Saturday, April 30, 2016

The Cloak of Wisdom Costs Extra

Every now and then, more then than now, someone stops me on the street and asks me something pithy. Why this happens, I cannot tell you. Maybe I just look like someone with all the answers. Maybe it's that cloak of wisdom I bought on eBay. The other day, I was standing on the corner of Ventura and Kreplach, minding my own business, as opposed to the universe's, when a dapper-looking fellow turned to me. "Excuse me, but are you the Short Jewish Gal?" "I am. What's it to ya?" "It's an honor to meet you." "I know, right?" "There's something I've always wanted to ask you." "I'm listening." "What is the guiding principle of your life?" "I always wait for the light to change."

Friday, April 29, 2016

On The Street Where You Live

Dear SJG,
I am writing to you on behalf of the Little Bit Shady Homeowner's Association. On a recent stroll, I noticed you have unauthorized signage on your roof, declaring, "Home of the SJG.  Enter at your own risk, bitches." Per our governing documents, "No sign or flag of any kind shall be displayed in public view without written consent of the Board." Your signage doesn't have Board approval and will need to be removed, immediately. Feel free to contact me, but it won't do you any good. That sign is coming down. Today.
Sam Schmohawk

Dear Schmohawk,
Without the sign, how will I know if I'm on the street where I live?

Thursday, April 28, 2016

And Now This

At 8:30 last night, the SJG made the following announcement:
"I am now going to do a very brave and courageous thing."
"What?" hubby asked.
"I'm going to turn off my phone."
"Why?" hubby asked.
"Because I get way too involved in nothing."

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Charged-Up, Emojically

Yesterday, I received this thoughtful, emoji-charged email from my very thoughtful, equally-silly friend Anne: "Are you guilty of being linguistically incompetent?" 
(Answer: How dare you!) 
"I'm calling on the powers of the SJG to shed light. Have we failed at wearing grown up pants? Are we going to forever succumb to the taunting need to behave like adolescents? Is that a good thing?"
(Answer: Hell yes, it's a good thing.) 
"Must we be role models even during playful writing rallies?"
(Answer: Eff no!)
"Is it truly a sign that we are incapable of being adults if we use emojis? I'm embarrassed to say they make me happy. I know you will take the proverbial emoji ball⚽️🏀🏈⚾️🏉🎱⛳️and run with it. Show us the emoji way, our fearless leader! Take us there🚗🚌🚲🚛🚘🚖🚃🚅⛵️🚀! I know you can! XO Anne"

The source of Anne's emoji rant? A snarky Brit disses the use of emoticons, deeming them "pedestrian and unimaginative...annoying," adolescent and blah blah blah. Well! He can shove it up his arse:

So today, allow me to (once again) defend the use of emjois. I love them. I cannot text without them. It's physically impossible. Just ask my sons. Ask hubby. Ask my brother John. Ask my closest friends. A text without an emoji is like a day without a regulated dose of SJG Serotonin Enhancer (awaiting FDA approval.) I simply must punctuate my thoughts with a smile, a wink, a smirk. I simply must emphasize my over-the-top love and complete, smothering adoration with many hearts and kissy faces. If this makes me less of a grown up, thank God. Many of my texts are riddled with exclamation points, too! I can't help it. I just can't. And, while we're on the subject, my texts break all the rules in "Elements of Style." So there!
By going apesh*t with emojis, I get it all out of my system before I attempt to write something serious and scholarly. What's that? I never attempt to write anything serious and scholarly? You make a good point. But if I ever did,  the document in question would be emjoi and exclamation-point free. On that, I can assure you, bitches!

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Kind Of A Big Dill

Kosher pickles.  So many wonderful benefits.  What say we take a peek at a few?  Okay, if you insist:
1.  Appetite suppressant.  Eat a jar, I dare you.  A whole jar.  You'll be so bloated, you won't eat for at least a week.  You'll drop pounds like nobody's business.
2.  People Repellent.  A pickle a day keeps the unwanted house guests away.  Who wants to be near all that burping?  Those freeloaders will pack their bags and be at a hotel before you know it.
3.  Instant Grief Relief.   Stick a nice fat slice of a good kosher "p" on each eyelid and wait.  All that salt. All that stinging.  All that pent-up emotion.  Within minutes, you'll be weeping.  Later, you'll feel better.
4.  Dimply Skin Deterrent.  Rub a pickle on the problem area.  Soon you'll develop a rash.  You'll never wear a bathing suit or shorts again. Keep the lights low wherever you go.  No one has to know about your unsightly human flaws.
5.  Shoe Shiner.  Cut up some pickles and rub them over your best shoes.  The chemicals will give them a lovely protective shine.  Only downside, those pretty pumps are now permanently stained with green pickle juice.  What were you thinking?  Don't believe everything the SJG tells you.  

Monday, April 25, 2016

You Shouldn't Ask

Oy. This guy.

When Jacob was finally given an exit visa by the Russians and allowed to emigrate to Israel, he was told he could only take what he could put into one suitcase. At Moscow airport, he was stopped by customs and an official shouted, "Open your case at once."
Jacob did what he was told. The official searched through his case and pulled out something wrapped in newspaper. He unwrapped it and saw it was a bust of Stalin.
"What is that?" he shouted at Jacob.
Jacob replied, "You shouldn't ask, 'What is that?' - you should ask, 'Who is that?' That is our glorious leader Stalin. I'm taking it to remind me of the wonderful things he did for me and the marvelous life that I am leaving behind."
The official sneered. "I always knew you Jews were mad. Go, and take the bust with you."
When Jacob arrived at Ben Gurion airport, a customs officer said, "Shalom, welcome to Israel, open your case, please!"
Jacob's case was once again searched and not surprisingly the bust was found. "What is that?” asked the officer.
Jacob replied, "You shouldn't ask, 'What is that?' - you should ask, 'Who is that?' That is Stalin, the bastard. I want to spit on it every day to remind me of all the suffering and misery he caused me."
The official laughed, "I always knew you Russian immigrants were mad. Go, and take the bust with you."
When Jacob arrived at his new home, his young nephew watched him as he unpacked. Jacob carefully unwrapped the bust of Stalin and put it on the table. "Who is that?" asked his nephew.
Jacob replied, "You shouldn't ask, 'Who is that?' - you should ask, 'What is that?' That is five kilos of gold."

Sunday, April 24, 2016

The Shanda Of It All

"Hi, Manny. This is the SJG. I'd like a refund on that 'Cadillac of briskets' you sold me. It was more like a Yugo. A lemon. A letdown. The brisket wasn't tender, Manny. It wasn't even semi-tender. It pains me to say it out loud, Manny, but the brisket was tough. Sure, my family said it was still delicious. If that's not faint praise, what is? The shanda of it all. One bite in, Not-So-Great Uncle Seymour lost a tooth. A tooth, Manny! An incisor, yet! He's sending me the dental bill, which I will then forward to you. So, as for that Yelp review you wanted me to write, here it is. How do you like it so far, Manny?"

Saturday, April 23, 2016

The Brissing of the Brisket

This morning, Manny, the Brisket Broker sent over his good friend Barnie, the Brisket Mohel, to perform the ceremonial brissing of the brisket. As any good brisket maven knows, you cook the brisket the day before and refrigerate. On Seder Day, someone other than you (God forbid you should cut yourself; you've already burned your hand twice while shlepping the thing in and out of the oven) gently circumcises the top layer of fat off with a sharp knife. A fatty brisket is a Passover Shanda. (It's right there in the Haggadah, if you read between the lines.) Later, before the hungry ones arrive, you'll re-heat the meat and it'll be so ridiciously tender and delish, they'll be coming back next year for more, with or without an invitation.

Friday, April 22, 2016

I Came In Like A Matzoh Ball

Dear SJG,
Why is this Jewish holiday you keep talking about different than other Jewish holidays?
Enough Already With The Passover Talk

Dear Enough Already,
Passover is different than other Jewish holidays because, despite all the "tonight we recline" business, there's no reclining. It's more like collapsing. Passover gives me a whole new list of things to kvetch about, which is why I love it so. And yet, like all Jewish holidays, Passover carries my favorite empowering message: "They tried to kill us. They failed. Let's eat."
You're Welcome,

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Manny, The Brisket Broker

"His name is Manny. What a mensch..."

"Shalom. You've reached Manny, the Brisket Broker. Why shlep around, searching for a good deal on brisket? Who has time for that nonsense? Let Manny, the Brisket Broker, shlep for you. I'll find you the best deal per pound and the best cut and deliver it to your door myself. I know all the best butchers in the better parts of Sherman Oaks, Encino and Tarzana. Let me shop around and procure a primal cut of beef that will make your mispocha plotz with joy. Let me ask the four questions of brisket buying: 1. What grade - prime, choice or select? 2. Kosher or non-kosher? 3. Price per pound? 4. Terms of Tenderness? God forbid, you should serve your people a tough slice. You'll never hear the end of it. You'll be the brunt of bad brisket stories from this seder on. Don't let it happen. Let Manny find you the best for less. Leave a message, along with your FICO score, and I'll get back to you as soon as humanly possible. Happy Pesach to you and yours."

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Have You Seen This Seder Plate?

Mine looks like this one. Give it back, you.

Missing Yet Again: One seder plate.

Color: Blue and white.

Last seen: In the kitchen. In the cabinet closest to the toaster oven. Bottom shelf. In the vicinity of the Matzoh Man, the Thanksgiving Pilgrim Hats, the "Guess Who's Engaged?" Banner (A Mother Can Dream Edition), and the "Mazel Tov, You're A Grandma!" Napkins (Kina Hora, Poo Poo Poo Edition).

If found, please contact the SJG, telepathetically. Or via email, if you prefer.

No questions asked.


One or two questions asked, along the lines of, "Where the bleep did you find the seder plate?"  & "What took you so long to return it?"

Reward: A nice big smothering SJG hug of gratitude. What? You were expecting money?

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The People Avoider

An example of avoidance

One day, maybe not that far off, the world will be run by one giant multi-purpose app.  Do I look forward to that day?  Not so much. But there is one app I'd like to buy from the App Store today:  the People Avoider App. All you'd have to do is enter the names of the various people you'd like to avoid for the rest of your life.  Come on, we've all got a few of those contacts we'd like to permanently delete. Just yesterday, I saw a woman I actually sued.  I'm not a litigious type, believe me.  This is the only person I've ever sued, and at least once or twice a year, I see her somewhere.  "Oh bleep," I whispered to my friend Zelda, "there she is again." "Who?" "You know who."  "Oh, we hate her."  "Yes, we do." The last time Zelda and I met at the same restaurant, we saw someone she didn't want to see.  Someone who had threatened to sue her.

There must be a better way to avoid you.

But imagine if we had the People Avoider App at our fingertips. We'd never have to see these people again. The People Avoider App would locate them and forewarn us. I see no drawbacks to such a joyous app, other than a serious weeding out of all the places you like to go on any given day. "Oh, bleep!  I can't go to CVS for my Extra-Strength Tolerance refill. So-and-so is there."  "Oh, bleep!  I can't go to the movie theater on Ventura. So-and-so is there, and he's sitting in the seat I wanted." So you'll see the movie another time. You'll eat at a different restaurant.  Better to avoid than get aggravated. That's the SJG way.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

SJG Boulevard

An aging blogger refuses to accept that her international fan base has dwindled. She hires a handsome young blogger to help launch her social media comeback. The hunky blogger believes he can take advantage of her page views, but soon finds out he is wrong. Her refusal to let go of her shrinking readership leads to an ugly, not to mention violent, poolside blogger-on-blogger brouhaha, during which a beloved chaise, faded from the Sherman Oaks sun, winds up in the shallow end.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Just Press Start

"I set up the dishwasher."
"Did you turn it on?"
"How does that help me?"
"It doesn't." 

Thursday, April 14, 2016

By The Seaside

Sometimes sameness is a good thing.  Important to wake up next to the same hubby every morning. To find a stranger next to me would most likely elicit a deafening, blood-curdling geshrei.  So in this case, sameness wins.  Same for the dulcet tones of the eldest  and youngest sons calling me "da mama" on a regular basis. Should two young men I neglected to give birth to suddenly call me "da mama," I might need a quick refresher course on my own gynecological history. This is the sort of newness that would mess with the SJG and require an extended stay at whatever funny farm my insurance covers.  Sameness: Thumbs-up. But not everything can stay the same.  That would be a snooze-fest. Sometimes, the SJG must mix it up with a tinge of variety.  I'm proud to announce I've changed the ringtone on my iPhone.  Two years of Old Fashioned Ringtone  have brought me nothing but tsouris.  It would appear that every human within a 5,000 mile radius has the same freaking ringtone.  Anywhere I go, I hear an old phone going off.  How does this help me?  It doesn't.  I can only reach for my phone to see who's calling me, and find out the answer is no one, so many times before the disappointment seeps into my soul and refuses to leave.

So, the other day, when I heard the eldest's iPhone play a jaunty seaside tune, I started to dance and pout, simultaneously. "What's that? I want that. Gee, that's peppy." "It's my new ringtone. By the Seaside," the eldest said. "I want it." Thanks to the spiffy new upgrade, I was able to obtain By The Seaside free of charge.  Me likey. Only problem. Every time my iPhone rings, I don't recognize my happy new tune. I'm still waiting to hear the old fashion ring. When By the Seaside played on my phone last night, I looked at the youngest and said, "Oh, honey, did you decide to change your ringtone to By the Seaside, too?" "No."  "Oh, then why am I hearing it?"  "Your phone is ringing."  Today I'll be changing back to the old fashion ring. Sometimes sameness is a good thing.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

What Is That Glorious Sound?

What, pray tell, is that glorious sound? I can't quite identify it. Is it the hum of the hummingbird? Nah-uh. The tweet of the social media-inclined tweety bird? Nyet. The nibble nibble of Shmuel the Squirrel? No, no, Nanette. Oh, I know. Is it the wooshy-woosh of palm trees in the breeze? Me thinks not. The splishy-splash of the solar-heated swimming pool? As if. Must I ask again? What, pray tell, is that glorious sound? Hang on. It's coming to me. Be patient. Oh, yes. Of course. It is the sound of nothingness. The hush-hush of nobody getting paid to hang out and hammer and drill and make random noise in the backyard. It is the sound of silence. The sound of nobody speaking a weird hybrid of Medieval English and Remedial Martian any time I ask, "When will you be done?" Why? I'll tell you why. The Vinyl Shrine is a fully-realized thing. We are now free to worship at the altar of the new, landscape-altering A/C units in peace and solitude. Some prefer a Zen garden. We have this:

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

If You Give A Dog A Bagel

Eat, puppy, eat.

For a big-time smotherer such as myself, a well-meaning enabler, a gal who enjoys watching others fress to their heart's content, the fact that the Eccentric Elderly Pup doesn't want to eat on cue pains the SJG to the depths of my being. It hurts. It hurts so much. Historically, eating has never been an issue for the canine I'm pretty sure I birthed, despite the lack of evidence. But lately, he eyes his kibble with ennui. As if to say, "This again?" Upon witnessing Dusty's rejection in action, the youngest tenant weighed in on the matter. "I'd get bored too if I had to eat that crap every day." "But he loves it," I insisted, despite the lack of evidence. What's a mamala like moi to do? Improvise. A bite of bagel brings a smile to Dusty's punim. A bisel banana, he'll gobble with glee. A schmear of cream cheese - nirvana. He's a Jewish dog, after all. These days, if I can tempt him with the food of his people, he'll eat. He can hardly wait till Passover. He's a big fan of matzoh.

Monday, April 11, 2016


Lately, I've simplified my needs. Scaled back on my big dreams. Dialed down my lofty goals. Lowered my expectations. At this stage, it's all about acceptance, right? The long legs, the lustrous hair, the math brain. Not happening. Those trains left me behind at the station. But that's okay by me. Let others be tall and swing their shiny locks in slo-mo and explain String Theory. Does the world need another hot, lanky physicist with a thick, fabulous mane? No. Not really. We've got enough of those types already. I'm down to the basic essentials. It doesn't take much to make me smile these days. A good book. A good cup of joe. A good dog shlepping slowly by my side. And yet, I'll admit, there is one thing I'd like to achieve. It's out of my comfort zone. It's beyond my grasp. Still. Just once, I'd like to wake up without several body parts in pain. Today it's my left forearm and my right heel. Yesterday it was... who can remember? Maybe my left shin and my right calf. In my quest to be healthy and fit, I'm falling apart. But like I said, these days, I'm keeping it simple. Re-visiting WebMd, hourly. Diagnosing myself. I don't need a concierge healer on the payroll. I know what I have to do. My new mantra: "SJG, Heal Thyself."

Sunday, April 10, 2016

Domestically Speaking

Over here at SJG Headquarters, we've been replacing old stuff that works okay, in my humble opinion, with newer stuff that works better, in hubby's opinion. Out went the noisy and smallish A/C units, perfectly camouflaged in the backyard with a nice vinyl trellis. In came the more energy-efficient, industrial-size units that purr like kitties and require a Trump-size wall to conceal. You could say that domestically speaking, the SJG and hubby view the household differently. I prefer to delay my aggravation. I'm more of the wait-till-it-breaks type of gal. It will be aggravating and cost too much, but I'll deal with it when I have no choice. Hubby prefers his aggravation early, served fresh with a bottomless cup of added expenses we didn't anticipate. He's more of the why-wait-let's-get-it-over-with-now type of fella. That's just how the hubby rolls. But as long as he doesn't decide to replace me with a more efficient, less-kvetchy model, I can survive the latest invasion of workmen.

Saturday, April 9, 2016

If You Must Know

1.  What is your current position on Global Kvetching?
Answer:  It's 100 percent justified.
2.  How much do you weigh?
Answer:  Some days more, some days less.
3.  Why do celebrities look that good? 
Answer:  God forbid they should look bad.
4.  Would you feel safe in a driverless car?
Answer:  Have you met me? No.
5.  How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?
Answer:  Plenty wood. But please, let him chuck elsewhere. My fence is already falling apart.
6.  If you were running for president, what would your platform be?
Answer:  "Free kugel for everyone!"
7.  What's it like to be a famous international blogger?
Answer:  It's better than a kick in the head.
8.  Is it true that in a previous life, you were taller?
Answer:  With my luck, I was shorter.
9.  Did you take your silly pill today?
Answer:  I doubled the dosage.
10.  Will you visit the moon when flights become available?
Answer:  Have you met me? No.

Friday, April 8, 2016

SJG Fortune Cookies

You're right, cookie. I will blog about this. Sure, Jewish Fortune Cookies already exist in various forms. But what about Short Jewish Gal Fortune Cookies? A few samples:

"Someone under 5'2" will nag you soon."
"You will succeed in all your endeavors, or else, someone close to you will weep."
"If a tree falls in Sherman Oaks, no one gives a @#$%."
"You will meet a short person. Don't make fun of her height, or she'll kick you in the yarbles."
"Go out and do, stay in and rot."
"A horse is a horse, of course, of course. Except when it's not."
"Some days we stumble more than others. Get your eyes checked. You'll thank me later."
"Have some kugel. You know how long it took to make?"
"A blintz casserole will soon be at your doorstep."

With a little mazel, SJG Fortune Cookies will soon join my ever-growing line of products:
SJG Shower Keps
SJG What Day Is It? Planners
SJG Idle Threats T-Shirts, Sweatshirts and Mugs that say, "Behave, Or I'll Take Away Everything."

Thursday, April 7, 2016

The Almosts

As a wise, internationally-acclaimed blogger once said, "It's the almosts that hurt the most." What do I mean by the almosts? Shall we start with what I don't mean?

The Almosts are not a family of orangutans that almost rented the house next door for the summer.

The Almosts are not a family of bagpipers that almost rented the house next door for the summer. And thank God on both counts.

So what are they, then? Be patient. I'm about to tell you. The Almosts are those wonderful, potentially life-changing things that almost happen. They're supposed to happen. They're scheduled to happen. They're already on the calendar. All signs point to a big fat, "Hey, look what's happening, bitches!" But then, in terms of happening, they just don't... happen. Why? All sorts of lame-ass reasons. Mainly, the universe pulls the rug out from under your tuchas and says, "Never mind." Which is why the almosts hurt the most. They feel so close, so real, that you just have to brag in your understated way. You just have to tell everyone. And then when it turns to ka-ka, you have to swallow your pride. You have to doubleback and say, "Uh yeah, so that's not happening."

It's the almosts that are hard to shake. But shake, you must. Otherwise, you'll sink into a scalding cauldron of deep despair, and what good will that do? Not much. So listen to the SJG. Shake, shake, shake, sistah. Shake it, don't break it, brutha. You heard me. Shake. It. I'm shaking, spasmodically right now. Come join me, won't you?

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

What's The Meaning of This?

What does it say about the SJG when every Post-It, every scribble I find stashed in drawers and hidden between piles of bills relates to food?

Why do I only find lists of what food to buy? What dish to order for take-out? Why not something more substantial? More how-to-change-the-world? More how-to-support-this-chartity? That-charity? More life-changing in every way?

What does it all mean? Anyone? Anyone?

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

It's A Sign

The SJG never goes looking for signs. Why? I'll tell you why. Because when I look for a sign, it comes up blurry and it's time to get my eyes checked. Clear signs only happen (on the rarest of rare occasions) when I'm not in the market for them. Actually, I was in the market yesterday when something unusual happened. Just as I parked my cart, Estella, my favorite cashier, turned to Jimmy, the bag guy, and said, apropos of bupkis, "Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?" I thought I was hearing wrong. "Estella, did you just say, 'Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?' " "Yes, I did." "My dad came up with that line." "He did?" "Yes. He wrote for 'Diff'rent Strokes.' When you said that, it made me smile. I miss him so much." "Ever watch 'Long Island Psychic? There's a reason I said it. He's checking in with you." "Really?" "I never say, 'Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?' but I said it just now, out of nowhere. Your father is sending you a sign. He's always with you." "I'll take it. Thank you, Estella. You made my day." "I'm so glad. That'll be $124.62."

Here's my dad explaining to Dan Harrison, mensch of all mensches, how "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" came to be (courtesy of EMMYTVLEGENDS.ORG).

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Where's The SJG?

Early Socialization, 1962:  Find the SJG

Somewhere in this photo, sits the young and innocent SJG.  Which little girl am I? The one with the curly mop and terrified look?  The one whose smile says, "Bitch in training"?  The one with the headband and sour punim?  One hint:  I'm not in the first row.  Don't those boys look like they're up to something, and whatever it is, can't be good?  Back in '62, before nursery school got a name change and became pre-school, those little troublemakers, those pint-sized putzes set off major hysteria in the Starr house.  "We hate to alarm you," the head of the school told my poor mom over the phone, "but Carol is missing."  "Oh, gee, is that all?  I'm sure you'll find her.  She loves to play hide and seek.  See ya at noon."  This is not what my mother said.  She probably said, "Oh my God, oh dear God, oy veysmere," then hopped in the car and sped down the canyon.  By the time she arrived, joined by other panic-stricken moms who'd gotten the same call, the crack security team had already located the four missing girls.  We'd been locked in the playhouse on the yard.  That's right.  The yard.  The guilty party:  the boys in the front row.  To find me, just look for the little girl who wants to say, "Rot in hell, you sick little bastards," but hasn't quite developed the vocabulary.  That's me. (Second row, far right, Audrey Hepburn 'do, in pants and striped shirt.)

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Prank-Less In Pasadena

"Oy, what fools these mortals be!"

Dear SJG,
I'm so distraught I don't know what to do, so I turn to you, Maven of the Kvetch Department, always open, no appointment necessary, in hopes that you, President and CEO of Hope For The Best, Expect The Worst, Inc., will help me through my latest issue. Yesterday was April Fools Day and no one, not one person, played a prank on me, or tried to trick me in any conceivable way. Not one person said, "Your thong is showing... Made you look." Which would have been a good one, since I don't even wear a thong. Although, I used to wear thongs, the forerunner of flip-flops until some dude invented the thong and people of a certain age were forbidden by law to call cheap-ass sandals that do nothing to support you feet thongs. I'm assuming a dude invented the thong because no woman in her right mind would come up with wedgie-style undies and call it sexy or comfortable. So, my question to you is this: Since no one tried to prank me on April Fools Day, what does that say about me?
Prank-Less in Pasadena

Dear Prank-Less,
What it says is this: You're old. There's no fun in pranking the elderly. Pranking the elderly could lead to sudden death, and no one wants that on their conscience.
You're Welcome,

Dear SJG,
Since when is 58 old?
Pissy in Pasadena

Dear Pissy,
Since the beginning of time.
You're Welcome,

Friday, April 1, 2016

Simple Math

When the people you hired to repair (or replace) big important expensive household items announce that the work will be done...

... or maybe the day after that, or after-after that, for the sake of your own sanity, add at least two, or better yet, four days to the equation. 

And when those same people you hired reverse just about everything they told you on that day you signed the "estimate"... when those same people still aren't done with whatever the bleepity-bleep they're repairing (or replacing), for the sake of your own sanity, simply multiply your aggravation by five, then subtract 94 days from your life expectancy. By then, all your warranties will have run out, anyway.