The Criminal Mind of the SJG

Turns out, not all parking lots are happy places.   Some parking lots are zones of aggravation, put here to eff with your well-being.  Some parking lots sit in judgment off your worthiness.  You push the big, germ-covered button and hope the ticket spits out and the mechanical arm opens.  Sometimes you get the ticket.  Sometimes you don't.  The times you don't get the ticket are usually when the parking attendant has vanished from existence and you're on your own.  You can either sit there and wait for several hours and be late for your important meeting. Or, you can hope the SJG crosses your path and helps you out of a jam. I had already parked and was making my way into the building when I noticed my friend, the devastatingly handsome Jim (and I say devastatingly handsome not because I'm contractually obligated but because it's 100 percent true) idling at the parking lot entrance, ticketless, and rapidly losing hope.  I immediately took action and laughed at his misfortune.  I pointed out that last time we were here for a meeting, the elevator didn't work for me but worked for him.  This time, the parking thingy worked for me and not for him. What was the universe telling us?  That we're all pawns in some larger game?  That -- okay fine, I'll get to the criminal part.  My devious mind started clicking. I told Jim to back up carefully and drive "in" through the exit.  The arm was up, there were no spikes threatening tire damage.  "Are you sure?" he asked me.  "What's the worse that could happen?"  He followed my sneaky instructions and we made it to our meeting on time.  "I never would've thought of that," he said, as we walked toward the elevator.  "It takes a Jew to get out of a tight spot."

The Tale of the Fallen Blintz Souffle

I said it last Father's Day.  I said it again this Father's Day.  Allow me to quote myself:  "Kugel travels better than blintz souffle."  Here's what happens.  You make a nice kugel.  You take it out of the oven.  You kvell. "Boy, that kugel looks delish." You wrap it in foil.  You leave.  You could be headed over the hill.  You could be headed to the moon.  That kugel will still look great with or without the benefit of gravity.  A blintz souffle?  Not so much.  A blintz souffle looks pretty for precisely two seconds.  There's barely enough time to kvell before it deflates into an ordinary casserole.  In those two seconds. something happens. Something I can't explain, but I think it's a gravitational pull toward shame.  It's a Jewish dish, after all.  The blintz souffle is sending you a message to stay humble.  "What?  You think you're so fancy with your souffle?  Fine.  We'll give you two seconds to feel good about yourself, and then, we'll take it away.  Who's fancy now?  Not you."  So, why did I make it for Father's Day?  Why didn't I make a kugel, the more attractive choice?  Because my mother-in-law got there first.  This year, she made the kugel.  Two kugels at a Father's Day brunch seems a little redundant, not to mention, competitive.  Good idea to compete with my mother-in-law?  I'm going with no.  So, I went with the sunken souffle. No one seemed to notice, until I pointed it out, repeatedly.

Here I Come To Save The Day

Yesterday, in a brief, ill-advised moment of sisterly goodness, I offered to help my brother John, who's hosting Father's Day today.  (Better him than me.)  What soon followed was a To-Do List of Demands.

Dear Sister,
Here's what I expect you to do today.
1.  Paint house.
2.  Redo kitchen.
3.  Redo bathroom.
4.  Set up for brunch.
5.  Whine.

Dear Brother,
Here's what I am willing to do today.
1. Whine.
2.  Organize plastic forks.
3.  Nosh on rugelach.
4.  Sit and watch you work.
5.  Go home early.

Dear Sister,
Does that mean you're not coming?

Dear Brother,
I'll be there when they finish the 405.

Where's My Medal?

Be patient.  It's coming via Pony Express. 

The Short Jewish Gal is getting a new medal to go alongside her many Mommies and Academy of Kvetchers Awards -- an honor from The Society of Extreme Worriers.  The internationally-acclaimed blogger, who spends vast amounts of time fretting, nagging and enabling, was just named a Member of the Order of the Seriously Neurotic  (MSN). Her award, for service to her family, who've given her a lifetime supply of small, medium and large stuff she continues to sweat, no matter how many times you tell her all that worrying doesn't change anything, caps 55 years of asking the same question over and over again: "Why Me?" Contacted in her palatial home in Sherman Oaks, the SJG had this to say about the esteemed honor.  "Thanks a lot for this nice medal, guys. You have no idea how long I've waited for some kind of recognition. And the satin banner pegging me as Mrs. Seriously Neurotic was a special bonus.  I will wear it everywhere I go, including the shower.  Or is that a bad idea?  Do I have to get it dry cleaned?  Was it made in the USA?  I won't wear anything produced by forced labor.  You should know that about me.  Although my own labors were plenty forced, let me tell you.  They kept yelling,  'Don't push!'  'Don't push!'  To which I screamed, 'How am I supposed to get this thing out of me without pushing?'  I'm still waiting for an answer.  In the meantime, I continue to push my sons.  If it weren't for me, they'd still be in kindergarten, learning how to read and hold a pencil.  Sometimes, you've got to push the ones you love, or they never get anywhere.  Am I right?  But enough about me.  In one sweeping gesture you've done what years of therapy couldn't.  You've given me a medal for my assorted unresolved issues. You've made me very proud. So, hugs and kisses for that. Mwwwwaaaaaah!"

National Let's Play Hooky Day

Did you know that today is National Let's Play Hooky Day?  Well, it is. What's that?  It's not on your calendar?  It's not on mine, either.  I just made it up. How dare I be so bold as to make up a national holiday? How dare you use that tone with me.  I'm the Short Jewish Gal.  I'm allowed to make up stuff.   Not to mention, if the Donut Lovers of America get a national day, why can't I?  Please don't question my logic. Just roll with me.  You heard me.  Call in sick today.  I'll write you a note.  I'll forge your mom's signature, too, for a nice negotiable fee.  Why are you resisting me? Just take the day off, already.  Don't worry about the economy or your mortgage payment or why you ordered that deluxe set of diamond-studded widgets you saw on QVC when you were a little bit farschnickert. You need a day not to think about your poor decisions. So, follow my lead, people. Just tell the boss the SJG gave you permission to kick back and put life on pause, because, let's face it, sometimes life throws too much life at us and we need a break.  Who's with me?

File Search

File me under "special"

"Hi Daddy, here's something you don't get asked every day.  Do you have my birth certificate?"
"Let me check.  I'm walkin'.  I'm walkin'.   I'm opening the file cabinet.  A lot of files in here."
"Anything marked 'Carol's Birth Certificate'?"
"I'm looking. I'm looking.  Here's a file... important documents."
"I bet that's it."
"Here's Mom's birth certificate.  Gloria June Kaplan."
"Sweet Mom."
"Here's Peter Steven... here's John Robert..."
"Where's mine?"
"I'm looking, I'm looking."
"Look some more.  I need to renew my passport."
"Are you in a hurry to get out of the country?"
"At this rate, I may never leave Sherman Oaks."
"Hang on.  I'm looking.  Here's Grandma's citizenship papers.  Here's Grandpa's."
"How cool.  What about my birth certificate?"
"You were born under special circumstances."
"You always said I was special."
"Sometimes Daddy lies."
"So, how's it coming with my birth certificate?"
"Here's my birth certificate.  Ben Starr."
"No middle name?"
"We were too poor to afford one."
"Funny."
"Ta-da!  Here it is.  Carol Susan.  January 26, 1958."
"January 26th?!  What happened to the 16th?  Are you saying my entire life has been a lie?  That I'm actually 10 days younger?"
"Wait.  Sorry.  I read it wrong.  January 16, 1958."
"Thank God.  All the forms I would've had to fill out."
"Born in automobile on ramp of hospital."
"How many people can say that?"
"Not too many.  Like I said, you're special."
"In a good way?"
"What other way is there?"

Cheat Sheet

He had big dreamy eyes and wavy hair.   "Can I borrow your homework?"  The Short Jewish 9th Grader waged a tough internal debate. "Uh..." "Please, Carol?  Come on."  "I don't know."  He touched my arm. I was a goner.  "Okay, but bring it back tomorrow."  "I could kiss you."  But he didn't.  He had eight other girls in rotation.  He took my English homework, which I'd slaved over for hours, and disappeared.  Right away I sensed I'd made a big mistake, a mistake I couldn't undo.  We hate when that happens.  The next day, Mr. Dreamy Eyes returned my homework.   He touched my arm.  "You saved my butt."  I smiled, shyly.  Sometimes a smile is enough.  For a brief moment, I felt good.  I'd done a mitzvah for a handsome bad boy.  When would I get a chance like that again?  Cut to:  Fifteen minutes later.  The teacher beckoned me forward.  "Carol, did you let Robert copy your homework?"  "Umm..." "Robert, come up here, please?"  A moment later, Mr. Dreamy Eyes sidled up next to me.  He smelled good.  Like French Fries.  He'd obviously ditched 3rd period and gone to American Burger.  "Robert, did you copy Carol's homework?"  Mr. Dreamy Eyes looked down at the floor.  "Umm..." Two umms may not make a right, but in this case, they added up to a yes.  "I want you both to go home tonight, and write I will not cheat 500 times."  Well!  Color me ashamed.  Color me stupid for letting Mr. Dreamy Eyes take me down a dark road.  I had a brief period of deep remorse.  And then I got busy.  I rallied up some friends and doled out their assignment.  "I want you each to go home and write I will not cheat a 100 times."  The next day, I turned in pages and pages of mea culpas in different handwriting styles and waited for the teacher to notice.  I'm still waiting.  As for Mr. Dreamy Eyes, I have no idea whether he turned in his cheat sheets or not.  All I know is this:  He never cheated off me again.  Or talked to me, come to think of it.