Flip Flops Optional

This week, the eldest son attends his first wedding.  One of his college roomies is getting hitched in the middle of a forest in Santa Cruz.  Obviously, the couple isn't Jewish.  Let me just put that out there right away.  The big question of what to wear to a forest wedding has been plaguing us for weeks.  The eldest likes to look good for a party.  Luckily, my dad has chimed in with some outstanding suggestions.  On the phone yesterday, he told Billy, "Make sure you put a branch in the lapel.  That's always a nice touch.  Maybe some leaves in your hair.  Or just go in camouflage, that way you'll blend in."  "That's exactly the plan, Grandpa, thanks."  After the fashion tips from my dad, mother and son moved upstairs, to go shopping in hubby's closet, and soon dress shirts and ties littered the bed.  Billy looked at them, suspiciously.  "Why are Dad's shirts so long?"  "They're not long.  You just tuck them in."  Here he got visibly upset.  "I have to tuck my shirt in?"  "It's a wedding, honey, not a beer pong convention."  "It's a wedding in the forest," he said, as if I needed to be reminded.  "Then wear flip flops.  You'll probably be the only one not barefoot."  "You're not helping me, Mom."  "I'm trying."  Ultimately, we settled on an interesting ensemble, a compromise of young and old:  Hip black jeans.  A bluish/grayish sport coat.  A teal blue dress shirt and snappy tie that brings in all together, as my mother-in-law would say.  What he wears on his feet is his decision.  I think he's going with black loafers, but he'll have a pair of flip flops as a backup, I'm sure.

Yiddish Curses With A Twist

A new website called Yiddish Curses for Republican Jews has appeared in time for this week's convention in Florida.  My dear friend and favorite shiksa from Kansas, Cathy Hamilton, creator of BoomerGirl Diary and Two Dogs Bitching, sent this to me, her favorite Jew from Sherman Oaks, and I had to share immediately, or what kind of SJG would I be?  Here are just a few gems:

May you have a rare disease and need an operation that only one surgeon in the world, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Medicine, is able to perform. And may he be unable to perform it because he doesn’t take your insurance. And may that Nobel Laureate be your son.

May your son the doctor introduce you to his fiancée, Bristol Palin.

May you have a hundred houses, and in every house a hundred rooms, and in every room twenty beds, and then may you fall behind on just one of your mortgage payments and have the bank repossess everything.

May you live to a hundred and twenty without Social Security or Medicare.

May you live to a ripe old age, and may the only people who come visit you be Mormon missionaries.

May your insurance company decide constipation is a pre-existing condition.

May you find yourself lost and stranded in a village of Palestinian Muslims, and may you be treated only with dignity, kindness and respect.

May your child give his Bar Mitzvah speech on the genius of Ayn Rand. 

May your grandchildren baptize you after you’re dead.

May G-d give you a daughter-in-law who is as kind as she is beautiful, as patient as she is rich, as wise as she is devoted, a virtuous woman in every way. And then may a ballot initiative invalidate her marriage to your fat lump Rebecca.

May you sell everything and retire to Florida just as global warming makes it uninhabitable.

Triple Oy

Apply nightly and wait for miracles

A classic joke that still makes me laugh:
Three bubbes sitting on a park bench.

The first one lets out a heartfelt "Oy!"
A few minutes later, the second bubbe sighs deeply and says, "Oy vey!"
A few minutes after that, the third lady brushes away a tear and moans, "Oy veyizmir!"
To which the first bubbe replies: "I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about our children!"

Group Hug

What could be better than a cyber group hug?  A real group hug.  But that's besides the point.  I'm sending out a cyber group hug today, I'm reaching out the SJG arms, because I can't figure out how to get all of you together in Sherman Oaks to thank you in person for your kind anniversary wishes.  It was a lovely 32nd, made even more special by the early morning arrival of Sahid, the Sears Guy.  Everyone should share an anniversary with this guy.  He comes in, he fixes stuff, and he leaves.  If you need him again, you call up and say, "Um, Sahid, no offense, dude, but you didn't really fix the fridge.  Can you come back?"  In real life, where your loved ones aren't under warranty, and you don't pay them to cooperate, not on a regular basis, at least, if you said, "Uh, remember that thing you said you'd do?  It's still eff'd up.  Do over, or, no din-din for you," I guarantee, it wouldn't go over well.  But an employee of Sears doesn't take this sort of situation personally.  He doesn't consider anything a failure.  He just comes back, all smiles, and tries again.  So, hugs to Sahid for finally fixing the fridge (kina hora) and hugs to you for all your kind wishes.  Now, it's on to the 33rd, the 34th and beyond.

Many A Tear Has To Fall...

But it's all in the game... especially when you meet the guy you're going to marry in eighth grade.  Hubby and the SJG got hitched 32 years ago today.  We walked down the aisle... actually, we walked across the lawn, to "It's All In The Game," performed by my amazing cousin Steve Kaplan, alav hashalom. Here's to another 32, God willing.  Enjoy!

Dance Room Rules

Somewhere it is written that not all dance teachers are created equal.  Where this is written, I'm not sure.  It might be in the Torah, under "Jazz Hands."  Yes, that's it.  The SJG has been dancing my tuchus off for many decades now.  So much dancing and spinning and turning, it makes me dizzy just thinking about it.  And yet, with all that dancing, why does my tuchus still look like this?  The answer lies within the cookie drawer, or the bottom half of the fridge, where the ice cream lives.  I've had demanding dance teachers.  I've had temperamental dance teachers.  I've had mean ones and nice ones until suddenly they're not nice anymore.  Screamers and yellers and passive aggressive nutcases.  I've had a dance teacher sneak up behind me, while I was attempting a double turn, and order  me to, "Commit!"  Future dance teachers take note.  This is not a good thing to yell at a dancer.  Maybe later you can yank your dancer aside and ask, "Why didn't you commit to the turn?  Why?  Why?  Why?!"  But please, dance people, don't yell it mid-turn.  It's not going to help anyone, particularly those with self-esteem issues.  Save the abuse for later.  The subject of great vs. wacko teachers leads me, once again, to my favorite teacher ever, the man I call Dougie.  Doug Rivera has been dancing and teaching longer than I've been alive, which, as we know, is already a long time.  I've never seen Doug lose his temper, but sometimes, like last night, he likes to list his dance room rules, just to see if we're paying attention.  "No coughing," he said, after one of his students coughed.  "No laughing," he said, looking directly at me.  "This is a serious dance class."  "Since when?" I asked.  "No talking back to the teacher," he said, again looking at me.  "Anything else?" I asked.  "No crying in dance class."  That seemed reasonable.  I've yet to cry in dance class.  I like to cry about my shi**y double turns later, in the car on the way home.  "Can we whine?" I asked.  "No whining.  No yenta-kvetching."  "Yenta-kvetching?  You've just invented a new Yiddish term."  "No making fun of the teacher."  "I better go home then," I said.  "You can stay," he said.  So I did. 

Summer Highlights

"Anyone following me on Twitter already 
knows what I did this summer."

 True or false:
1.  In early June, I took up skydiving.  I didn't care for it.
2.  In mid-June, I ate a nice warm bagel.  Sesame.  The seeds stuck in my teeth.
3.  In late June, I swam from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara. Boy, my arms were tired.
4.  In early July, I ate a nice warm bagel.  Onion.  The onions stuck in my teeth.
5.  In mid-July, I took up surfing.  I didn't care for it.
6.  In late July,  I caught my dog counter-surfing.  Bad doggy!  Give me back my nice warm bagel.
7.  In early August, I went to Xanadu.  I met Olivia Newton-John and Gene Kelly.  It was weird.
8.  In mid-August, I went to Gelson's. I bought food, put it in the fridge and it froze. Bad fridgey! 
9.  In late August, I took up opera.  Those high notes are a bitch!  I'm back to lip-synching.
10.  In late August, I ate a nice warm bagel.  Plain.  Nothing got stuck in my teeth.  Victory!

I Can't Stop My Leg

"I wanna thank you Lord for letting me stop my leg."

This is my all-time favorite Robert Klein routine.  Still funny today... unless, of course, you have Restless Leg Syndrome.

I Can't Stop My Leg - watch more funny videos

Cake!

At the celebration of my mother-in-law's 80th birthday, a festive discussion about cake:
Hubby's Aunt:  "Carol, this cake is delicious."
Me:  "I'm so glad you like it."
Hubby's aunt:  "What kind is it?"
Me:  "Mocha."
Hubby's Aunt:  "It's not mocha.  It's whip cream."
Birthday Gal:  "It's mocha whip cream." 
Hubby's Aunt:  "I doesn't taste like mocha.  It tastes like whip cream."
Scotty:  "Can I have another slice?"
Billy:  "Me, too."
Hubby's Aunt:  "Where'd you get the cake?"
Me:  "Gelson's."
Hubby's Aunt:  "I don't usually like cake.  But this is delicious."
Me:  "Remember at our one year anniversary, when we ate the top tier of our wedding cake?"
Hubby:  "It still tasted great."
Billy:  "You ate year-old cake?"
Birthday Gal:  "It's tradition."
Hubby's Aunt:  "What kind of cake was it?"
Me:  "Carrot cake.  Very big in the '80s."
Father-in-law:  "I still have the cake from my circumcision."

The Circle of Guilt

Remind me why I had children?

By now it should be obvious that the SJG comes from a rare subspecies, found mainly in Sherman Oaks.  I'm equal parts water and worry.  Last night, when the youngest son, the MC known as Scott D, arrived home later than the time he'd agreed to -- it's all there on the document I had notarized -- I couldn't help but imagine my own mother winking at me from up above, and saying, "Karma's a bitch."  Not that I ever heard her utter that phrase, but it's what came to me in my moment of "where the eff is he?" That, and the image of my parents, standing upstairs, looking down at the 18-year-old SJG, when I finally got home around, oh, let's say after 2 a.m.-ish.  They were ghost white, already sitting shiva.  In a monotone, my father said, "We've called the police.  We've called the hospitals.  We've called the fire department.  We've called the National Guard."  I commenced with the apologies.  I begged forgiveness.  I promised to never be late again.  Just like that, I'd lost their parental trust.  I had to earn it back.  I had a year abroad riding on it.  If I couldn't come home on time, how could they trust me to live safely in England?  The logic was twisted, but powerful.   I still think of that one late night I put my parents through, whenever I find myself waiting for a son to come home in one piece, God willing.  All these years later, I'm still paying for my one and only boo-boo.  The Circle of Guilt.  What goes around, comes around, baby.  On that, you can rely.  

Mother-In-Law vs. Mouse

While hubby hovered over Sahid, the Sears guy, and wrestled over fridge issues, the SJG hovered over my mother-in-law, as she wrestled with a user-friendly mouse.  A year after fixing up a room to make it pretty for a computer, she finally got the computer, a shiny, big screen Mac that she finds perplexing on every level.  "You just point the mouse and click," I said.  "Point it where?" she said.  I did my best to show her the basics.  "Look, you've got email!"  "Do I have to read it?" "Let's give it a try," I said, and showed her how to click on the stamp at the bottom of the screen.  Three messages popped up from an old friend she'd given her gmail address to, in a moment of weakness.  "Why does she have to write so much?" "It's not that long,  just a few paragraphs." "How do I get rid of it?" "Don't you want to reply?" "I'd rather call her." This computer thing may take a while to register, but I admire her for trying.  At the tender age of 80, she's faced the keyboard.  Now, if she can just figure out how to use it. 

Sunshiny Day!

It was a sunshiny day.  The birds were singing.  The butterflies were butter-flying.  A rainbow danced across the sky.  The universe self-corrected.  The SJG did my signature happy dance, a complicated series of interpretative leaps, swivels, hip moves and booty shaking, PG 13, of course.  I flashed the jazz hands.  I rejoiced.  "The fridge is fixed!  The fridge is fixed!"  In celebration, I went to the market to replace all the sh*t I'd thrown out during the Arctic Freeze.  Yes, life had returned to normal.  I love when that happens!  This morning, the birds stopped tweeting.  (See what I did there?  I know, right!)  The butterflies took leave. The rainbow evaporated.  The universe said ha, ha, just kidding.  The fridge is eff'd up again.  Eff'd up!  Again! The milk is slushy.  The half-and-half iffy.  Anyone want a beer-flavored popsicle?  Poor hubby.  He was so thrilled about the rapport he developed yesterday with Sahid, the repair guy from Sears.  Hubby so wanted to believe Sahid when he told us the door to the ice maker on our year-old fridge wasn't properly shut and that caused things to freeze up.  "Really?" I said.  "You don't believe me?" asked Sahid.  "Well," I said, "I want to, I do."  "I'm telling the truth," Sahid said.  Hubby went with it.  This, in itself, is a miracle because hubby would've been the only one to open and shut the door to the ice maker.  It's a manly job.  The SJG doesn't go there.  So if the door to the ice maker hadn't been properly shut, that means one thing.  The SJG wasn't the one to eff up the fridge!  I loved when that happens!  And yet, on the eve of my 32nd wedding anniversary, did I rub that in, point fingers and guffaw?  What?  You don't think I've learned a few things over the last 32 years?  All I did was squint and look perplexed.  Because there's no way hubby didn't close the ice maker door.  You hear a click when you shut it.  Hubby's all about the click.  He's conducted lectures on the subject.  But it was fun for a minute to think he caused the problem.  I love when that happens.  It's so rare.  And, in this case, not true.  Clearly, something else is eff'ing with the year-old fridge.  Sahid is on his way over right now.  Don't worry, I'll be nice.  I'll only cackle for a minute or two and then say, "Welcome back, Sahid!  Would you care for a beer popsicle or a milk slushy?" 

Pause Me

Sometimes starring at myself in the mirror during dance class can be a little unsettling.  It's not just the self critique of, "Aw, I see where those cookies went," that gets me.  That part, I can handle. I've had this body for a while now.  It is what it is.  Am I right, gals?  It's the eye contact with my inner self I find challenging.   There I am, with all my mishegas.  And just like that, a familiar soundtrack starts to play:  "What-if-why-did-how-come-blah-blah."  So, this morning, I'm heading on over to Pep Boys to have a pause button permanently installed over my pupik.  Whenever my mind starts to wander into dangerous territory, I will press my belly button and put myself on pause.  I wished I'd thought of this sooner, because I think it's genius, but I didn't.  I was too busy composing my greatest hits. 

Cosmo Girl

"Ta da, bitches!  I'm editor of Cosmo, and you're not!"

 Few know that the SJG has based my life on the words and wisdom of Helen Gurley Brown, a smart Jewish gal who figured out a few things about men and women during her 90 years on earth.  Here are just some of HGB's empowering ideals I've tried to emulate:
1. “Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.”
2. “Beauty can't amuse you, but brainwork—reading, writing, thinking—can.”
3. “My success was not based so much on any great intelligence but on great common sense.”
4. "Never fail to know that if you are doing all the talking, you are boring somebody.”
5. “Nearly every glamorous, wealthy, successful career woman you might envy now started out as some kind of schlepp.”
6. “What you have to do is work with the raw material you have, namely you, and never let up.”
7. "If you’re not a sex object, you’re in trouble.”
8. “A man likes to sleep with a brainy girl. She’s a challenge. If he makes good with her, he figures he must be good himself.”
9. “Money, if it does not bring you happiness, will at least help you be miserable in comfort.”
10. “How could any woman not be a feminist? The girl I’m editing for wants to be known for herself. If that’s not a feminist message, I don’t know what is.”
11. “After you're older, two things are possibly more important than any others: health and money.”
12. “One of the paramount reasons for staying attractive is so you can have somebody to go to bed with.”
13. “You can have your titular recognition. I'll take money and power.”
(quotes courtesy of Daily Beast)

A Little Confused

"Gee, I thought I had things figured out."

This morning, I had to issue some important reminders to various members of the SJG household.  "You are not a kitty," I told Dusty, as he licked a bowl of half and half left out on the counter... to defrost.  "You are not a freezer," I told the top part of the fridge.  "You're supposed to keep food cold, silly, not turn everything into a popsicle.  That's the freezer's job.  Capiche?" Apparently not.  Last night, hubby adjusted things and told the fridge to get its sh*t together.  Did it listen?  No, it froze up.  It went and iced up on us, just days after the warranty ran out.  Coincidence?  I think not.   So, to review.  A dog that thinks it's a cat.  A fridge that thinks it's the Good Humor truck.  Let's hope the universe self-corrects.  I'm not ready to put out a litter box.  I'm not ready to break a tooth on a brick of Greek yogurt.  I need someone to step forward and accept blame so  I can go on with my day.  Any takers?

Can This Marriage Be Saved?

The SJG was so happy to get out of Sherman Oaks last night, I would've seen any movie playing in Santa Monica.  It was so lovely to see the ocean, and sit in an icy cool theater alongside hubby and my cuzzy and his gorgeous wife, the gal I call Lil Sis, even though she's from a whole other gene pool, and to later dine al fresco, that you could have shown me "The True Story of Rice" and I would've been giddy.  The movie we saw:  "Hope Springs."  Alternate title:  "Old Farts Stuck In A Stale Marriage." Meryl Streep wears some of her frumpiest clothes to date.  Tony Lee Jones brings craggy to a new level.  She wants more.  He wants less.  She wants couples counseling.  He wants to watch golf.  They sleep separately.  They never touch.  Oy gevalt.  Can this marriage be saved?  I won't give it away, but you may be able to guess on your own.  All in all, a nice film with a powerful message: Go home and have sex, already!

Don't Have A Cow, Man!

It's always fun to remind the eldest of some of his gold medal toddler tantrums.  The eldest had the most epic meltdowns.  Unfortunately, the SJG had no Olympic training for these events.  I couldn't keep it together on the balance beam, no matter how hard I tried.  At first, I'd try my soothing voice. "It's okay."  "You're okay."  I'd say, "It must be scary to feel like that."  And then, I pretty much went ape-sh*t.  Maybe if I'd said, "Don't have a cow, man," he would've giggled and stopped.  But this catch phrase never came to me, probably because the thought of having an actual cow was too painful to consider.  Giving birth to a baby was hard enough.  But a cow?  It hurts just to think about.  So, when the eldest had a cow at Travel Town, and screamed all the way to the parking lot, I had a cow, too.  When he had a cow at Cirque du Soleil, I had a Milk Dud and pretended I didn't know him.  That was a good day.  Do I miss his tantrums, his complete and udder cows? (See what I did there? Forgive me.)  Uh, no.  Over time, he learned to control his monstrous temper.  Over time, I learned how to handle my sh*t better.  And, if things go according to the SJG Life Plan, God willing, the next cow anyone near and dear throws will arrive courtesy of one of his children.  If there's any justice in the universe, the eldest will father a cute carbon copy of himself.  If karma works its magic, the eldest will call me up sometime in the future, and say, "Mom!  He's having a cow.  What should I do?"  At which point, I will say, calmly, "I have no clue, honey."

Too Freakin' Hot

Early in the morning and it's too hot to blog.  Ann Miller, a Tall Jewish Gal/Tap Dancin' Queen, understands my dilemma.  Here's "Too Darn Hot" from "Kiss Me Kate."  Just for you!  And she doesn't even break a sweat.  Maybe cuz she's got a fan.  Lyrics provided for your convenience. Sing along if you're not too hot. 

Farm Girl

The other night, when we arrived at our friends' house for dinner, their four-year-old daughter came up to me and whispered, "I like presents."  I whispered back, "I do, too."  So I started to think about gifts and how some of the best ones are unexpected.  It's not your birthday, it's not your anniversary.  It's just a day when someone you adore and vice versa decides to do something special for no reason at all.  I got just such a gift yesterday.  Pardon me while I over-emote:  There I was at the gym, awaiting the wonderful Connie Ray, star of so many things (credits available upon request).  Picture the SJG on the elliptical machine, warming up, when in walked the glamorous Ms. Ray, a tall drink of mountain spring water, the original Farm Girl, with two large cucumbers and a bag of cherry tomatoes, orange, red and yellow.  My first thought was, "Is she going to make a salad right here?"  My second thought was, "Oh, no, was I supposed to bring dip?"  I admit, those giant cucumbers threw me off, momentarily.  The cucumbers looked out of place among the treadmills and other muscle-building equipment for ladies who strive to look buff.  It's quite possible, although I don't have any concrete proof, that Connie may be the only woman at the all-gal gym to ever enter the workout area clutching two cucumbers and a bag of very pretty tomatoes.  As I pondered what Connie planned to do with those veggies -- swack someone on a cell phone, perhaps? -- she handed them to me.  "These are from my garden, they're for you."  Well, I was so excited, so touched -- it's not every day someone who's appeared on Broadway hands you a homegrown cuke! -- that I nearly fell off my elliptical and sustained bodily injury.  It's hard enough balancing on that thing, without juggling two cucumbers and a bag of tomatoes.  "Thank you," I said.  "I can't wait to put these in my salad tonight."  And guess what?  That's exactly what I did.  I chopped up one of the cucumbers, I decorated the lettuce with pops of cherry tomato goodness, and my family went cray-cray over said veggies!  Connie got some of the best reviews ever.  "Delicious!"  "Tell Connie we love her cucumbers!"  "These are the greatest tomatoes ever!"  I have one cucumber left.  It's just for me.  I plan to devour it later, unless someone gets to it first.  And by someone, I mean a certain dog.  But I'm fairly certain Dusty would reject the cucumber as a chew toy. I'll keep an eye on him, just in case.

Wonderful Wino!

Back in the Pleistocene Era, somewhere around 1975-76ish, one of the SJG's major highlights as a UCLA Daily Bruin reporter, on the hunt for fast-breaking news stories, and never really finding any, was the time I got to interview George Carlin.  In person!  What, you thought I did it over the phone?  He was shy and funny and stared at the floor a lot.  Here's one of my favorite early Carlin routines:  "Wonderful Wino."  Whenever I pour myself another glass of well-traveled grape, I sing "Wonderful Wino," in honor of G.C.  Enjoy, my bleeps. Drink up.  L'chaim to you and yours.

Let's Take A Guilt Excursion!

The SJG is proud to announce the opening of my new travel agency, SJG Guilt Excursions.  I will take you where you don't particularly want to go, and strand you there till you get the message.  I will ask, "Are you listening to me?" approximately 120 times.  I will ask, "Where did I go wrong?" maybe 92 times, maybe 93, depending on my mood.  I will look you in the eye, tap you on the side of your keppy, and ask, "What do I have to do to get through to you?" 84 times, consecutively.  I will repeat the phrase, "You're not the only one on the planet," 58 times.  I will sigh heavily.  I will gather personal information.  I will hack into your brain.  I will interview your relatives, those alive and those not.  I will regale you with tales of how you've let down the people who loved you most.  I will remind you of every missed opportunity and all the other nice things you've selfishly squandered for no good reason.  After constant berating and painful reminders, if -- God willing -- what I'm saying starts to sink in, or you convince me I'm reaching you, even if I'm not, then you  get to come home, empty the dishwasher, take out the trash and make your bed.  Call 1-800-ENABLER to book your complimentary Guilt Excursion.  It's free. But don't get too excited.  There are hidden psychological fees.  You'll pay dearly for this trip.

Them's Fightin' Words

Big Monkey: I'm getting tired of your meddling. This coffee table ain't big enough for the both of us and I'm going to give you 24 hours to get out. If I see you in Sherman Oaks by this time tomorrow, it's you or me!
Little Monkey:  I'll see you at this time... tomorrow.

Daytime Schlepwear

The SJG doesn't need a mat to nap

Today my close friend and fellow dog walker Cheryl sent me an item on daytime sleepwear: the greatest idea ever.  Why not go to sleep in your nightgown that looks like an actual dress, and wear it throughout the day, then wear it to bed again?  Sorry.  The SJG thinks this is the worst idea ever.  I'm far too lazy to wear a chic  nightgown/daygown combo.  I prefer to look rumpled  as I schlep through my day, changing outfits according to my whims.  My in-house schlepwear is seasonal, of course.  In the summer, I wear old comfy Nike shorts, in case I need to run a marathon at a moment's notice. When I go outside on one of my various exciting errands, I wear slightly newer Nike shorts, in case I need to chase someone in the market.  "That's my marble rye!"  In chillier times, I wear old sweatpants indoors, and old jeans when I go outside.  I'm sure you're thinking my indoor schlepwear and my outdoor schlepwear sound awfully similar.  You are correct.  But here's the point, if there is one, yes, of course there is, be patient, it's coming.  The SJG doesn't need a transitional nightie to take a daytime snooze.  I don't need an outfit to nod off, unexpectedly.  I don't need a bed.  I can sit at the computer and suddenly doze off, mid-sentence, mid-afternoon, until my head jerks forward or backward and the whiplash wakes me up.  In this way, I'm disturbingly middle-aged, and always dressed appropriately for the occasion.

Wednesday Night A Go Go

The Rapper we call Scott D at the Whisky

Here's a shocker.  The SJG has never been to the famous Whisky on the Sunset Strip.  Not once have I set foot into the grungy mecca of rock n' roll.  Not till last night, when I submitted to an airport-style pat down  -- "Oh, that tickles!" -- and a search for weaponry -- I was packing an inhaler and lip gloss.  The bouncer let me in anyway.  I was there to see a young man I gave birth to, many years a go go.  When he popped out, I don't recall the OB saying, "He's a 10 on the Apgar chart for rapping."  But that's where I'm at these days.  At the Whisky on a Wednesday night, with hubby, and the eldest and his roomie, and Tim, my brother's longtime beau, cheering on Scott D.  John was stuck on a set somewhere, texting his dismay that he couldn't make it in time.  But he was there in spirit.  The performance was a thrill and a half.  A bounty of kvelling. "Look at him up there on stage, doing his thing."  Scott D at the mic, backed by his good buddy Charlie Fenning and his jazz band.  The musicians and the rapper, they all  kicked ass, fo sheezy.  And now it's on to the next gig:  A new college.  A better place to shine.

Olympic Kvell Time

Jews everywhere are kvelling over Aly Raisman.  What's not to love?  She did her floor routine to Hava Nagila.  Mazel tov!  Double click for full kvell.