all who are out there doing it right now. Keep running. You've got a long way to go. If it's all the same, the SJG will stay home and not watch you run. For watching you run will bring back the trauma I endured a few years back, when the gals and I unknowingly scheduled a birthday lunch on the day of the Marathon. The Westsiders made it to the Ivy with little tsuris. The Valley gals? We got stuck and rerouted and dramatically delayed. I left my car somewhere on Doheny above Santa Monica Boulevard and started walking. It was the only time I've ever seen real marathoners out there doing their marathon thing, huffing and puffing and ready to plotz, and I'd be lying if I told you these people looked happy. They looked a little bit deranged, a little bit, "Why did I think this was a good idea?" But please, don't let my lack of enthusiasm keep you from running or watching people run and run some more. There are some things I'll never understand, and this is definitely one of them.
The moment I walked into Schvitz! I was on a mission. In my hand I held a banana peel and the wrapper of a rapidly-consumed tasty protein bar. Is there anyone out there who doesn't love a tasty protein bar? If so, what's wrong with you? A protein bar is basically a delicious candy bar masquerading as a healthy choice. Normally, I don't like to enter any venue carrying garbage. It's beneath me. But I didn't want to come back to a car stinking of banana peel. Banana Peel Stink in a hot car is not my go-to aroma. So, into Schvitz! I walked, with the afore-mentioned evidence of my "protein" snack, and spotted a trash can by the door. Well, lucky me. Except there was a sign over the trash can that said "Towels." A long-ago college grad of moderate academic achievement, I knew instantly that tossing the wrapper and peel into this particular receptacle would be, how they say, a No-No. The thought of getting kicked out of Schvitz! on my can for a trash violation was too much for my keppy to contain. I wasn't about to go there. I just wasn't! So I took a few more steps and there was another trash can, but with no sign. No sign! I looked straight at the can, then at the nice lady at the front desk, and with great earnestness, asked, "Is that a trash can?" She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at me. "Uh-huh." "Wow, I bet that sounded stupid. I mean, duh, obviously, it's a trash can. But in this gym, there are trash cans marked Towels,"trash cans marks Recyclables,"and for actual trash, there are no signs. Which trash can is this?" 'It's for a trash." "Thank God," I said, depositing my trash in the undesignated trash can. In this mad, mad world, every now and then, it's important to know where things go.
According to the leprechaun who lives in my backyard, today is St. Patrick's Day. What is the etiquette regarding green on this holiday? Am I obligated to eat a green bagel? Must I wear green, too? If I don't wear green, will I get pinched? Green isn't a good color for me. I'm so confused. Please help me.
Rather Be Blue
How you doin'?
Calm down, you. Have I ever steered you wrong? Feed the green bagel to your leprechaun. You don't want him to stop with the four-leaf clovers. And I've seen you in green. You look like an overgrown ficus. Stick with blue. Chances of anyone pinching you aren't too high. But who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky.
(Sherman Oaks) The SJG was spotted sniffing the air, waxing poetic about how good her neighborhood smells - heck, how good the valley smells, post-rain. "Pray tell, what is that heavenly scent?" she asked herself in her most Shakesperean way. "Is it... could it be... why, of course, it's night-blooming jasmine! That glorious perennial shrub I wisely, if not, brilliantly planted in my own backyard, only to be copied by so many others in the vicinity. But then, they say imitation is the menschiest form of flattery, don't they? Yes, I believe they do." Whereupon her nudnik neighbor Frieda von Strudel wandered over and interrupted her, rudely. "Uh, hello, you didn't plant it, your gardener did." "Go away, Frieda, I'm waxing poetic." "Wax on, wax off. I had my gardener plant night-blooming jasmine first and you copied me." "Fine, Frieda, whatevs, you win. Even you can't spoil my mood today, as I take in the intense, romantic, not to mention, intoxicating tubular white bloom." "Oh, excuse me, Little Miss Botanist." "You're excused. By the way, snooty face, I prefer Queen of the Night, in honor of this celestial perfume wafting hither and thither." "I see the time change's really gotten to you. You are losing it." "Get lost, Frieda. Skedaddle, would ya. Get you goin'. Be gone with you, before I drop a house on you, metaphorically. You are harshing my night-blooming jasmine buzz in the biggest way." "You're a nut bag, SJG." "Takes one to know one, Frieda. Takes one to know one."
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.