Kvetch and Release

And don't forget to kvetch about it first.

Kvetch and Release: a practice established by the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks, intended as a technique of sanity conservation. After kvetching out loud about something substantial, such as that hideous Hanukkah sweater your neighbor is wearing, the intolerable burden you've been carrying around magically unhooks from your tortured psyche, which, let's face it, is crowded enough as it is, and returns to the atmosphere, so that you shouldn't suffer any additional mental exhaustion. A well-made psychological hook, manufactured out of thin air by your last, most expensive therapist, makes it possible to kvetch and let go without ever vacating the premises, a good thing, given all the miserable traffic you'd have to contend with at this time of year.

Weather I'm Right, Weather I'm Wrong

Dear SJG,
I'm scared. I just went outside and the ground was wet and there were drops coming down. I think the sky was crying and now I'm having a little bit of a reality challenge. I'm staying inside until you can clarify this situation.
Thanks,
Louise in Las Palmas

Dear Louise,
Can you blame the sky for geshri'n? There's plenty to emote about, atmospherically speaking. I, too, being fairly observant, noticed the precipitation from above and felt an onset of confusion. I didn't know what to do, other than what I always do at these times. I started singing "It's Raining Men," and dancing around the palatial estate like no one was watching, except for my well-paid security staff and they're used to me by now. Yet even amidst my "Weather Girls" revelry, I felt eternally grateful that there were, in fact, no men falling from the clouds and plopping down at my doorstep, uninvited. In theory, it may sound fun, but we both know that the soggy menfolk would want to come in and they'd leave puddles on the bamboo floor and ruin the rug and then they'd expect towels or maybe a hot bath, and later they'd need a sandwich and a beer, and not to overly generalize here, but let's face it, within two seconds of their drippy arrival, there'd be sports on the TV, and seriously, I just couldn't take it and would lose my ka-ka and wind up shoving an umbrella up someone's unsuspecting behind. Ouch! So to clarify, it's not raining men, thank God, it's just raining rain, but I promise if you sing out, Louise, you'll feel better.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Never Trust A TV

Here's what happens when two rapidly aging, moderately tech-savvy, married Jews attempt to buy something on TV. There's some swearing. Okay, a lot of swearing. There's frustration you should never know from. There's the dark moment you almost call one of the millennials you spawned for help. There's the moment of "Who needs 'em, we can do this on our own." There's the movie hero moment when you almost give up. There's the moment you forge ahead, blindly, before you almost give up again. 

"I say we give up." "I say we carry on."

And yet, if things were simple, you wouldn't have conflict, and where's the fun in that? All we wanted to do was watch what we'd forgotten to record: "The Little Drummer Girl," the AMC mini-series with the multi-accented spies. God forbid they should repeat it a week later. After a lengthy search, involving NASA and ancestry.com, I found it on Apple TV, and soon the trouble began, what with the passwords and verifications and 92 other steps.

"I'm giving this five more minutes, then eff it!" 

-- Someone I married in 1980

Five minutes came and went, along with repeated threats to call the sons for guidance, and then this:

"Don't call them."

"Why not?"

"I just ordered it on the phone."

"But we don't want to watch it on the phone."

"I know, but maybe if I order it here, we can watch it there."

By there, he meant our gigantic flatscreen TV, where things look good, if only you can find them, and of course, pay for them with a credit card that hasn't been hacked yet. 

"Now what, honey?"

"Now we see if it worked."

"Which accent should I use? German-Israeli or Israeli-German?"

"Either one's fine by me."

Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Longtime hubby is a genius. We watched one episode of "Little Drummer Girl." Was it worth it? Pretty much. Tonight, if we can muster the courage, move some funds around, sell off some heirlooms, and get past whatever horrible hybrid spy accent Michael Shannon is using, we may commit to the entire series. 

You Don't Have To Be Chewish

"Tell Daddy what you want for Hanukkah."
"Hanukkah?"
"It's how Jews celebrate the miracle of shopping."
"I want a squirrel."
"What kind?
"Alive."
"Would you settle for lifelike?"

"It depends."
"On what?"
"Does it run around the yard?"
"No."
"Does it scamper up trees?"
"No."
"Does it dig holes and stuff?"
"No."
"Then what's the point?"
"It's plush and cuddly and a real Cyber Monday steal."
"What do I care about Cyber Monday? I want the real deal."
"You wanna talk deals? If I order in the next two minutes, you get Flopsie Moose and Chester Nut Squirrel for only $18.99."

"Big deal."
"They'll even throw in Schmoopsie Couture Happy Hanukkah Dog Collar for four bucks."
"I thought you knew me."
"And... a singing dreidel. Perfect for the Chewish Dog."
"I'm going outside."
"Order now and it arrives tomorrow."
"Hanukkah blows."

Spread The Gelt

This just in: The Short Jewish Gal will raise funds for Spread the Gelt, a worldwide charity that delivers chocolate coins to all the good boys and girls in time for Hanukkah, by auctioning herself. The winning bidder will meet the famed blogger at the Dec. 6 premiere of her new film, The Year of Kvetching, and be chauffeured via SUV to Temple Hamotzi for an after-party of challah and Manischewitz. Note to the winner: don't worry if you freak out meeting the Short Jewish Gal. She's experienced some awestruck moments of her own meeting her idols. "I'm still not over the time I met Mickey Mouse. I kept talking to him and all he did was wave. I was hoping we'd make a better connection," the SJG told PEOPLE. To make a bid in the auction, which ends Wednesday at midnight, contact your local chapter of Spread the Gelt right now, if not sooner. A chance to hang with the SJG, and learn the hip-hop hora? You should be so lucky.

The Day After

The day after Thanksgiving is one of those random days when you could do so many things, or just sit like a lump and do nothing while last night's meal continues to digest, not that the digestion of a former meal stops you from indulging again. It's the day after Thanksgiving and no one's coming for dinner. If that's not something to be thankful for, what is? The best part about the day after: You can do whatever and no one cares. Why? I'll tell you why. Because this is America, the land of... hmmm. Let me ruminate on that and get back to you. In the meantime, let me explain the action shot above. Playing ice hockey is the eldest son, in a Number 17 jersey that pays tribute to his late childhood friend, Jonny Rose. Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, he plays ice hockey at Pickwick Rink with a few lifelong friends who also knew and loved Jonny, and some other nice peeps whose dads work with longtime hubby. The support team schlepped to Burbank to cheer on Billy and the boyz. No question, Chlo-Chlo was the most enthusiastic of the bunch. "Make your wife proud!" she yelled, and he tried. He really did. So we holla'd supportive things and clapped and froze our toes. The last time the SJG was in an ice rink was... I couldn't possibly tell you. I will tell you this: It was freaking cold, even with the mandatory outerwear. But it was all part of the plan. We're in training, you see. Soon we'll be visiting France, as one does now and then, in my case, not since 1978, but who's keeping track. So we're getting our bodies ready. We're conditioning them for winter, something we don't get much of in these parts. Later, to prep my keppy for the chill, I'll stick my head in the freezer and watch things defrost. How was your Day After?

They Ate, They Drank, They Went Home

Hang on, I think I know these people. They stopped by on Thanksgiving, the aunts, the first cuzzy, the second cuzzies, the nephew, the sisters from other mothers, the brother, the brother-in-law, the sons, the daughter-in-law, the grandparents, and, of course, the longtime hubby, who can't stop cleaning, no matter how many times I plead, "Enough with the cleaning. Have some dessert." There was much food, wine and laughter. There was catching up. There was truly atrocious dating advice, mostly aimed at the handsome medical student who promised to try out the following pick-up lines on the ladies, but I think he was humoring us: "I don't need to take your temperature. I can tell you're hot." And, "Say ahh!" This morning, I'm so exhausted I can barely move. But at some point, I'll make my way over to the fridge to visit the leftovers. They look lonely. I hope your Thanksgiving was lovely. If not, there's always next year.

Bumping Up Thanksgiving A Notch

Pardonnez-moi, what is happening in this photo, who are these people, and most importantly, why are much-derided toothpicks involved? Don't panic, the explanation is quite simple. Chlo-Chlo, as we call her Chez SJG, and her husband, aka my first-born Billy, plus a short interloper, are making madeleines. When I tell you the young married ones are obsessed with "The British Baking Show," I'm not kidding. So we are following the dough and making two types: Lemon-zested and mini-chocolate-chipped. The toothpicks are for the pushing down of the chips so they don't burn while baking. And Chlo-Chlo, the experienced baker, said we had to do it.

What we are not following exactly, because who needs the aggravation, is the show's exact recipe. But we are taking Paul Hollywood up on his his challenge to make sure there's a nice bump in the madeleines.

Nice bump!

Somewhere between dinner and dessert, we'll powder these with sugar, make a dark chocolate dipping sauce and wait for the repressed memories to flood our brains of le temps perdu. Don't worry, we'll have a few shrinks standing by should things get out of hand.

Oh, and speaking of lost time, the SJG must now away to the palatial kitchen, to prepare a feast that, just between us, will look nothing like the above photo.

But 18 of us, assuming everyone shows up, you never know, will dine at these tables I obsessed over, as only I can, and God willing, every single bite will be praised, repeatedly. Or, knowing my people, lovingly ridiculed.

No matter where you nosh on this fine November day, remember this: Thanksgiving Means Thanks Living. 

Hostess With The Mostest

Perle Mesta

Every time I hosted Thanksgiving, in fact, any time I hosted anything, my dad would say, without fail, "Litaface, you're a real Perle Mesta." "Perle who?" "Perle Mesta. The hostess with the mostest." It was the highest of compliments. Perle Mesta was a stylish socialite, an epic party-giver, a liberal-minded diplomat who inspired "Call Me Madam," starring, who else, Ethel Merman. Let's face it, I have very little in common with her, starting with my diplomatic skills. Still, to be called Perle Mesta by my dad meant the world to me. What I wouldn't give to hear him call me Perle Mesta just one more time, with feeling.

Washington could really use a gal like Perle Mesta now. 

Count Spatula Where Are You?

Early this morning, it hit me like a can of yams upside my keppy. Oh, dear God in heaven, no. Where did it go? I know I put it in the cart with all the 853 other Thanksgiving-related items. I can see it now, resting atop the cranberries, looking so festive. But then... where did it go? Did it slide into the DMs (Delicious Marshmallows), get lost between the parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, and... and... fall through the cart into oblivion? Don't you get it? When something I need pulls a disappearing act, I don't realize it for hours and hours. I go about my business, obsessing about the 18 people who expect to be fed and the cooking of the turkeys and the basting and the yams and the timing of everything. And then, suddenly, I think of the very important item in question: A rubber spatula. Simple and elegant. Pretty and new. Doesn't the universe understand my French daughter-in-law is teaching me how to make madeleines? One Proustian bite and all my happy memories will come rushing back, shoving the trauma out like an uninvited guest. Even better, we'll be the only home in America to serve madeleines on Thanksgiving. I'm sure of it. But it won't happen without a nice, new rubber spatula. On top of which, I don't want to go back to the market. There's only one solution to this huge, unwieldy dilemma: Make longtime hubby go.

I don't know this woman, but she looks fun.

The Denial App

The SJG likes to joke that they left out the denial gene when I arrived in the parking lot of County General. Maybe if I'd been born in the hospital, and not in an Oldsmobile, I'd have the all-important  denial button necessary to survive in today's meshuggie world. But it was a rush delivery, and the factory forgot to install it.

Not to worry, peeps. There's good news to share. I've gathered a few software mavens, I've raised the necessary funds, and coming soon to an iPhone near you: The SJG Denial App! One touch and here's what you get: An unconscious defense mechanism that helps you avoid emotional conflict and anxiety!  Plus, the chance to bury all those unpleasant thoughts, feelings, desires, impulses, or facts you find intolerable! Only $1.99. This is the only app you'll ever need. Enjoy! And, as always, you're welcome!

Try To Remember The Brined of November

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

-- George Santayana (1863-1952)

(Call me a re-poster, call me anything you like, just don't call me late for turkey. I wrote the blog below two years ago when it was my turn to do Thanksgiving and looking for the brined one sent me over the edge. Well, not this year, bitches. Not. This. Year. This year, two brined turkeys have already been purchased early, by, who else, me. See that, folks? Even a rapidly aging SJG can learn new tricks now and then.) 

"Good morning. Trader Joe's Toluca Lake. Happy Thanksgiving. This is Gary."
"Hi, Gary. This is the SJG."
"The who?"
"Never mind. Please tell me you've got the already brined."
"We just ran out."
"Don't tell me that, Gary. They ran out in Sherman Oaks. I was there early this morning."
"We have the koshers."
"But I want the already brined ones, Gary. The already brined! I need two, Gary. Two! My people like to eat."
"Sorry, ma'am. We might get more in, or we might not."
"That's not helpful, Gary."
"Try Burbank." Click.

"Are you trying to hurt me, Gary? You bastard!"

"Good morning. Trader Joe's Burbank. Happy Thanksgiving. This is Gary."
"Again with the Gary."
"Sorry?"
"I just talked to a Gary in Toluca Lake. What a loser. He really let me down. Are you going to let me down, too, Gary, Part 2?"
"I'll try not to, ma'am. How can I help you?"
"You can start by not calling me ma'am."
"What would you like me to call you?"
"Your Royal SJG."
"Um..."
"Just tell me you've got the already brined, Gary."
"We have the koshers, but not the brined."
"I want the already brined ones, Gary. The small ones. I need two, Gary. Don't deny me this. I beg of you!"
"Sorry, ma'am. I mean Your Royal SJG."
"The hell with you, Gary. Off with your head!"
"Try Studio City." Click.

Victory is brined!

"Good morning. Trader Joe's Studio City. Happy Thanksgiving. This is Gary."
"Dear God in heaven, not another Gary."
"Sorry?"
"So far, I've talked to two Garys. Both losers. Both let me down. Are you going to let me down, too, Gary, Part 3?"
"I'll try not to. How can I help you?"
"Just tell me you've got the already brined turkeys, Gary. The small ones. The 15-pounders. I need two."
"We've got a plethora."
"A plethora!? Only a winner would use such a big word."
"I'm trying to improve my vocabulary."
"It's working. Check for me, anyway, Gary. These days, I trust no one but family and a few select friends."
"I'm looking at 'em right now. A freakin' plethora of already brined."
"You're a mensch, Gary. A mensch. I'll be right over. Look for the short gal with attitude. That'll be me."

Camera Shy

"Look at me when I'm taking your photo!"

(Sherman Oaks) In a shameless attempt to invite a few more readers into her personal kvetch-o-sphere of this, that and you've-got-to-be-kidding, the SJG has decided, after deep reflection, not to mention a lengthy consultation with her academic canine advisor, to post this adorable photo of Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage (DNA results not pending). In the doorway of her palatial estate, the SJG shared her philosophy with a neighbor who stopped by to borrow a cup of quinoa: "You know, Frieda, after doing this blog since what, 2009, but who's counting, I've noticed that whenever I write about my dog, and include a fetching photo (see what I did there?) I get more 'likes' and 'views' than usual, and that makes me feel validated as a human." To which Frieda replied, "Oh my God, that's so sad." "I know, right?" "Listen, hon, can you loan me that cup of quinoa or what? I've got the Sisterhood coming over for Mahj in an hour, and you should see what happens when I don't make enough crispy quinoa latkes." "What happens?" "Nothing good." "Didn't you buy enough?" "I bought plenty. But I accidentally put the quinoa in the kitty litter box and the kitty litter in the mixing bowl." "Oy gevalt, Frieda, that's what I call a major eff up." "Look, are you going to do me a mitzvah, or make me schlep to the market?" "Do I look like someone who hoards quinoa?" "Is that a no?" "It's certainly not a yes."

A Visit To The Beyond

Never buy mirrors in the Beyond section.

"Guess where I went yesterday?" I ask Genie, my partner in fitness and kvetching at the gym.

"Gelson's?"

"Bed Bath & Beyond."

"How'd it go?"

"It was disturbing."

"Why?"

"I bought a magnifying mirror with a nice bronze base."

"Why would you do that to yourself?"

"I had to. I can't see the tiny stuff."

"Can't you ignore the tiny stuff? That's what I do."

"I can't ignore my eyebrows when they need plucking." 

"There are people to pluck them for you."

"I prefer to pluck them myself." 

"But a magnifying mirror?"

"It lights up and everything."

"That makes it worse."

"So much worse." 

"Did you buy anything else?"

"A new scale."

"Why would you do that to yourself?

"I had to. I was starting to hate the old one."

"How do you feel about the new one?"

"Very positive."

"What's the difference?"

"This one says I'm two pounds lighter."

Park With Caution

My wonderful Laughing At Lifers continue to teach me things. Yesterday, Cuban-born Nury concluded a passionate anti-Daylight Savings Time rant with a brief yet meaningful glimpse at the following: What if we really could go back or forward in time? For her, it wasn't much of a debate. She'd rather go back in time 80 years and start over, than jump ahead: "As for the future," she said, "I have no plans... other than to wait for when my time comes and God allows me to put my car into his eternal garage."

The look around the table: "What now?" None of us had ever heard this expression, but we instantly loved it so much.
"Did you make that up? It's brilliant," I said.
"Put the car in the garage?"
"Yes."
"I didn't make it up. In Cuba, we say it all the time."
"Can you say it for us in Spanish?"
"Poner el carro en el garaje."
"Do you say it when someone dies?"
"Yes. We say, oh, he put the car in the garage."
"So, it's like saying he kicked the bucket. Bought the farm?"
"Yes."
"Does street parking count?"
"No."
"I know where I'm parking tonight."

"The car can stay. You, on the other hand, aren't on the list."

Don't Be A Doormat Day

Well, it's taken me, your humble SJG, pretty much a lifetime not to be a doormat, not to let people walk all over me and take advantage of my sweet, people-pleasing nature. Fine, not everyone in my family would agree with this assessment. But you know me best. You, and all my shrinks.

I've been a card-carrying people-pleaser since birth. Once I popped out and landed in the backseat of my daddy's Oldsmobile, the one, the only Mr. Ben Starr started instilling this message: "Don't be a sheep, be a leader." He said it, like, a lot. It was his Numero Uno Commandment. To which I'd reply, "Baaaaaaaaaaah!" I'm fairly sure, based on nothing but gut instinct, and the fact that no one in my family, other than my brother John, ever kept a scrapbook, "Baaaahhh!" was my first word. All that talk about sheep made me love sheep even more. Sheep were adorable. Sheep were everywhere. On my jammies and onesies and in my picture books. Sorry, Daddy, but in those days, the part about not being a sheep just didn't resonate. It was, how they say, a "mixed signal." You're telling me not to be a warm, fuzzy, cuddly sheep? Better I should be a punitive, megalomaniac, narcissistic leader? What kind of nonsense is that? Sadly, his well-meaning advice meant bupkis to me for a very long time.

Oh! That's what you mean!

Until one day, it meant plenty. One day, the whole "don't be a sheep, be a leader" mantra hit home, like Moses smashing his tablets right across my keppy. Ouch. Oh. Now I get it. Maybe it was after I got fired for meekly asserting myself in my early 20s. Maybe it was after I became editor of a local newspaper and had to battle to get paid. Maybe it was after I translated my dad's "don't be a follower" motto into something I could wrap my brain around: "Don't eff with me." With each decade, that's the theme I've tried to embrace, with varying degrees of success. Sometimes, I admit, I've gone overboard with the enthusiasm. Ironically, the need to kick ass really took hold after my dad passed away and I had to handle so much without his wisdom and strength to guide me. So, I guess what I'm trying to say today is this: You can be a mensch with a kind spirit, and still tell people to go @#$% themselves when needed.

RIP Stan Lee, creator of the greatest 

kick-ass female characters of all time. 

How To Avoid An Awkward Thanksgiving

Awkward Situation: An unexpected guest arrives.
Solution: Ask for I.D., birth certificate, passport. Mention all the turkey has been distributed. Offer frozen dinner as substitute. Make interloper sit outside in the cold.

Awkward Situation: A guest has food allergies/dietary restrictions.
Solution: Direct him or her next door, where they keep kosher.

Awkward Situation: A limited amount of food.
Solution: Organize indoor version of "The Hunger Games." Anyone left standing gets to eat.

Awkward Situation: An unruly relative.
Solution: Confiscate alcohol. Immediately disinherit. Put in Shame Corner. Repeatedly scold for bad behavior. Deny dessert.

Awkward Situation: Late arrivals.
Solution: Lock the door. Shut the windows. Block all entrances and exits. Eat without them.

Awkward Situation: End of night stragglers.
Solution: Report them to the police.

It Could Always Be Worse

For you, nice people, my favorite Yiddish folktale

Once there was a poor Jewish man who had come to the end of his rope. So he went to his rabbi, a holy teacher, for advice.
"Holy Rabbi!" he cried. "Things are in a bad way with me, and are getting worse all the time! We are poor, so poor, that my wife, my six children, my in-laws and I have to live in a one-room hut. We get in each other's way all the time. Our nerves are frayed and, because we have plenty of troubles, we quarrel. Believe me-my home is awful, and things could not possibly be worse!"
The rabbi pondered the matter gravely. "My son," he said, "promise to do as I tell you and your condition will improve."
"I promise, Rabbi," answered the troubled man. "I'll do anything you say."
"Tell me-what animals do you own?"
"I have a cow, a goat and some chickens."
"Very well! Go home now and take all these animals into your house to live with you.
The poor man was amazed, but since he had promised the rabbi, he went home and brought all the animals into his house.
The following day the poor man returned to the rabbi and cried, "Rabbi, what misfortune have you brought upon me! I did as you told me and brought the animals into the house. And now what have I got? Things are worse than ever! The house is turned into a barn! Save me, Rabbi-help me!"

"My son," replied the rabbi calmly, "go home and take the chickens out of your house. God will help you!"
So the poor man went home and took the chickens out of his house. But it was not long before he again came running to the rabbi.
"Holy Rabbi!" he wailed. "Help me, save me! The goat is smashing everything in the house-she's turning my life into a nightmare."

"Go home," said the rabbi gently, "and take the goat out of the house. God will help you!"
The poor man returned to his house and removed the goat. But it wasn't long before he again came running to the rabbi, crying loudly, "What a misfortune you've brought upon my head, Rabbi! The cow has turned my house into a stable! How can you expect a human being to live side by side with an animal?"
"You're right-a hundred times right!" agreed the rabbi. "Go straight home and take the cow out of your house!"
And the poor unfortunate man hurried home and took the cow out of his house.
Not a day had passed before he came running again to the rabbi. "Rabbi!" cried the poor man, his face beaming. "You've made life sweet again for me. With all the animals out, the house is so quiet, so roomy and so clean! What a pleasure!"

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... (12-7-17)

I wrote the above when the Westside homes of my in-laws, dear friends, cousin and aunt were in danger. And here we are, a year later, and many dear friends have evacuated their homes in Calabasas, Agoura Hills, Westlake Village and Thousand Oaks.

Preceding the fires by a day - the horrendous shooting at Borderline Bar & Grill, where my close friend and neighbor Candy has taught line dancing for 23 years. By a miracle she wasn't there that night. Another close friend's son regularly attends College Night at the club. He wasn't there on Wednesday, either, but his best friend was, and barely escaped the carnage.

So what can we do at times like these, other than worry our keppies off, hold our loved ones tight and keep good thoughts for the people we adore? All we can do is offer consolation and a place to stay, hope for the best and try not to breathe in the smoky reminder that life is fragile and absurd.

A rare Mandarin duck in Central Park