Meet The Hexes

"Meet The Hexes": Just in time for Halloween, SJG-TV Productions brings you this delightful yet spooky romantic comedy about Mr. and Mrs. Hex, soon-to-be exes who, 15 minutes apart, bring their matching marital tsuris to Madam Ruth, that yenta with the gold-capped tooth, in search of a spell that will force each other to sign the divorce papers already. But Madam Ruth, a part-time sleuth, senses that these two are still in love and a lumpy mattress is the true source of their wedded strife and coziness deprivation. One sip of the potion Madam Ruth mixes up right there in her sink and the Hexes, in a trance-like state, bump into each other at the Nighty Nighty Store in search of a new Posturepedic. "What the eff are you doing here?" asks Mrs. Hex. "Eff if I know," says Mr. Hex. Just then, it’s lights out in the Nighty Nighty Store, a haunted mattress establishment run by sneaky yet hilariously well-meaning ghosts, who lock the Hexes in a storage room till they sort out their marital, not to mention, legal differences. Will the Hexes reunite in time to hand out candy to the neighborhood kiddies? Or will the spell backfire in such an epic way that they sue Madam Ruth for everything she's worth, and then some? Tune in tonight to find out. (SJG-TV, 9:21 p.m.)

All In The Game

Hmm... I think I'm related to some of the nice young people in this photo. Let me check my records. Ah yes, two of them, I birthed with considerable effort, one of them is my daughter-in-law, and the other two are her lovely friends from France, who popped over just in time to play the American version of...

... the Game of Life, something we're all in the throes of negotiating a little too much, lately, wouldn't you agree? The last time anyone played a board game in this house was back in the '90s, and what a fun diversion from the on-going Decline of Western Civilization it turned out to be. Like so much in life, the game took longer than expected, but listening to them laugh and playfully argue and steal each other's careers and salaries, purchase mansions, acquire children and accrue millions, in not one, but two languages, all while sipping a well-traveled 2010 Cabernet Sauvignon, considerably lifted the spirits of the SJG and longtime hubby, and for that, and so much more, we're beyond grateful.

Guess who won? 

We Remember Them

In honor of the eleven people who died 

at the Temple of Life in Pittsburgh

At the rising sun and at its going down,
We remember them.

At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter,
We remember them.  

At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring, 
We remember them.  

At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer, 
We remember them.  

At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of the autumn, 
We remember them. 

At the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember them. 

As long as we live, they too will live, 
for they are now a part of us as, 
We remember them. 

When we are weary and in need of strength,
We remember them.  

When we are lost and sick at heart, 
We remember them.  

When we have decisions that are difficult to make,
We remember them.  

When we have joy we crave to share,
We remember them.  

When we have achievements that are based on theirs,
We remember them.  

For as long as we live, they too will live, 
for they are now a part of us as, 
We remember them.

(Sylvan Kamens & Rabbi Jack Riemer)

So Then What Happened?

Mary and Naomi arrive at the pearly gates at the same time and soon start to discuss how they died. Mary says, "I froze to death."
"Oy vey! What a horrible way to die," says Naomi.
"It wasn't so bad, really," says Mary. "After I stopped shaking from the cold, I began to feel warm and sleepy and not long after, I died quite peacefully. What about you? How did you die?"
Naomi says, "I died of a massive heart attack."
"So how did it happen?" Mary asks.
"I felt sure that mine Bernie was cheating on me with a shiksa, so I came home early to try to catch them in the act. But when I crept into the house, I found Bernie alone watching TV."
"So then what happened?"
"Well, I was sure there was another woman somewhere in the house so I started running all over the place looking for her. I ran upstairs and searched every one of my eight bedrooms and their bathrooms, checking under every king-sized bed. Then I ran downstairs into the garage and looked inside our Bentley convertible. I went through every room in the house checking every cupboard and looking behind every designer curtain. I even went into our loft. I was running around like a meshuggeneh. Finally, exhausted and stressed, I just keeled over with a heart attack and died."
"Too bad you didn't look in the freezer," says Mary. "If you had, we'd both still be alive."
http://awordinyoureye.com

Avatar Goals

Dear SJG,
Is it just me, or does everyone secretly aspire to look like their spunky, thin, ageless cartoon avatar? I'm trying to figure out if my life goals are realistic, or if I need to move on.
Thanks,
You-Go-Girl

Dear You-Go-Girl,
I see nothing wrong with devoting your entire life to replicating your personal Bitmoji in human form. I feel your pain and admire your quest. Avatar-wise, I admit I'm obsessed in an unhealthy, vainglorious way. Why, just the other night, I spent hours designing a new SJG avatar to fit my current no-glasses-except-when-I-need-them look. Every minute or so, I texted one to the youngest son, only to receive a variety of stinging rejections, along the lines of, "No, Ma," "Not even close," "That's a little better," "You made it worse," and the one that hurt the most, "Don't make me block you, Ma." My advice to you, my friend? Keep going till you perfectly mirror your avatar in every way. What else have you got to do with your time?
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Guessing Games

Drawer your own conclusions

All I wanted was a nail file. That's all. So I went looking in this powder room drawer, a repository for many... well, there's no PG way to put it, unusual items (more on that later), some lying in state for 18 years. There is so much going on in there, first aid supplies, cough drops, anti-itch creams, used and unused dental aids, including enough floss to wrap around the SJG Palatial Estate in an artistic Christo-like statement such as this:

Oh, and then there's the 2002 Zagat Movie Guide. To misquote Tennyson, something I've never done, intentionally, but now seems as good a time as any, "Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die." As all rapidly aging English majors know, the real line is: "Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do & die." But given the worldwide absence of accuracy, why not make this quote somehow apply, metaphorically, to our powder room drawer? Just try and stop me. Too late. 

At this critical blog juncture, you may be wondering, what in God's name is she up to? Is there an actual point to today's ramble? I'm getting there. Promise. In my search for the nail file, eventually located beneath an adorable dinosaur comb, I shifted aside the afore-mentioned 2002 Zagat Movie Guide, only to discover not one, but two petite packets squirreled within its pages. 

What did I find? 

1. Two travel packets of Advil

2. Two travel sachets of L'Oreal Professional Repair Cellular Shampoo 

3. Two travel packets of Banana Boat Sport Sunscreen SPF 30

4. None of the above

The answer, duh: None of the above. 

I scooped up the hidden gems and went upstairs to quiz longtime hubby, post-shower. Clasping them behind my back, I demanded, "Honey, guess what I found in the powder room drawer." "Oh, God, what?" "Guess." "I don't know." "Come on. Think of the one thing you'd never ever expect to find in the powder room drawer." Whereupon he nailed it. "Trojans?" "Bingo." 

The Truth Behind The Showering Rat Tale

I think, therefore I am, a rat. But not just any rat.

I'm a little late to the party that celebrates and/or condemns the rat that turns out not to be a rat taking a shower that he may, in reality, if there is such a thing, not be enjoying, although, spoiler alert, looks may be deceiving:

This particular viral sensation has been kicking around since January, but it wasn't until the other day that I even saw it, thanks to Nury, one of my Laughing At Lifers. Immediately, I had to share it with longtime hubby. "Honey, you have to see this rat taking a shower." "Do I really have to?" "Yes. It looks real." "No way it's real." This, before he'd even watched it. Then he watched it. "@#$%, this looks real." Doubting human that he is, but only of most humans, not to mention suspicious, showering rats, he started in with the Googling and found "the truth behind the rat taking a shower." To be honest, I wasn't sure I could handle the truth behind the rat taking a shower. And now, I know way too much about the alleged showering rat, and sadly, so do my workshop peeps. After we watched the video, and swayed back and forth, as we tend to do, to the peppy musical track, I inflicted upon them the article hubby found revealing all you'd never want to know about the showering Peruvian rat that isn't a rat but is, in fact...

 A Pacarana!

According to an "urban rat biologist" who specializes, and why wouldn't he, in "rat diversity," "soap is definitely unnatural for rodents." Well, that particular shocking statement, along with the big pacarana reveal, pushed the SJG over the edge. Let's just say I got hysterical and it wasn't a pretty sight. "Oh, God, there she goes," said Bruce. This wasn't the first time I've lost it in front of my wonderful and wise accomplices in all things silly. I couldn't continue and had to turn the rest of the rat shower exposé over to the gal we call Carol II, a brilliant actress of stage and screen, and most importantly, the recent recipient of the Horror  Hall of Fame. I figured she could summons the necessary horror to read this investigative report without breaking character, a skill set I clearly don't possess. The way she delivered the alarming conclusion, with just the right amount of theatricality and seriousness, well, it deserved yet another award: "So it seems," Carol II imparted, as though reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy, "the rodent wasn't so much cleaning himself with soap as he was desperately trying to remove it." And there you have it, my friends, the end of the tail. You're welcome. And please, don't try this at home.

Halloween Shamed

"So, you're too fancy for Halloween now?"
"Says who?"
"The entire neighborhood. We took a vote."
"Save your vote for the mid-terms."
"Don't change the subject."
"What do you want from me?"
"We want you to join in the spirit. Are you willing?"
"I dunno. Maybe."
"Come on, just throw us a bone."

"I don't do skeletons."
"How about a pumpkin?"
"I was going to get one tomorrow."
"Only one?"
"Fine, I'll get two."
"Carved."
"A plain pumpkin doesn't cut it?"
"No."
"Okay, okay. Are we done here?"
"Not yet. This year, we'd like to see some cobwebs."
"Forget it."
"A tombstone."
"Too morbid."
"A bloody hand sticking out of the dirt."
"Will a mailbox work?"
"I'll run it by the committee and get back to you."

Baby Let's Cruise

Titanic II

The exciting news that Blue Star Lines plans to "replicate and elevate" the Titanic experience without all that tragedy from 1912, spend gazillions, set sail in 2022 from Dubai and follow the exact same route as the original voyage, triggered which of the following responses from your humble blogger?

What could possibly go wrong?

1. Talk about rearranging the deck chairs.
2. This cruise has my name on it.
3. Talk about a sinking feeling.
4. I better start packing.
5. Talk about tempting fate.

Does this dress come in my size? 

Professor SJG

She's an occasionally-employed TV writer, an adorably neurotic dog owner, an internationally-worshipped blogger, and soon the Short Jewish Gal will have another role to add to that list — professor. This January, the SJG will join the London School of Kvetchonomics as a visiting professor, to teach a new master course called "Mothering Millennials: How To Text With Intention." She's expected to give lectures and take part in workshops related to: "Enabling Via Emojis," "Abbreviated Nagging" and "Parenting Emerging Adults In 140 Characters Or Less." "I am looking forward to teaching and learning from the students, and sharing my own experiences as an overprotective mother of not one, but two very handsome millennials who sometimes listen to me, which is better than nothing," the SJG said in a statement she typed herself. But are students looking forward to the SJG's stint as a professor, too? "I think it's gonna be a weird class, sitting there with the Short Jewish Gal," one student told "News About Jews & Non-Jews." "I mean, she's the Guilt Expert of the Western World. If it were me, I'd come in armed with her favorite Pepperidge Farm cookies and a gallon or two of Peet's Coffee, with room for cream." Another student remained optimistic, saying, "If she makes us kugel, it's all good."
(5-24-16)

A Portrait In Preoccupation

This photo. What is the story of this photo? To you, it may look staged, but the esteemed photographer, a certain Short Jewish Gal dwelling in the vicinity of Sherman Oaks, told InstaBupkis that she staged bupkis. This exact moment serves as an homage to her own... how did she put it? Ah, yes, "mounting preoccupation with life." She went on to explain, rather eloquently, if she must say so herself, that she wanted to "illuminate how readily the brain of a rapidly aging goddess leaves the palatial estate without as much as a head's up." According to the international blogging sensation (her words, not ours), last night, her longtime hubby inquired, with a hint of despair, "Where's the remote?" Her response: "I just gave it to you, darling." And yet, as this slightly-enhanced-for-dramatic-effect photo proves, she had lodged the TV remote in the designated portable phone base, and had lovingly presented the portable phone to the man of her dreams, allowing him to dial up a pizza, but not the Dodgers. Aside from capturing a moment that signifies, SJG-wise, that "the lights are on but nobody's home," she suggested another layer of commentary, more familial, more, how did she put it, "haimish," a photo of a photo, if you will, that of a warm and cozy group hug between Cuzzies, taken last Thanksgiving at Andy's Westside compound, and perched on the SJG's counter, courtesy of Brother John, as a reminder of the how lucky they are to have each other, and more importantly, that this year, "It's my turn to do Thanksgiving. God help me."

You Never Know

There are times in life when the SJG must eavesdrop. Take yesterday, when the gal one salon chair over started in with the loud cell phone calls. I had no choice but to listen. As the hair color leeched into my keppy, I was the definition of a captive audience. The more this gal kibbitzed in a rather thick accent, maybe Israeli, I'm not sure, the more invested I became in her one-sided snippets:
"... ABC Carpets... Yes, of course, the measurements are exact. All in... $4,358."
"... The quality is stunning. You won't be disappointed."
"... Lasts an eternity."
"... No, but we can make referrals. We know everybody in the business."
"Thinking outside the box... that's our motto."

My mind went into overthinking mode, as it tends to do. Measurements. Stunning quality. Lasts an eternity. What kind of carpet lasts an eternity? You're lucky if you get five years. During a gap in calls, she turned me.
"Sorry about that. I don't like to do business in the chair."
"No worries. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of carpet do you sell?"
"Carpet?"
"Don't you sell carpet?"
"No."
"What do you sell?"
"Caskets."
"Oh!"
"They're beautiful and affordable. You'd be surprised how the funeral homes overcharge."
"I bet."
"Would you like me to send you a brochure?"
"No thanks, I'm not in the market just yet."
"You never know."

Serenity now

A Double Celebration

One year ago today, a menschy young man from California married a gorgeous young gal from France, an ongoing love fest that makes me smile so big whenever I'm around them, I'm wearing out the muscles in my punim. The day they picked to wed has a wonderful double meaning. In Hebrew, 18 is a lucky number that celebrates life. And, more importantly...

This adorable human being, the one, the only Ben Starr, arrived on the 18th of October, in the year 1921, to bring joy and hilarity to the world. He would've loved to have been at his grandson's wedding, but we like to think he was there in spirit, along with my mom and other sweet loved ones who've gone up to the big deli in the sky to enjoy a bottomless bowl of matzoh ball soup. And so, let me take this opportunity to say:

to the international lovebirds

&

Daddy Ben xo

Where Have All The Bread Clips Gone?

Where have all the bread clips gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the bread clips gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the bread clips gone?
I have lost them every one
When will I ever learn?
When will I ever learn?

Where have all the twist ties gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the twist ties gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the twist ties gone?
Someone stole them every one
When will I ever learn?
When will I ever learn?

Where have all the fresh loaves gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the fresh loaves gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the fresh loaves gone?
Gone stale early every one
When will I ever learn?
When will I ever learn?

Where have all the chip clips gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the chip clips gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the chip clips gone?
Tossed in the trash every one
When will I ever learn?
When will I ever learn?

(apologies to Pete Seeger)

My Latest Obsession

The SJG is not much of a collector. I leave the collecting to longtime hubby, who's all about the vintage watches, and, it pains me to tell you, amassing as many wine corks as humanly possible. My feeling on the matter: Enough already with the wine corks. They're everywhere. I find bagfuls. I find drawerfuls. Don't tell him I said this, but he's a wine cork hoarder. Why, just this morning, I eyed a cork on the counter. "Are you saving this cork for any reason?" I asked, with just a hint of disdain. "Toss it," he said, fighting tears. I know, I know, there are wonderful uses for wine corks. I bet I could go on Pinterest right now and discover 8,903 fabulous wine cork ideas, including, but not limited to drink coasters, bird houses, message boards, and endless other decorative innovations.

In the past week, I've become a hoarder, too. A hoarder of hideous cheapo eyewear. I can't stop ordering new pairs of 1.5 and 2.0 readers. I've lost my mind, nice people. My senses have departed. Where once I wore chic and stylish, overpriced specs, I now wear plastic, pedestrian frames that make me question my entire existence. 

Yesterday, the youngest tried to stage an eyewear intervention: 

"Ma."

"Yes, son."

"What the @#$%'s going on?" 

"What do you mean?"

"The glasses, Ma. They're everywhere." 

"So?"

"So... they're ugly." 

"They're fun."

"Fun?" 

"Don't you get it, son? I'm in a transitional phase."

"It's temporary?"

"God willing." 

"But you had your eye stuff done."

"My eye stuff?"

"Your emotionally and physically draining surgeries."

"You left out spiritually draining."

"Sorry." 

"Thank you for acknowledging the hell I've been through."

"But you can see now." 

"I can see many things."

"Then why the need for all these frames, Ma? The apple green... the pink and teal blue?"

"I can't read for kaka."

"I didn't know."

"I can read street signs, I can't read what's in front of me."

"So..."

"So, I'm wearing these peppy, cheap-ass peepers until I get an actual prescription."

"Are you saying we won't have to look at you in those things much longer?"

"Are you saying you don't like them?"

"What gave it away?"

Hillbilly Headhunter Halloween

Well, I don't know how he does it, this wonderful, Halloween-obsessed brother o' mine, but every year, John tops himself. The theme this time around: Hillbilly Headhunter. Sheriff John and Deputy Lucky really brought it, what with the headless, bloody flannel figures, the spooky skeletons, the hatchets at every turn. The bounty of guests, at least most of them, rose to the occasion with the costumes.

Of course, some of us did better than others. Take me, for example, pre-party, in my cowgal-mountain lady ensemble. You think this is bad? My first attempt -- a blue striped top and cute scarf combo -- was deemed "all wrong" by my lumberjack-redneck eldest son. "Ma, you look like you're going on a yacht."

"You look elegant," my Elly May-style daughter-in-law countered. You see why I adore her? Who do do you think helped me put together this second outfit and tied the bandana?

Oh, dear God, who are these people? I'll let you figure it out, but here are a few clues: my brother, my sons, my daughter-in-law, my aunt (half-hidden by a hat rim) and my longtime hubby are part of this fetching group shot.

Y'all come back now, ya hear? 

Hum A Few Bars

"How's everything look, doc?"
"Fabulous. I may have outdone myself."
"You're really good at cleaning up the cataracts."
"Thank you."
"You should do it full-time."
"What? And give up show biz?"

There's A Reason For Everything

Dear SJG,
Why are human beings so gross?
Sincerely,
Burbank Burpee

Dear Burpee,
Let's face it, humans are revolting. We don't exactly arrive on a bed of roses. We have bodily functions that must be attended to, or the economy would go belly up. Entire industries depend on our grossness. If we were all effortlessly fresh as a daisy, there'd be no reason for air fresheners, diffusers, scented plug-ins, mists and celebrity fragrances. If we didn't reek, consumer-wise, it'd be catastrophic. Production of deodorant, soap, shampoo, bubble bath, tooth paste, mouthwash and eco-friendly laundry detergent would grind to a halt. There goes romance. There goes OkCupid. There goes Valentine's Day. No one wants to buy flowers and candy for a smelly person. There'd be no more wedding planners because there'd be no weddings to plan. Even worse, on a personal level, there'd be no antacids, no Oy-X, my go-to for multi-symptom relief. Careers... relationships... everything we hold near and dear (thanks to all those pricy, extra-strength odor-fighters) would end, badly. Don't you get it, Burpee? If we weren't gross, civilization as we know it would crumble like a stale hamentashen.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

What Are The Odds?

What are the odds that yesterday would be World Mental Health Day, celebrating my personal lifelong quest, and, today, the occasion of my left eye repair, would be World Sight Day? I'd say pretty slim. Plus, it kind of proves that every now and then, it's okay for the universe to focus on my needs. Thanks, universe. Good looking out.

Now, if you're wondering how I even know that today is World Sight Day, the answer is simple. The SJG just knows stuff. Maybe it's not the stuff you know. You probably paid more attention in school. I tended to stare out the window and get called out by the teacher. I refer you to an embarrassing moment in 8th grade history, when Mr. Roth said this: "Oh, Carol isn't with us today." So mean. The truth is, I know the stuff I need to know. And what I don't know, I Google. So, just for fun, I searched "World Cataract Day," assuming there wouldn't be such a ridiculous thing. Well, slap my butt and call me Charlie, I found out that today is, in fact, World Sight Day. Okay, fine. You don't share my excitement. I get it. But come on. I have a lot of time to kill this morning before they start the lovely Versed drip, and I'm coffee-deprived, to boot, which seems extra cruel. Even so, selfless SJG that I am, let me take this moment to wish you and yours a Happy World Sight Day. Take care of your vision, nice people, so you shouldn't bump into things.

Fit As A Fiddler On The Roof

Fit as a fiddler on the roof! So says the SJG's personal shrink, Dr. Misha Mishugana, who declared the beloved kvetcher/kugeler in "reasonably good mental health, considering everything" and "capable of blogging till she officially runs out of ideas, which could be any minute now." Dr. Mishugana reported her findings on her national talk show, "Better You Than Me." "The SJG has had recurrent issues that revolve around her penchant for oversensitivity and reading too much into everything. Her worry levels have been relatively stable since I reminded her that worry accomplishes bupkis. Her new philosophy, which I'm proud to say I suggested, is, 'What I don't know can't ruin a night's sleep.' " In recent weeks, the doctor said the SJG has endured several flare ups of self-doubt and continues to question her existence, "but that's standard operating procedure for the SJG and part of a typical pattern for only her entire life. It might be time to up her meds." Dr. Mishugana concluded that the SJG's condition isn't contagious. "Trust me, you can't catch what she's got, and that's a good thing. She remains adorably neurotic and fit to serve as a blogger of astonishing renown."

Smile! It's World Mental Health Day!

The Daytime Ride of the SJG

Listen, my children, and you shall hear,
Of the daytime ride that caused some fear,
When I embarked on a nice short drive,
But don't worry, folks, I'm still alive.
On Monday morn, I said to my spouse,
It's time for me to escape this house.
I told him the doctor said it's fine:
"One eye's better than two in decline."
Hubby felt nervous, and none too glad,
Afraid I might do something too rad.
I put on my specs missing one lens,
And drove down the street, not in a Benz.
My right eye saw clearer than before,
A miracle I couldn't ignore.
Behind the wheel, 'twas a dream come true,
One good eye makes for a happy Jew.
I texted hubby after I'd parked,
"Easy-peasy, honey," I remarked.
"Happy to hear it," he texted back.
"I knew you could do it, that's a fact."

Deflated By Not Defeated

What could possibly be going on here? What is longtime hubby doing? Well, it's hard to put into words, but now that I've had my caffeine and my one newly-improved eyeball is ready to focus on the topic du jour, I will do my best to explain.

He's trying to heal the luxurious queen-size inflatable bed we bought the newlyweds a year ago. Mostly, it's a laying on of hands. A spiritual quest of the highest order. But why? Why? WHY? To my one good, cataract-free eye, the inflatable looks fine. Alas, looks are deceiving, nice people. Over time, the spare mattress slowly deflates, offering overnight guests a sagging, sinking night of disappointing slumber.

And two new guests are arriving shortly. What to do? What. To. Do? Subject them to the afore-mentioned discomfort? Of course not. Just put longtime hubby on the case. He spent a good portion of Sunday trying to find the microscopic tear. He watched videos. He devoted himself to the Mission of the Mattress. Sadly, in the end, he failed. Don't tell him I said that. He doesn't like the "f" word, at least, not that one. But this isn't even the worst part. Finding the fissure will now be his life's work. He will not, repeat, NOT, accept defeat. Not now. Not ever. Oy gevalt, just thinking about this project  flattens my spirit. But give him a challenge, and he'll face it head on. He'll keep searching for the elusive rip. The man is dedicated, if not just a tinge delusional. You know what this means, don't you? Along with the pretty blue sofa and the other offspring furniture we've welcomed into our home, we've now inherited yet another item: a defective King Koil. In the meantime, someone writing this blog has already secretly ordered another luxurious queen-size inflatable as an anniversary gift. The fancy blow-up bed may not have made it to the year mark, but the newlyweds are going strong, and really, isn't that all that matters?