Sunday, December 17, 2017

The Scream Heard Round The Delivery Room

Exactly 26 years ago today, the SJG hollered, "GET THIS THING OUT OF ME NOW!'" while giving birth to this handsome guy right here. Little did I know that "this thing" would be so many wonderful things: a sports fanatic since the age of three, a music maven since the age of four, a driveway basketball player providing color commentary on himself, an all-round hilarious, sensitive, thoughtful, well-informed mensch, a drummer, a rapper, a great son/brother/friend... the list goes on and on. So happy birthday to you, Scotty. And many more. You bring me such joy and laughter on a daily basis.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Miracle On Fairfax Avenue

Santastein is coming to town.

When Kvetch Krinkle learns that the schmendrick assigned to play Santastein in Canter's Annual Latke Parade is completely fershnikit, he rats him out to fetching single mom/deli manager Doris Plotnick. "So, quit your kvetching," Doris says, "and take his place." "Gimme a slice of that chocolate chip babka and I'll do it." She throws in some rugelach and off he goes to the parade. Naturally, he's so good at playing Santastein that Canter's hires him to boost business and they sell more lox than all the other delis on Fairfax.
But then, some conflict! When Sheila, Doris' daughter, hears Kvetch Krinkle speaking Hebrew to the Israeli bus boy, Hungarian to the dishwasher and German to the cashier, she's convinced this multi-lingual mensch is the true Santastein. "Mama, he's real!" Sheila says. "He's not real," Doris says. "He's real!" "It's a costume." "The beard is real!" "It's fake." "I hate you, Mommy." "You don't mean that." "I do, too!" Doris grounds her for life. The next day, she orders Krinkle to tell Sheila he's not the real Santastein. "Sorry, Toots, no can do." "Why not?" "I'm the real deal." "Ha ha, very funny." "I'm not kidding around." "There's no such thing as Santastein. He's just made up to make Christmas-deprived Jews feel better."

"Well, that's a jaded interpretation." "So will you tell her the truth?" "That I'm real? I'd be delighted to." "But you're just a fairytale." "A fairytale, huh? You wanna see my birth certificate?" "It couldn't hurt." "If only I could show it to you. Too bad I left it too close to the menorah one year and bye bye, birth certificate." "Oh, please. You expect me to believe that?" "Why not?" "You're fired, Kvetch." "I'm not going anywhere. This is my job." "Not anymore." Cue the plot complications! Krinkle refuses to leave. Doris calls the cops. Krinkle's taken away in cuffs and put on trial to prove he's the sanest and realest Santastein on Fairfax. Meanwhile, business at Canter's dries up faster than an overcooked Hanukkah brisket. Enter Freddy Finkelstein, a nice lawyer who takes Krinkle's case pro bono, proves he's real and in his spare time, wins over Doris. Oh, and guess who marries Doris and Freddy and nine months later performs the briss? Yep. Kvetch Krinkle. Aka, The Real Santastein.

Friday, December 15, 2017

Keep The Han In Hanukkah

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see candles breaking as they hit the prongs
There goes a red one, there goes a blue.
I take more out of the box and try again.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see educational toys stacked in closets
Rejected by the two young sons
Who only wanted Hot Wheels and Power Rangers.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I smell latkes frying in a pan
I hear the smoke detector going off
A reminder to remove the batteries next time.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see Star of David cookies I bought at Ralph's
For the second grade holiday party
A better person would've made them herself.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see me hunting for hidden gifts
Where did Mommy stash them all?
Please God, let there be an Easy-Bake Oven.

When I think of Hanukkah:
My mind spins like a wooden dreidel.
Where did all the menorahs go?
Can we get back the ones our boys made in temple?

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Spoof Your Troubles Away

"Spamilton: An American Parody"

If you're in search of hilarity, as opposed to more daily depressing crapola, then please, go, I'm telling you, go see "Spamilton" at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in hip, happening Culver City. Go before January 7 when it closes, leaving you with another thing to add to your list of regrets. Last night, I went with John, a wonderful fella who grew up in the same kooky house as me, and forever friend Laurie and her funny pal Felicia. It was a grown-up evening for the SJG. With all the schlepping and dinner-digesting, clapping and laughing, I tired myself out and fell asleep the second I got home. Sir Blakey had to put me to bed: "Good girl! Go schluffy! Night night!"

"Spamilton" is the brainchild of Gerald Alessandrini, who's spent 35 years lampooning Broadway, taking on everything from "Phantom of the Opera" and "The Sound of Music" to "Mamma Mia!" and "Spring Awakening." So why not take on "Hamilton"?

Why not take on Lin-Manuel as Hamilton? Why not call him out, gently, for his abundance of verbiage, his Sondheim fixation -- "And another hundred syllables/came out of his brain" -- his uber-earnestness? "I'm slightly obnoxious/too broad, too pained/My voice is strained/and thin/I'm Lin-Manuel!" Before you doth protest too much, and start saying, "How dare you!" it's pretty clear that the "hip-hop op'ra scholar" who just parodied himself on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" is in on the joke. His "Spamilton" review: "I laughed my brains out!" 

"I wanna be/in the film when it happens!"

Nothing is sacred in this show. Not Beyonce, Babs, J-Lo, Liza. Not Michelle. Not Barack. Not "Lion King," "Sweeney Todd," "Annie," "Rent," or so many other classics I lost count. The Broadway and pop culture asides are, as they say in the original, Non-Stop.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

What Hanukkah Means To Me

So many Hanukkah questions pouring in this morning, my head is spinning dreidel-wise. Today's query comes from Molly Blankstein of Tsuris Town, Pennsylvania:  "Hi SJG, how's ba you? Good, I hope. I was wondering if you could share some of your fondest Hanukkah memories from when you were a child."
Well, Molly, ask and ye shall receive a nice warm platter of freshly-made, metaphorical latkes. For some reason that I need to go back into therapy to pursue, I only have one very special Hanukkah memory from childhood. Just one, but it's a doozy. As a wee lass growing up in the wilds of Westwood, what with the chopping of the wood to keep the stove burning, and the schlepping eight or nine miles through the snow to shul, come Hanukkah, my family didn't go crazy celebrating the birth of Judah Maccabee. My parents scrapped together some gelt and maybe a few toys if Daddy sold a script, and did what they could to make their ungrateful... excuse me, grateful children happy. During the lean times, let's just say they got a little creative. Watching my mother ride in on her horse Sassy, carrying a giant gift-wrapped box that I knew in my heart was an Easy Bake Oven, was the Hanukkah highlight of my childhood. You see, Molly, I understood what she had to do to get that Easy Bake Oven. I won't go into too much detail, it's too painful, but I will say she served her time. I'll always treasure that one afternoon we spent together, cooking mini-cakes, pizzas and pretzels before the police came to cart my Easy Bake Oven, and my mom, away.

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Hanukkah Latke-Off

Dear SJG,
My neighbor Trixie Van Schwartz (so competitive!) just challenged me to a Hanukkah Latke-Off, to be held in her fancy-schmancy remodeled kitchen, and streamed live on Facebook. But here's the thing. I haven't made a real latke since the early '80s, after my electric potato peeler went rogue and took off a layer of skin on my right middle finger. Should I turn Trixie down? I'll never hear the end of it.
Latke Loser
Dear Loser,
It really depends on whether you want to end the year as a total failure, or face your spud-related fears once and for all. Here's what I suggest. Every day leading up to the Latke-Off, pick up a potato and a peeler - a normal one, not a nuclear-powered one, for Mose's sake, don't be a nudnik - and peel a bisel skin, the potato's - not your own. Then peel a little more on the next day, and keep going, one behavior modification at a time, until, check you out, you've peeled an entire eff'n potato without causing bodily harm. Mazel tov. By the time this competish goes live, you'll have mashed those fears like a short order cook at Maven's To Go-Go. You'll be ready to take that Trixie bitch down and lord it over her for years to come. If defeating your enemy doesn't scream Hanukkah, what does?
You're Welcome,
P.S. Maybe have a medic standing by, just in case.

Monday, December 11, 2017

I Can Hardly Wait

A conversation with my sons:
Eldest: "I don't want you to go anywhere."
Me: "Now? Or forever?"
Eldest: "Now. Stay home."
Youngest: "Don't go to dance, Ma."
Me: "You'll be asleep on the sofa."
Eldest/Youngest: "True."
Me: "I'll be back at 6:15."
Youngest: "Don't go to dance, Ma."
Me: "When I'm old, I won't go to dance."
Eldest: "You'll dance at home."
Me: "I'll dance with my caregiver."
Eldest: "By then, they'll have robot caregivers you can dance with."
Me: "By then, I may be too tired to dance. I'll just watch."
Youngest: "Ti-ti-time for your ene-ene-enema, Mrs. Schnei-schnei-schneider."
Eldest: "Ti-ti-time for your sponge bath, Mr. Schnei-schnei-schneider." 
Me: "Ti-ti-time for your Depends."
Youngest: "Ti-ti-time for your nappy-kins."
Eldest: "We're getting you a robot caregiver."
Youngest: "We are so doing that, Ma."
Me: "That's very generous, boys. I can hardly wait."

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Hard To Handle

earth friendly & lavender fumed
without you by my side, i'm doomed
so strong, wide and recyclable
you never break, you're pliable
despite your charms, i must admit
there's just one thing i can't acquit
you don't open at my command
i coax, cajole and reprimand
i try this and that, you won't budge
and it's hard not to hold a grudge
i bend to scoop, start to grimace
When I can't fetch my dog's bizness 

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Hanukkah Handout

Check out what I discovered early, and I do mean, early this morning, in the upper right hand zippy of my cute puffy jacket with the orange lining: A ten-spot. Call it my personal Hanukkah handout. My mystery gelt. Well. How did it get there? How long has it been there? Beats the kaka out of me. I'm not one to hide mula from myself. I like my cash in my wallet, not the secret compartment of a rarely-worn mini-Michelin.
The only photo I have of myself in the afore-mentioned fashion statement is this one, taken in Lawrence, Kansas on November 6, 2015, by today's celebrity birthday gal, Cathy J. Hamilton. It's quite possible the crumpled bill has been hiding in the pocket ever since. Not anymore. And I owe it all to Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. Had he not needed an early-early morning walkie, I might not have donned my puffy jacket... unzipped the secret compartment in which to hide my key from myself, so that when I returned, I could experience a moment of "where'd I put the key?"... found the long-lost $10 and turned into this decorative Hanukkah Hamilton.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Another Life Lesson

It's true, life offers so many lessons. 

Every day, another lesson. 

Today, a lesson in humility.

If you want toast

Make sure

The toaster oven

Is plugged in.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Extreme Worrier

Extreme worrier that I am, in the past two days, I've elevated my award-winning worrying to new heights. I've been so worried about the fires and the toxic air that I haven't left the house. Like 99.9 percent of Angelenos, I've been glued to the TV, watching parts of the city ignite. I flit from channel to channel, getting different views of the wind-driven flames. Yesterday, it hit a little too close to home. Not my home, but the Westside homes of my in-laws, my dearest friends, my cousin, my aunt. That's when the tears started. The proximity of it all was overwhelming. There were evacuations and near-evacuations, cars packed with belongings. My in-laws walked (slowly) around a house filled with beloved tchotchkes and art, wondering what they'd take and what they'd leave behind. Good thing they didn't have to decide. Just between us, I don't think they'd ever reach a decision. Too many memories. Too many things that mean too much. One friend wasn't allowed back in his house. Others slept in their own beds last night. Today I'll venture out, trying not to breathe in the smoky reminder that life is incredibly fragile. All we can do is proceed with caution and hope for the best.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Christmas Carols For Meshuganas

Schizophrenia -- "Do You Hear What I Hear?"
Dementia -- "I Think I'll Be Home for Christmas"
 -- "Hark the Herald Angels Sing About Me"
Manic -- "Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Stores and Office and Town and Cars and Buses and Trucks and Trees and . . ."
 -- "Santa Claus is Coming to Town to Get Me"

Social Anxiety Disorder -- "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas While I Sit Here and Hyperventilate"
Personality Disorder -- "You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pout, Maybe I'll Tell You Why"
Attention Deficit Disorder -- "Silent Night, Holy OOOOOOOOh look at the Froggy, can I have chocolate, why is France so far away?"
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder -- "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells..."

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Such A Christmas Miracle

"Teacher says every time the SJG kvetches, 
an angel gets slapped by betches." 

Let's face it. It's a festive, festive time. So overtly festive that the SJG had to request a little less of the festive yesterday. Scrooge? How dare you. I like a nice Christmas song as much as the next Jew. Sure, I'd like to walk into a place other than temple and hear "Oh, Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah" at some point in my life. Give me a riff of "Dreidel, Dreidel" as I schlep through the mall, and I'll rejoice like nobody's business. In the adorable bakery on Ventura Boulevard, all I got was Christmas music blasting at eardrum-busting levels. It was so loud, I couldn't hear myself kvetch.
I sat down and waited for the nice TV exec willing to listen to my TV movie pitch. My comfort and joy needs are pretty basic in these situations. I just want the person sitting across from me to be able to hear me talk. That's all. And so, as "Jingle Bell Rock" blared overhead, I knew what I had to do. I had to do the thing I was born to do. I had to complain. But in a nice way. "Excuse me," I said. The lady behind the counter smiled, expecting me to order a delicious pastry, or maybe a cake. "What can I get you?" she asked. "Um... do you think... is there any chance you might... consider turning down the music? I'm about to have a meeting and -- " Well, the way she looked at me, you'd have thought I'd requested two dozen croissants on the house. After the look came the sigh. And let me tell you, there was plenty judgment in that sigh. There was bah humbug in that sigh. She walked over and made a slight concession. She turned the music down, barely. "Dashing Through The Snow" came thundering out, just as the nice TV exec came inside. And somehow, we managed to block out the deafening Yuletide din and chat for over an hour, without donning our noise cancelling headphones. Can you say Christmas miracle?

Monday, December 4, 2017

I'm A Giver

Well, if this isn't exciting, what is? Today the people will line Van Nuys Boulevard and wait for the SJG to drive by in her hot pink pick-up truck, stop traffic and spread some early Hanukkah joy. "Listen, I'm a giver," the SJG said, stating the obvious, while gathering items to re-gift-away from her moving vehicle. "Pre-Hanukkah, all is right in the SJG world, kina hora, poo poo poo. So I asked myself, unselfishly, what would Judah Maccabee do with all these unused objects? Would he go to Goodwill? Would he set them down on the curb with a sign that says First Come, First Serve? Nah. He was too much of a badass to randomly redistribute the goods. He'd take control of the situation. He'd make a plan of attack. So, if I'm going to go full Maccabee, I figured, I better get busy."

Some of the re-gifts the SJG plans to toss to the people include:
1. Disco mirror ball party nightlight still in original box.
2. Gilded, automatic matzoh-breaker, for those times when you're just too tired to break matzoh yourself.
3. Farbissina, the verbally-abusive, Yiddish-speaking Cabbage Patch doll that never caught on. A collector's item!
4. Stylish latke transporter. Keeps latkes warm for a while.
5. Offensive Statement Necklace, guaranteed to get the conversation going in the wrong direction.
6. No-expensives paid trip to the Sherman Oaks Mall, to buy yourself a real gift.
7. Super sexy, slightly-worn orthopedic slippers.
8. "I Made It Out of Clay" driedel-maker.
9. Rhinestone-studded pooper scooper.
10. Scolding Rabbi Garden Sculpture.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

My Lips Don't Lie

Last night, a moment of panic at the Italian restaurant, as we gorged gratis and celebrated some nice young men who've done well. Last night, it was all about the ho, ho, mazel tov on your new company. It was all about the kibbitzing with folks I don't know, but hubby does, so it was my wifely duty to schmooze along and smile a bunch. According to my personal Yelp review, I got three out of five stars for social graces. I deducted two stars for what happened, post-calamari, pizza and pasta. As I sat there, waiting for our tiramisu, my lips conveyed an urgent message. They felt unlovely. They felt naked. They felt neglected. Well, no problema. All I had to do was reach into my evening bag and produce my lipstick and gloss. But bad things happen when I go from day to night and switch bags. I forget things. Like my lipstick and gloss. Hence, the moment of panic. I whispered to hubby, "I don't have my lipstick." "I'm sorry," he said, for he knows how much a thing like this pains me. "Can we leave?" "No." "But honey..." "Your lips look fine." "Don't lie." "I'm not." "So, they look okay?" "More than okay. They look lovely." "What about the teeth? Anything stuck in there?" "No, the teeth are good." At this juncture, dessert arrived. "One bite of tiramisu and we're out of here." "How do you feel about three bites?" "I feel better about two." "Two bites each." "Fine. Two bites and -- oh my God, this is good." "We might as well finish it." "It would be rude not to."

Saturday, December 2, 2017

I Dream of Latkes

I know, I know. The Festival of Lights isn't till December 12th. Doesn't mean I can't have the following dream in anticipation. Facebook Ho that I am, and I say that with Kardashian-style self-love, last night, I dreamt that I was trying to post the following status update: "Happy Hanukkah! Have a latke on me. And I don't mean that, literally." Exactly what is the significance of my dream status update? To find out, I rang up a few of my many former shrinks, excluding the one who had the chutzpah to plotz while I was en route to an appointment. Only Dr. Zelda Borscht, a nice lady full of Freudian theories, called me back. And here's how our brief phone session went:
"Hello dere?"
"Hi there, doc."
"Speak up. Who is dis?"
"It's me. The SJG."
"Just a sec, bubbeleh, let me turn the oxygen machine down."
"While you do that, I'll turn down the barking dog."
"My poor babushka. So you've got tsuris, my darlink, my aging shayna maideleh, my precious lil meschuggeneh. Vat else is nu?"
"Hang on. Did you say aging shayna maideleh? Look who's talking. Last time I checked, Dr. Zelda, you were 108."
"Please. Not till Tuesday. Vat's up?"
"I dreamed about latkes last night. Hanukkah isn't till the 12th at sundown. What do you think it means?"
"Vell, I'll tell you. As Siggy Freud used to say, and I paraphrase, 'Sometimes a latke is just a latke.' "
"What the hell, Dr. Zelda."
"To clarify, my tiny kugel-maker, the latkes in your dream indicate that you're craving a nice potato pancake with a dollop of sour cream. You can wait a week and a half, but why deny yourself? Go ahead and buy the frozen ones at Gelson's. They're delish."
"So, that's it? You think it's nothing more than me craving latkes? You don't think it means more? The bit about 'have one on me and I don't mean that, literally'? That says a lot, too, don't you think? As in, be my guest, enjoy a piping hot latke, but please, don't use me as your plate, because, let's face it, a) a scalding latke will burn my belly and b) haven't I been burned enough?"
"Vell, of course. That, too."

Friday, December 1, 2017



Under the chuppah on their wedding day in Chicago, December 1, 1949, my parents: Gloria and Ben Starr. Peeking past the rabbi is Charlie Isaacs, in my dad's words, "A great guy and head writer who got me on the Al Jolson show, and Martin and Lewis." Also in the photo, Jerry Lewis and his wife Patty. The man on my dad's right is Bob Redd, producer. Next to Charlie Isaac's, Sheldon Leonard. 


As my brother John likes to remind me, today would've been their 68th wedding anniversary. Even though they're not here to celebrate, I still wish John and I could step into the ol' time machine and go back to Westwood Village, late '60s/early '70s. Every year leading up to December 1st, John and I made a pilgrimage to a fancy china shop called Foster's. We counted up our savings, culled from the weekly allowances of the three Starr children, and bought our parents a nice tchotchke. 

One year, we bought twin egg coddlers like these. 

Another year, a teacup on a stand like this. 

The following year, silver hors d'oeuvre forks like these.

I'm not sure if they ever used these gifts more than once, but my mom displayed them on the antique hutch that broke my heart to part with after my dad passed away. Somewhere in my house, or maybe John's, there's a pair of egg coddlers gathering dust, a reminder of our parents, who loved each other to the moon and back for 50 years on Earth. If that's not worth celebrating, what is?

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Get Up, Stand Up

"Get up, puppy. Up. Up. Good boy. Come on, let's go. Kitchen, Blakey. Kitchen. Let me put this harness on. Oh, bleepity bleep. Seriously. Who designed this bleeping thing? Honey! Can you help me -- oh, never mind. I got it. Okay, Blakey, hang on. Stand still. Let me put the leash on. Good boy. Mommy loves you, yes I do. Come on, puppy. Let's go. Not the front door, Blakey. No walkies. Car, Blakey. Car. Car! Hang on, let me get the door. Calm down, you. Okay, okay, up you go. Good boy. Who's an angel? You are. Let me just... hang on, let me strap you in. Stop moving around. There you go. Good boy. Hang on, I know. Okay, I'm lowering the window. That's all you get. Okay, okay, off we go... don't lean out that far. Blakey, don't bark at the dog. Blakey, no. You want me to close the window? I'm closing it. There it goes. Bye bye window. Okay, okay, I'll leave it open, just a crack. Settle down, you. Settle down...."

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

There Goes Another One

"I've got some news," hubby says, early this morning.
"Is it bad?"
"It's bad."
"How bad?"
"Pretty bad."
"Is it 'someone died' bad?"
"Is it as bad as the dream I just had?"
"What was the dream?"
"I was at this huge party with people I don't know, and I wanted to leave but I couldn't find my shoes, my keys, my wallet. I'm opening drawers. I'm looking for my contacts, which I haven't worn since the '90s. Is it worse than that?"
"Okay, let's hear it. I'm ready."
"You won't believe who was fired."
"Not you."
"Not me."
"Don't make me guess."
"Matt Lauer."
"Again with the sexual harassment?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Pretty soon, there'll be no one left on the air but the gals. I kinda love that."
"I thought you might."

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

How To Sleep Defensively

Defensive sleeping reduces the risk of bedroom accidents and increases sleeper safety. A defensive sleeper follows certain rules and avoids bad sleeping habits. Defensive sleeping involves constant awareness of other sleepers and their bad habits, including, but not limited to, Royal Rescue Pups of Questionable Lineage that tend to pounce, paw, wag, shake, rotate and mattress-leap. Here are the top five defensive sleeping techniques that will help you get through the night and early morning without permanent injury to your personage:

1. Leave room for error! Account for the reckless sleeping and negligence of others in your general sleep vicinity. Leaving space between you and potential offenders, both human and canine, can save you from getting sideswiped, rear-ended or kicked in the keppy during your sleep cycle.

2. Buckle up! A defensive sleeper minimizes the risk of sleep injuries by strapping down any and all animals/humans currently co-habitating her cozy snooze zone. When other sleepers are strapped down, they can't flail, swing, hit, punch, smack or shove you off the bed.
3. Reduce speed for sleep conditions! Defensive sleepers always plan for bad sleep or mattress conditions. Defensive sleepers don't rush or speed into slumber. They take their time and look for obstacles, including prong collars, chew toys, doggy bones, iPhones, iPads, laptops and Fitbits.

4. Avoid distracted sleeping! Sleeping defensively includes avoiding all distractions above or below the covers. Distractions could endanger lives. So no talking on the phone or texting while sleeping. No eating or drinking while sleeping. Don't take your eyes off the pillow while sleeping. Don't engage in other dangerous sleep activities. No yoga, no Pilates. No Zumba, no spinning. No TRX, no kickboxing. Don't do anything but sleep while you're asleep and chances are you'll wake up alive.
5. Resist sleep rage! Sleep rage is a major cause of sleep accidents. Safety-prone sleepers may develop sleep rage when other sleepers sleep insensitively, hog the covers, curse, change positions without signaling or bark at some random outdoor noise from eight blocks away.  If someone insists on sleeping aggressively, don't get down on his, her or its level. Don't engage in any reckless or risky sleeping to prove a point. We are not asleep to police other sleepers. We are asleep because we're so exhausted we can't see straight and can barely function while awake.
The best thing the defensive sleeper can do to assure a safe night's sleep is to sleep in a separate locked room that no one human or otherwise can enter. In conclusion, don't be a dummy. Sleep defensively. You're welcome.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Royally Engaged

(Ye Olde England) This morning, Prince Harry and the lovely American actress Meghan Markle announced their royal engagement, singling out a delightful Hallmark Channel movie as the initial source of their romance. "I was at Nottingham Cottage, chilling royally, when suddenly this life-changing movie called When Sparks Fly popped up on the telly," Prince Harry explained, "and it just so happened to be written by the Royal Family's dear friend the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks. You know the SJG is our go-to on All Things Jewish. She taught Wills & Kate how to do a proper hora at their wedding. She's shared her famous kugel with us on numerous holidays. When I saw the SJG's name, I knew I was in for a fun romantic comedy with a guaranteed happy ending. And isn't that what the world needs now more than ever -- more Hallmark movies by the SJG?" The crowd of reporters responded, collectively, with, "Indeed!" and "Do tell!"

The prince continued, "Within seconds, this simply stunning actress named Meghan Markle appeared on screen and I was... what's the word the SJG always uses? Farklempt. My royal eyes bulged with intrigue, my royal heart went pitter pat, and I realized, blimey, I must meet her! I had my people call her people and in no time, I jetted, royally, to Canada and met Meghan whilst she filmed Suits. Can you say fireworks? Of course, the SJG has already reserved a spot under the chuppah, and Meghan and I plan to invite her over for bagels and lox as soon as possible. We've decided to say our vows in Yiddish, and who better to help us than the diminutive commoner who brought us together?"

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Sunday Sayings

"It’s a beautiful Sunday morning and a great opportunity 
to thank the SJG for being so silly." 

"On Sunday, do what makes your booty look good."

"There is always someone older than you at Gelson's on Sunday."

"Sunday. The day before Cyber Monday. 
Be grateful for all your credit cards."