To Life, To Life, L'Chaim

It's the last blog of Twenty-Nineteen

A year of moments that were serene  

Of all the news I'd like to select 

Grandma-to-be's the best one to check 

In May, knock on wood, a big event

Excitement score: one hundred percent 

It's the last toast of Twenty-Nineteen

Champagne wishes and caviar scenes

Out with the old and in with the new

To life, to life, l'chaim to you 

Guilt, Schmilt

Here's a random question. Guess who's been regaling you with silliness for a decade? I'll give you a minute. I know it's the end of the year, you're tired and it's hard to gather your thoughts. I mean, seriously, it's enough already with 2019, am I right, what with the global turmoil, the domestic turmoil, the all-round, unrelenting general chaos that greets us daily. I get it. Given all this kaka, I'll tell you the answer because I don't want you should suffer in any way that might hurt your overburdened keppy. It's me, your SJG. Ten years, I've been doing this. This year, I admit, I slacked off a bit. I gave you 48 less blogs than last year, igniting some anger in Gelson's, my personal homeland, that sadly, no one recorded, or maybe it would've gone viral, which just between us, is on my bucket list, so you'll just have to trust me that what I'm sharing is more-or-less accurate:

The general manager: "So, nu, SJG? You barely mentioned us this year."
"What the eff? Eleven times, I mentioned you. Well, not you, specifically, but the market. That's plenty."
"In 2018, you mentioned us more."
"Such guilt from a guy who dusts the bread aisle."
"If I don't, who will?"
"I gotta go."
"Fine, go."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath."

The butcher: "So, SJG, nothing about the brisket you served on Passover being tender as the night?"
"Say what now?"
"Remember how I spent two hours with you, selecting the best cut for your personal needs?"
"Two hours?"
"Maybe it was 10 minutes, but it felt like two."
"It was delish. Everyone raved."
"Whatever."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath."

The baker: "Hey, SJG, I noticed not much kvelling over the bakery in your blog this year. What are we, chopped liver? You bought so many princess cakes, we ran out of marzipan. And cookies, cookies, cookies. Rugelach. Bagels. Danish. But don't feel too bad, we get enough praise from our better customers."
"Better customers? We took out a second mortgage to pay our Gelson's bills."
"Ha ha ha. Really?"
"Maybe."
"A nod now and then would've been good."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath.

The candlestick maker in back of the store: "Hey, SJG.  Thanks for bupkis in the blog."
"You're welcome."

Put That Back Where It Came From

Sometimes I call it the Bermuda Triangle, other times, the Black Hole. I have many names for this dark and mysterious force of nature. It is alien, insatiable, Houdini-like, magnetically-powered. A saber-toothed con artist. A steamroller baby. A churning urn of burning funk. It wants what it wants, when it wants it. On any given day, it might consume: house keys, car keys, neighbors' keys. On any given day, it might devour: a phone charger, a sweater, a pair of earrings. It isn't picky. Try looking for the missing item. I promise you this: You won't find it. It's gone rogue. The locket with my mother's photo. Cash, credit cards, coupons for half-off. Things I hold dear. Things I don't give a crap about, but would like to know where they went, anyway. So long, sister. Sayonara. The Bermuda Triangle. The Black Hole. It zeroes in on a random target. The kitchen. The dining room table. The washing machine. The dryer. The garage. The office. The hall closet. The upstairs closet. Any closet. Any room. Pick one, any one. Put something there, on a counter or a chair, on a hanger or in a drawer, and kiss it adios. Sometimes the universe just likes to eff with me. Haha, SJG. You won't find it there, there or there. Enough already with the hide and seek. I'm so onto you. Put that thing back where it came from. Put that thing back, pretty please. No questions asked.

On The Day After Christmas

On the day after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
A tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day two after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day three after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day four after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Four deep blue ties
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day five after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Five Hefty bags
Four deep blue ties
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And I gave it all to charity

Don't Let The Red Nose Fool You

"And the best part is, I'm Jewish."

Dear SJG,
I have a friend who has money coming out of her tush. As far as I know, it's not a medical condition. Every Christmas, she gives me an insanely expensive gift. Last year, she gave me a deer named Rudolph. For 365 days, Rudolph has followed me around, destroyed furniture, and eaten all the good bagels. Sure, he's cute, with his red nose and spunky demeanor, but it's enough already. He's the definition of naughty. I've had it with him. Plus, he doesn't get along well with our new dog, Sir Blakey. Will I rot in hell if I send Rudolph packing?
Sincerely,
Done with the Deer

Dear Done,
Don't look a gift deer in the mouth.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Oh, Ficus Tree, Oh, Ficus Tree

SJG Family Folklore, from, who else, my brother John: "My memory may be faulty, but before you were born Mom bought a Christmas Tree once and only once. I think the estranged brother was 4 and I was 1. Grandpa saw it and refused to come in the house. I believe Dad had to literally drag it outside to the trash." The only shanda here is that John didn't embellish this story more, and that I wasn't alive to see this incident as it unfolded in our first house, high atop the little town of Beverly Hills. The young and impressible SJG would've loved a Giving Tree that gave more than apples and branches. Yet the rapidly aging, not to mention, very wise SJG is a harsh judge of such blatant commercialism. Oh, please. Who am I kidding? How fun would it be to find a Star of David-crowned, pretty tannenbaum in my living room just once? That's right, I said it. I'm talking once!

When we moved to Westwood in the early '70s, plenty temple-going families on the block went through a brief Xmas tree phase, not that they'd admit it now. Even John and I got swept up in the mania, and fashioned a Hanukkah Bush out of a ficus tree, hanging handmade foil decorations on every leaf. Every day, we checked for gifts, but the bush brought forth bupkis. So we returned to our beloved annual ritual, checking every closet and drawer in the house till we found where Mom had hidden our Hanukkah presents. If there's a tradition lovelier than that, let's hear it.
12-12-18

It Is What It Is, Whatever It Is

Three aging goddesses

Here we are, enjoying a lively kvetch session: On one side, Maura, a great gal I've known since we first met at the light in 7th grade and bonded over why it took so long to change, not realizing at that tender stage that the correct answer was, and will always be, "It is what it is." On the other side, Yael, a great gal Maura introduced me to a while back and a true "It Is What It Is" expert. After an illuminating kvetch-o-rama about our temperamental bodies, the meaning of "It is what it is" became clearer. "It Is What It Is" is really "It Is What It Eff'n Is." Or, if you prefer, acceptance. Yet you can't accept whatever you're dealing with unless you complain about it at length, shed a tear or two along the way, and get some excellent advice from wonderful friends who get you. After all, if you can name one boomer who doesn't wish they could order up a nice replacement body part on Amazon for the holidays, then you hang out with a much healthier bunch than I do.

When I got home, I asked Sir Blakey, wise and noble and oh-so-royal, if he knew what "It Is What It Is" means. He struck this pose, one of his favorites, as if to say, "What does it matter? It means what it means, now give me a belly rub." If that's not acceptance, canine-style, what is? 

And speaking of acceptance, I'm not sure what this Beverly Hills decoration is, a Xmas Tree, Palm Tree or Overgrown Hanukkah Bush, but I can accept that it's pretty. What I'm saying is: It Is What It Is depends on your personal needs, and that sums it all up, don't you agree? 

Thanks For The Reminder

Hey SJG,
We wanted to remind you that it's almost your birthday. Selfless gal that you are, we figure you're way too focused on everyone else in your life to remember the exact day you were born. Plus, let's face it, you're getting up there in years and your memory isn't what it used to be. And then there's the whole issue of whether the world will even exist on your birthday. Relax. According to a special algorithm our founder, the guy with the bad hair cut, dreamed up one night after eating a magic bagel, our swiftly melting planet will still be here on January 16. Yay! As for February, he'll get back to us. Meanwhile, it's never too soon to pick a charity and guilt your many Facebook friends into donating in honor of your Miracle Oldsmobile Birth. Maybe someone will raise a cyber hand and say, "I pledge a thousand dollars." Maybe not. Either way, we'd love to kickstart your philanthropic mission with a nice contribution, but who're we kidding, we'd go broke if we did that for our gazillions of members. Just know we're kvelling over you daily from our eco-friendly castle in Silicon Valley, and keeping track of how much gelt your cause inspires. What makes you look good makes us look good.
Happy Everything,
Facebook

Hellody Facebook,

Wow. Thanks so much for the birthday fundraising reminder. I'm touched. I'll be sure to ask my 562 close personal FB friends who haven't been hit up for a donation in at least two minutes, to raise challah for my favorite cause, which happens to be Me. You heard me. Me. The care and maintenance of the SJG keeps going up yearly. Insurance doesn't cover everything, you know.
Hugs,
The SJG

Dear Thursday

Dear Thursday,
What have you got in store for me today? Will you bring joy and rapture? Will you bring me nothing but nachas? Or are you going to stick me with nothing but nachos? FYI Thursday, I've never ordered nachos. Not once. I'm not into nachos. Chips and guacamole? Bring it. Nachos? No thankie. But nachas? Yes please. An extra order of that would be divine. What's that, Thursday? You have no idea what nachas is? And why do I keep italicizing it? Isn't it too early to get all fancy with the slanting of the letters that may give my readers vertigo? Thursday, you are wise beyond your days. I'm not a big fan of italicizing. But if I don't italize nachas, guess what happens? I get nachos. The auto correct is an autocrat. The auto correct doesn't speak Yiddish. Sorry, Thursday, I digress. You want to know what nachas is. Well, other than the thing my sweet daddy used to say his children brought him plenty of, but let's face it, he was being facetious, nachas means happy and proud, especially of someone's accomplishment. As in, "Watching you get Bar Mitzvahed, after all the threats we made, and all those Sundays we wouldn't let you out of your room until you recited your Torah portion like a mensch... after all your kvetching and ungratefulness, do you know what this party is costing us, but look, there you are on the bima, speaking Hebrew like you know what you're saying, it brings us nothing but nachas." To review, Thursday, I'm hoping for a nice helping of nachas, but I'll settle for a moment of Zen.
Thanks for your consideration!
The SJG

Time Travel: Family Edition

Pack your bags. It’s 1989 again, and big hair rules the day. There's your SJG, 31 and wrinkle-free. Check out my pink and blue plaid shirt with shoulder pads out to here. I’m a line-backer with rosy cheeks and coiffed-up hair, in the living room of my parents’ condo, waiting for guests to arrive. That’s you on camera, hon, tilting it this way and that. Artsy balloon shots. Cupcakes from various angles. You’re making me dizzy, you know. Pull back. Keep it simple, if you can. Now friends appear in the hallway, with precious babes in tow. Little ones crawl on the carpet, walk a few steps, plop back down. Some cuddle in blankets, suck on bottles, coo. The toddlers take turns on a rocking horse that’s not a horse at all. It’s a duck. A rocking ducky. So much cooler than a horse. Look. There’s my mother, so pretty at 62, with 10 years left. Happy. Healthy. Full of life. Her hair short and stylish, too. There’s that laugh of hers. God, I miss it.

Hey, there’s my dad at 68, 24 more years to go, working the room, cracking people up. There’s my grandma, 92, only two years left, and who’s she talking to? Your grandma. Can you believe she made it to 104? In the corner, there’s my cousin and my brother. Your folks, your brother. Look at our friends, hon. How they mingle… laugh… sip drinks. A few of them are gone now, too. Check out the couples who didn’t stay married, in a time warp, back together again. Smiling, holding hands. How strange is that? Now the room sings “Happy Birthday." All the people in our life, hon, the ones we lost, the ones still hanging around, singing to our eldest son, a year old, chewing wrapping paper, scooting on his butt. Wait. Our youngest son… where is he? Oh, right. He won't be born till late '91. Okay, shut it off now, hon. That’s enough for today. Time travel takes its toll.

Plenty of Gelt

Dear Molly and Sheldon,
Enclosed is enough Hanukkah gelt to pay for your new sewer line. If you hadn't been in such a hurry, we might've had the thing gift wrapped. Your mother and I have always believed that Hanukkah gifts, particularly for adults, should be useful, not luxurious. I'm sure you realize how fortunate you are, considering how few people receive a new sewer line for Hanukkah. We hope that every time you flush, you'll think of us. Lots of love to the grandchildren we rarely get to see, even though we're just a short four-hour flight away.
Trying To Stay Warm,
Dad & Mother
P.S. You're welcome.

Light Up A Life With A Llama

It’s my favorite time of year. Why? I'll tell you why. Because my mailbox fills with the strangest assortment of holiday catalogues. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa. Bring it on. I can’t get enough. The opportunities to blow money are endless. I can buy a neon jukebox, a snow mobile, a five-foot tall steel menorah. I can even buy a llama. And seriously, why wouldn’t I? How many times does a llama come along? I’ve been around a while, and this is my first shot at purchasing livestock. I’ll admit the llama option came as a surprise. For $150, I could “light up a life with a llama.” For $5,000, I could spring for an entire ark. We’re talking cows, sheep, camels, oxen, pigs, goats. You get the picture. Two by two, that’s a lot of animals to feed. As I flipped through the catalogue, debating how many llamas to buy, I couldn’t believe all the name-dropping going on in there. So many celebs have something pithy to say about the healing nature of rabbits and water buffaloes. I called up longtime hubby at work to get his opinion on the matter. “Honey, how do you feel about llamas?” “Why do you ask?” “Oh, I was thinking we could get one as a playmate for Blakey. It’s only $150.”

On the other end, a long sigh of resignation. “Listen, if you want a llama, if you really can’t live without one, go for it. What’s one more mouth to feed?” Is it any wonder why I married the man? I should’ve asked for a llama a long time ago. I called the toll-free number. “I’d like to buy a llama, please. I like the gray one on page 23.” “We can’t guarantee the color, ma’am.” “Why not?” “Sometimes they’re white. Is white okay?” “I guess I can live with white. But I prefer gray, if you can swing it.”

I gave her my credit card number and asked how soon I’d get my llama. “Hanukkah starts December 22. Will I have it by then? And does it come UPS?” “You don’t actually get the llama." “I don’t? Then why did I just pay for it?” “It’s a donation, ma’am.” “You’re telling me I don’t get a llama?” “That’s right, ma’am.” “What do I get?” “You get the satisfaction of knowing you’re bringing help, healing and hope to millions of impoverished families worldwide.” “Oh, dear God! One llama can do all that?” “One llama is a good start. You can donate as many animals as you like. We’re having a special on sheep this week, if you’re interested.” “I’ll just stick with the llama.” “How about a beehive? For another $30, you can help pollinate a village in Uganda.” “Did Diane Lane buy a beehive?” “She bought eight.” “I’ll take two beehives and one llama.” “Anything else?” “I’m done.” “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

A Poem About Latkes

Nothing rhymes with latkes

In English that is true
In Yiddish try gatkes

Long underwear to you 

Shredded spuds, golden brown

A Hanukkah delight

Grab a plate, sit right down

Menorahs shining bright

Fried or baked or frozen

It's all delish to me

Some may call us Chosen
Ask Judah Maccabee

A Letter From The Hanukkah Hipster

Dear Magnolia,
Hey, little dudette, it's Hanukkah in a minute and the grownups in charge paid me some sweet coin to write you a hipster Hanukkah letter. My main gig's distributing awesome menorahs to the chillest boys and girls. I'm pretty stoked, although it's more intense than I expected. I kinda thought I was applying to a start-up where I'd get to play ping pong and come up with marketing stuff. Take it from me, Magnolia, adulting is hard. But before I load the candle holders in the jeep, I wanted to give you props for your semi-stellar behavior this year.

Magnolia and her menorah 

There were some blips along the way, I'm not gonna lie, but nothing too major. You managed to keep Callie, the goldfish you scored at the Purim Carnaval, alive for an entire year, so Mazel T on that. Back in July, you went a whole week without kicking your little bro' in the cronuts. Keep up the good work. And on Mitzvah Day, I hear you handed out free bagels. The part about dipping them in glitter isn't cool, Magnolia. Might be time to up your game, little dudette. Go out there and spin your dreidel for good. For eight days, eat your latkes, Magnolia, light some candles, and above all, be chill. 

-- The Hanukkah Hipster xo 

Group Kvetch

It's easy to get caught up in the endless annoyances of the holiday season, don't you agree? There's just so much to bitch about, such as, why must people be so.... what's the word I'm searching for? Aw, yes. Human. Why can't they be more canine, like The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage and love and accept everyone equally and never steal a parking spot, as long as they get a treat in return? If humans were more canine, there'd be nothing to complain about. Sadly, Darwin never told us how to make humans evolve into doggies, which is too bad. So, as we enter this angsty, costly, stressful time of year,  let's keep a sense of all things whine-worthy and count our kvetches, daily.

Pre-Kvetch Caffeination 

Let it out, people. Let. It. Out. How? I'm so glad you asked. Please join your loyal SJG for a special Group Kvetch live from Sherman Oaks, starting at 11 a.m. today. It's all part of Let's Kvetch America, my personal mission to help everyone unleash all their holiday howls so God forbid, you shouldn't end up in a padded cell.

The Boss of Me

Dear SJG,
What are the benefits and disadvantages of being self-employed?
Thanks,
Asking For A Friend

Dear Asking,
I've been "self-employed" since I popped out in the backseat of my daddy's Oldsmobile. I had to support the entire family. I really don't like to discuss it. But I will discuss this. The benefits of self-employment are huge. You get to parade around in your schlepwear all day. You can make coffee the way you like it - hot, like that rumored temper of yours. You don't have to worry about anyone stealing your sandwich, unless your spouse steals it and takes it to work, which in some area codes is grounds for divorce. You're your own boss, so you can be as bitchy as you want and make up your own rules. And break them. You don't have to get nervous when you interview yourself. Plus, you get to avoid other humans. But don't get too excited. There are a few downsides, too. You have to deal with that huffy, hormonally-challenged boss. You spend a lot of time looking for work that may be sporadic at best, meaning, pay and medical benefits can be iffy. You may get tired of yourself. But then you can take a nap. So that's another win.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Miracle On Fairfax Avenue

Santastein is coming to town.

Tonight on SJG-TV, why not enjoy "Miracle On Fairfax Avenue": 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. (SJG-TV, starting around 9-ish.)

Everybody's A Critic

So this photo approximates the look on the gastro doctor's face, after he told me the best news possible, post-procedure: "Everything's fine." "Phew. Then why so glum? Is there an issue?" "Well," he said, sighing, "your prep wasn't the best." "Excuse me, you're giving my prep a bad review?" "Not bad. Let's just say, it could've been better." "I did everything on the stupid list. Was I supposed to do more?" "It's not a personal judgment." "Ha! If you're grading me on a curve, what do I get?" "B-." "What?!" "Fine. Stop badgering me. B." "I'll take it." "See you in five years." "The report says ten years." "Five would be better."

I Got The Blues

Oh baby, sweet baby, can't you see why I'm so blue

Gotta drink 64 ounces of Gatorade blue 

The doc, he said, sip it, sip it up now till it's gone 

I said doc why you gotta do me, do me this wrong 

Gonna take me three long hours to get that potion down

Come mornin' I'll lay empty in my hospital gown 

Rid of all that Miralax that forced me toilet-side

Thinkin' what's in store for me, I'm sad for my backside

Something Exciting

Look at this nice bunch of people. Are you looking? In this group, at our table, we have the SJG and longtime hubby Howie toward the back, and next to me, my wonderful brother John, devoted and delightful; next to John, Andy's sister Amy, gourmet cook extraordinaire, and then, front and center, we have my fabulous cuzzie Andy; his glamorous wife Allison, one table over toward the back, and at our table, their children, Levi the actor, Willa, the singer/songwriter, and Lucas, the future doctor, who, après turkey, told us about the upcoming workshop he's taking, a memorable moment whereby med students get up close and personal peeks at peeps who get paid to show their... well, I'm too refined to tell you, but I'll drop a hint: their nether regions. Or, if you prefer a more nautical term, Down Below. 

I'm fairly certain Lucas regrets telling us about this hands-on workshop, but listen, he opened the door and we walked in. Of course, we had many great suggestions, far too raunchy to mention here, and a few of us wondered how this modeling assignment passed us by. One of us may have said, "Why didn't my agent send me out for this job?" Not to be a prick or a total putz, but I'll leave the rest of the discussion to your imagination. Now then, also in this photo: at our table, my Aunt Elly, Andy's mom, and behind Allison at the other table, her mom Bonnie, her brother Jeff and (next to Lucas at our table) his wife Bonnie -- who came up with this seating arrangement? Then, back to the other table, Owen, Jeff's son, and Owen's two adorable sons, and by now, aren't you impressed that I even remember any of this? And, finally, toward the front, we have the children I birthed, Billy and Scotty, and Scotty's lovely girlfriend Meghan, and of course, my gorgeous daughter-in-law Chloé. 

Now look closer. Closer. Zoom right in on the French gal and her happy hubby. Something big is going on. Something exciting. Something that takes a while to hatch. More to come in May, kina hora. Specifically, a baby girl. Yep, your SJG is going to be a Grammala, the role I was born to play. I know, I know, I saved the best for last.

Happiness On Thanksgiving, You Should Have

Today, the SJG wants you should fress to your heart's delight without gaining so much as an ounce.

Today, the SJG wants you should remember all the things you're grateful for, and keep the things you're ungrateful for to yourself, because we're tired of your negativity.

Today, the SJG wants you should hug your people and never let go, unless they claim near-suffocation, in which case, release your grip a bissel.

What I'm trying to say is this: Happy Thanksgiving to all my bitches...

... and all my boychicks, too.

It's That Time of Year

Dear Short Jewish Gal,

The entire staff of Bring Your Own Booty (BYOB) looks forward to welcoming you for your upcoming procedure. Think of it as more of a spa treatment than an invasive butt probe. After completing your registration and agreeing not to sue us, you'll relax in the comfort of our aesthetically soothing, somewhat funereal waiting room. Soon Zelda The Psychic Nurse will escort you to the Zen Zone, where you'll change into a gossamer gown and share the name of someone you'd like Zelda to contact on the Other Side, in case you should plotz, God forbid, during your "cleanse." Not to worry. Once Zelda zetzes you with a nice intravenous sedative, your fears will drift away like leaves on a stream. 

Buh-bye fears

A friendly reminder: No noshing or drinking anything after 9 p.m. the night before. Make sure there's bupkis in your belly. Leave your fancy jewelry at home. At this point, nothing impresses us. Bring cash, lots of it, a check or a credit card to satisfy your financial obligations. You didn't think insurance covers all of this, did you? Most importantly, we encourage you to brush your teeth and shower/bathe before you arrive. We're very sensitive to unpleasant auras, especially Zelda. 

Kindly,

Your Friends at BYOB

Down Dog

So, here's the evidence, all the proof I need that a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage insists on participating in my physical therapy exercises. I don't remember requesting a furry workout buddy. I wonder if my insurance covers that. Probably not. My daily routine goes like this: I lie down, he hovers over me and starts in with the lickies and the kisses. And sometimes, well, his breath isn't, how you say, minty fresh. No matter how many times I command him in my most authoritative voice, "Stop, Mommy loves you, move over, Cookie Bear, get up, Sweet Patootie," doe he listen? Let me think about that. No. He does not. This lack of cooperation also explains why my cheap yoga mat smells very-very doggy. He picks up his special scent and it's Down Dog for days. I know, I know. There's no winning this particular battle. Just between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Turkey Etiquette

Dear SJG,
My office is throwing a Thanksgiving costume party on Wednesday. I'm thinking of going as my lame-ass boss, the biggest turkey on the planet. Thoughts?
Thank you,
Mable in accounting

Dear Mable,
Great idea. I say go for it. Maybe he's so dumb, he won't realize you're rudely ridiculing him. Or maybe he's smarter than you think. Play it safe and put together a box of your personal belongings in case they escort you out of the building.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
This year, I'm schlepping from Reseda to Riverside for Thanksgiving. According to my traffic app, I should pack an overnight bag and leave now. But that's not even the main issue. The invite says "Sing For Your Supper." I can't sing for ka-ka and don't want to embarrass myself in front of my snooty-patootie second cousins, the Warbling Yentas. Any thoughts on how I can save face?
Thanks,
Gratitude Challenged

Dear Challenged,
Here's what you do. Make a duplicate of the invite, but reverse the 'n' and the 'g' and bring it with you, along with your legal representative. When your host complains about the extra guest, just say, "This is Morty Epstein, my attorney. The invite clearly states Sign For Your Supper. See? Morty brought along all the necessary documents. Oh, and he doesn't mind sitting at the kids' table."
You're Welcome,
The SJG