Saturday, May 26, 2018

My Coat of Arms

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(Sherman Oaks) A very special coat of many arms has been created for the Short Jewish Gal after she watched Meg and Harry's fancy-schmancy wedding, you know, the one she wasn't invited to? The design of the SJG's arms was agreed to and approved by the SJG herself, and Mr. Sheldon Knockonwood (Primary Schlepper of Arms, San Fernando Valley). The decision to give the SJG (nee Carolita in an '58 Oldsmobile) her own coat of many arms breaks with Jewish tradition, as it is typically given to no one ever. As she sat on her sofa, she had this to say about that: "As far as I know, I'm the first Jew with my own coat of many arms. Most coat owners prefer two arms, but I say, 'Where's the fun in that? Go big or go home.' By the way, home is the only place I've been this week, what with the nasty cold I've been nursing, courtesy of NYC and Angsty Airlines, so I came up with this idea, with a little help from Sheldon, and may I just say, 'Winner!' If it ever gets cold enough, I can't wait to wear it."

Friday, May 25, 2018

Dirt Magnet

Unfasten your bedazzled belts. It's practically Memorial Day. Which means one thing. It's now safe to move about the world in white. But just between us, I don't think I'm ready. Wearing white just never seems to work out for me. High school history books and secret government files will verify that the SJG is simply incapable of wearing white without attracting instantaneous schmutz. Much like Pigpen, I'm a dirt magnet. How it lands on me, I can't tell you, but there it is, a black smudge of unknown origin, a stubborn spot that will never come out. Oh sure, I can Shout it out, drown it in bleach to no avail. Trust me, this mockery is eternal. An endless reminder: "Don't do it, do it, do it, don't you break out the white. You know what will happen if you put on those crisp virgin Banana Republics purchased at a delightful discount. They'll be corrupted. Deflowered by a demon speck.  But knowing you, gambler that you are, you'll do it, anyway. You'll risk it all just for that brief moment in time. For a millisecond, those whiter-than-whites are perfect in every way, which makes you perfect, too."

Thursday, May 24, 2018

My Chart of Adorable Persistence

Some may call it pushy. Others -- as in the two people I've given birth to  -- naggy. But I like to think of it as adorably persistent. That's the SJG in a matzoh box. Adorably persistent. In this weird, no rules universe we currently occupy, it's hard to get anyone to respond in a timely fashion. A gal who clings to the borders of neurosis could start to feel a wee bit insecure. Rather than sit back and feel ignored, I take action. I turn to my Chart of Adorable Persistence. I monitor when I sent the last unrequited email reminder of my existence. More than two weeks? Hello, I'm back. Sometimes I come right out with, "Hi, it's me, guilting you. What am I, chop liver?" I blame my father for this ridiculous approach. He never gave a crap what anyone thought and wanted me to be the same way. When I was first starting out in show biz, he'd advise me to write outrageous notes to TV producers. His logic: "You have nothing to lose." The note that stands out, because it actually worked once or twice: "Hire me or you'll never work in this town again, and this comes from someone with absolutely no influence whatsoever."

These days, instead of sending notes, I write a silly email: "I know you can't stop thinking about me. I have that effect on people." Sometimes it works. Sometimes not so much. At least I gave it a shot. In a perfect world, I'd pick up a phone. But no one does that anymore. Too old school, right? Well, yesterday I gave it a shot. I called a wonderful human who's busier than anyone I've ever met in my life. I figured after two emails and a text, what's the worst that could happen? He lets it go to voicemail? He blocks my call? In my career, I've been through much worse than that. So I called. And... brace yourself... he answered. "I'm not ignoring you!" he said. "So you don't mind me being adorably persistent?" "Not at all." Boy, is he in trouble. He just gave me permission to stay adorably persistent till I run out of steam, which, according to my calculations, is a few years from now, when I downgrade to exhaustedly tireless.
(10-7-16)

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Excuse Me...

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Did you just call me ma'am?"

"Yes."

"You're not excused."

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Your Concern Is Noted

Dear SJG,
How's your NYC-related sinus situation? I've been up all night worrying myself sick. That's the kind of power you have over me. My thinking goes like this: If the SJG feels like kaka, then I feel like kaka, too. So, please get back to me shortly, because, let's face it, shortly is the only way you roll. (See what I did there?)
Thanks,
SJG-Obsessed
Dear SJG-Obsessed,
I saw what you did there and I dig it. I'm so deeply touched by your thoughtfulness, your caring, your concern over my general health, that I could weep, profusely, but I won't, 'cuz then I'd get all congested and I'm trying to appear semi-human for a meeting at the deli later. So I'll refrain from over-emoting, and you know that's hard for me. Back to your question regarding my health, a question my own children are too busy to pose. When the sons saw me on Sunday, they cruelly kept their distance, yelling this from across the room: "Stay away, Ma, you'll get us sick." To which I yelled back, "Would you like an approximation of how many times you've gotten me sick? Hey, don't walk away while I'm guilting you." Meanwhile, my sinus situation is a bissel improved, in the sense that my RKF (Resting Kvetch Face) no longer resembles a swollen hothouse tomato. So there's that.
You're Welcome,
The SJG
Resting Tomato Face 

Monday, May 21, 2018

A Jew Grew In Brooklyn


The secret to reaching 90, according to longtime hubby's longtime daddy: "Drink your booze, and have a wife who's very understanding of your needs, especially when it comes to cooking." 

 

When I told my mother-in-law his "secret," she said, "Wonderful." Just between us, I may have seen her eyes roll. Then again, my vision isn't the most reliable, what with the drippy nose, the watery eyes, the over-pollination of my personage, courtesy of NYC. It's true, my overall aura of congestion, along with the wad of tissues in my left hand, didn't exactly make me popular at the party. "You're probably infecting everybody right now," whispered a retired doctor. "Really, doc? Guilting me at my father-in-law's 90th?" "Is there a better time?" he said.
                                                

Here's hoping no one caught my cold. And happy birthday to this menschy Brooklyn Jew. May he continue to drink his booze, and drive my mother-in-law crazy, for many more years, kina hora, poo poo poo. 

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Haven't We Met Before?

Former Brat Packer  

At the swanky CW soiree in NYC, one conversation stayed with me more than others, and who would I be if I didn't share it with you? I'd be withholding.
"Hello, how are you, we've met before," a New York talent agent said to me, with absolute certainty.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, I never forget a face," he said.
"I have one of those punims. People are always confusing me with someone else."
"But I have met you. I'm positive. I remember your kind eyes."
"Okay, well..."
"What's your name again?"
"Carol Schneider."
"Ha! I knew it," he said, victoriously. "I knew I'd met you. You were married to Andrew McCarthy."

Former Wife

"Actually, I've been married to my first husband for almost 38 years."
"No kidding. I must be thinking of the other Carol Schneider. Are you an actress?
"I've been accused of being overly dramatic, but no."
"I could've sworn you were Carol Schneider."
"I still am."
"Nice to see you again."
"You, too."