Your Doorstep Just Got A Lot More Exciting

Hi SJG,
We're ecstatic to let you know that your order of sparkly rhinestone stilettos has been delivered. Trust us, these babies are a game-changer. Please let us know how they alter your life and bring out your inner 'ho.
You're Super Welcome,
Vixens Etc.

Dear Vixens Etc.,

I'm returning these hideous sandals tout de suite, and expect a full refund. Clearly, I was sleep-shopping when I ordered them. I'd dozed off mid-way through "Rhinestones Are A Bitch's Best Friend" on SJG-TV-After-Dark, and my subconscious figured, hey, a short gal deserves a little manufactured height now and then, why the @#$% not? There's no way I can dance the hora in these horror shows -- at a black-tie Orthodox wedding yet! Not to mention, I loathe them on a level I reserve for a certain D.C. demagogue. I nearly had a coronary when the postman rang twice and handed me the package marked X-Rated. Don't ever do this to me again or I'll have to take legal action. 

Thanks for bupkis,

The SJG 

The Theory of Fanning

Dear SJG,
My mama told me that that fanning myself on a hot day does bupkis in terms of cooling me down. Was she right, or what?
Thankie,
Dehydrated in Duarte

Dear Dehydrated,
Few people know this, but way back when, and please don't ask me to be more specific other than to say I had entered a humbling stage known as perimenopause, I dabbled a bit in physics. Did too! In an effort to understand my escalating body temperature's correlation to my overall level of intolerance, I conducted a series of highly sensitive experiments, not just on my personage, but also on certain unsuspecting women at Schvitz! who melted down when the thermometer in the gym hit 72. To say these gals lost their ka-ka doesn't do justice to the heat-related hysteria I witnessed firsthand. Naturally, I took the high road, kvetching and screaming "IT'S EFF'N HOT!" in five-minute intervals, which, under the circumstances, exemplified restraint, compared to those crazy bitches. Not that I judge. What I'd like to tell you is this: Your mama was half-right. Fanning yourself will definitely increase heat production, but it will cool down those peeps in your general vicinity, and isn't that why we're here? To help others?
You're Incredibly Welcome,
The SJG

Missing You

Lately, I've been lost like a satellite floating through space, ever since DirecTV bumped CBS from my flatscreen. You know how I take these things personally. I've even offered to help end this silly standoff. I've dropped off a supersized kugel. I've suggested ways for them to make nice. I've called, I've texted, I've hashtagged my pleas. My heartfelt efforts have accomplished zilch. Sure, I'm one of 6.5 million viewers going without, but this blog is about me, dammit. Don't the bigwigs get it? I'm suffering. Stephen Colbert, James Corden and that nice Jane Pauley on Sunday Morning are members of my Mental Health Team. They level me out. They keep me sane. Meanwhile, the battle over fees and whatnot rages on, depriving the SJG of joy.

But please, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'll just be sitting in the dark...

... waiting for my TV friends to return.

I think I miss you most of all. 

Hand Over The Toothpick & No One Gets Hurt

"The Man of The Toothpick" - Jocelyn Millet

I'm just going to put it out there on a Sunday morn: Toothpicks. Not a fan. Why? I'll tell you why. Because when I see someone walking, driving or picking a banjo with a toothpick dangling from his mouth -- have you ever seen a gal walking, driving or picking a banjo with a toothpick dangling from her mouth? -- my mind starts in with the worrying and the what-ifs. What if he trips? What if he stops suddenly? There goes the toothpick down his gullet, wreaking internal havoc and a near-death, call 911 episode. This has been an issue of mine for so long that I've been publicly shamed at birthday celebrations by someone I thought was my friend. Did he have to regale a room full of people with the decades-old story of "Carol & The Toothpick" at my 40th? Just because I asked, okay, demanded that longtime hubby hand over the toothpick while driving? What's wrong with that? When did wifely thoughtfulness go out the passenger-side window?

Deal With It

Today, I plan to look adoringly at my high school boyfriend, just like Sissy gazing at Robert, in what we hope will be a theater as near-empty of humans as the one above, God willing. 

We haven't quite reached our golden years, like these nice people, but in many ways, we're already old codgers, aka altacockers, in that we know what we want and what we don't want. 

We want to see "Yesterday," a film that came out weeks ago, but honestly, what's the rush? We don't want to be annoyed by the talkers, the cellphone users, the poorly behaved patrons. Not that we have any problem shushing and giving them looks. We excel at both. 

Go ahead. Call us judgy. Call us stuck in our ways. Call us fuddy-duddies. This is how we roll, baby. Deal with it. 

Silliness Spoken Here

It's true, the SJG has been known to say the silliest non-sequitors in the history of personkind. You don't believe me? Look it up. Now and then, my brain skips a beat or three and off I go to Nonsense Land. Take the time, years ago, when I made the following announcement, while in the throes of preparing a festive meal for the sons:

"I'm FAX-ing the Corn!!!!"

For clarification, what I was actually doing was microwaving the corn. I'll never forget the adorable look of alarm on their boyish punims, FAX-ing each other a message of uh-oh-Mom's-having-another-breakdown. Last night at dinner, I do believe I topped myself, when I turned to my sweet angel daughter-in-law, pointed to the salad bowl... 

And said... 

"Would you like some more ice cream?"

"Oh, are you thinking about dessert?" she asked, politely. "Always," I said. 

All The Rage

Hellody, friends. Here I am, actually, here's someone who doesn't look anything like me, but aren't the gloves the best, doing something that's all the rage.

What exactly am I doing? I'm so glad you asked.

I'm practicing patience. As in, making myself wait. Why? I'll tell you why. Because it's a mindfulness exercise. Supposedly, waiting for things makes us happier in the long run. Delayed gratification, that's the ticket.

Just between us, who ever came up with this ridiculous notion must've been heavily medicated. Or not Jewish. Or both.

Not working for you yet? Yeah, me, neither. So try this, instead: Stop doing things that aren't important. Well, I hope they don't expect me to stop collecting doves. That's my new hobby. I just love it, except for de düva kaka. I just got this schmatta washen!

What's that? You want more? I'm right there with you: Think about things that make you impatient, which for me, is pretty much everything. Start by releasing all that emotional baggage you've been schlepping around since birth. Come on, gang. Let's do this together. On the count of three. Baggage, be gone! Or, if you prefer, check it, bevakasha. (See what I did there? Anyone?)

I've saved the best, and easiest for last, you're welcome: Relax and take deep doggy breaths. Doggies are so much more chill than humans, don't you agree? As long as no one steals their food, invades their personal space or appears in squirrel-like form to taunt them. 

For the impatient: Instant fashion. Quick ways of becoming a raving 

beauty with no age tag. 

I'll take it. Sorry. I mean, I'll wait a few minutes, pretend to be patient, take deep, cleansing doggy breaths, and then I'll take it. 

The Drama Of The Gifted Dog

The other day, I had to face facts. Sir Blakey is just not a Grisham fan. But that's okay. If he doesn't want to read "The Reckoning," I have to respect that and manage my expectations. Early on in this journey, I realized that pressuring the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage to present his canine dissertation on "War & Peace," as opposed to his preferred choice, "Go, Dog, Go!" was a serious misstep that nearly stifled his intellectual growth and interfered with his potential. My bad.

Right about now, you're probably thinking, "Gee, how can I raise a gifted dog like Sir Blakey?" You probably can't. He's one of a kind. Still, here are a few tips to help you build a better, smarter dog:
1. Be involved in developing your dog's special gift, whether he's athletic, academic, or a culinary master-in-the-making. God knows he's not going to do it on his own.
2. Insure that your dog makes good use of his time. Slacking off is a no-no, unless he's asleep, in which case, blow a loud whistle to wake him up. No dog ever did anything brilliant while napping.
3. Spoil him rotten whenever he does something spectacular, like reciting "The Gettysburg Address" or guest conducting the L.A. Philharmonic. Reward-wise, "Here's a cookie" won't cut it. Think Steak Tar Tar, Escargot and box seats to the Hollywood bowl.
4. Publicly praise, gloat, brag and kvell over him like he's the Messiah as often as possible. Your dog may be a genius, but he still needs his ego pumped up. Plus, if you don't say it out loud, Tweet, Instagram and Facebook it, does it even count? Not to National Association of Gifted Pups.
5. Take credit for all his accomplishments, but only when he's out of earshot. You don't need a resentful dog. What you need is praise. You're only human.

"Who did you think taught him how to play the bongos?"

Life-Changing Recipes

Dear SJG,
The article said, "Six Brussel Sprouts Recipes That Will Change Your Life." I made all six. All I got was nocturnal gas. My husband now sleeps in the spare bedroom. My dog whines at the foot of the bed. What gives?
Thanks,
Bloated in Sherman Oaks

Dear Bloated,
The only thing that will truly change your life is my kugel recipe. It's to die for, and after you eat a slice, you just might. But at least you'll die happy and leave some tasty leftovers for the family to consume while grieving.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

A Cart, A Cart, My Kingdom...

... for a shopping cart

Trader Joe's is not for slackers. You heard me. If you like to dawdle and wander aimlessly, go to Costco. Go to Gelsons. Do not go to Trader Joe's. To shop there, you need sharp mental focus and excellent eye-hand coordination. You must know what you want. You must go in and get it and get the hell out. It's that simple. The aisles are narrow and crowded with discount hunter-gatherers. The shelves overflow with 42  kinds of humus, sausage, pesto and cheese. You could lose your mind in Trader Joe's. You could also lose your shopping cart, which is what happened to me yesterday. I turned around and it was gone. I parked it by the basmati rice, I went to get a salad, I came back and my cart had skedaddled.

A Bris Like This

The news that Charles Levin, 70, best known as Shaky The Mohel (aka Butcher Boy) passed away this week, olev ha-sholem, made my funny bone achy and sad. I loved him in everything from "Annie Hall" to "Seinfeld" and beyond. Here's a joke in his honor.

David’s watch is not working and he remembers seeing a little shop with clocks and watches in the window. So he goes to the shop to get his watch fixed.
"Can I help you?" asks Joseph, the owner.
"I would like my watch repaired," replies David.
"I'm sorry, but I don't repair watches," says Joseph.
"Well, how much for a new watch then?" asks David.
"I don't sell watches, either," replies Joseph.
"You don't sell watches?" asks David in astonishment.
"No, I don't sell watches,"replies Joseph.
"Clocks, you sell clocks, don't you?" asks David.
"No, I don't sell clocks," replies Joseph.
David is getting exasperated and says to Joseph, "You don't repair watches and you don't sell clocks or watches. So what do you do then?"
"I’m a mohel," replies Joseph.
"Then why do you have all those clocks and watches in your window?" asks David.
"If you were a mohel, tell me, what would you put in your window?" replies Joseph.
http://awordinyoureye.com/
Here's a clip that will make you geshrei with laughter.

When The Eagle Landed In Big Bear

It was a Sunday night in July. I was eleven, and like I did every summer, I was up a camp. Camp Akela in Big Bear, to be exact, a place run by Jews pretending to be Native Americans. The camp leader was Ironbow. The counselors were called Feather and Butterfly, Wing and Redwood, and sometimes forgot their silly made-up names. "Hey, Eagle, what time's dinner?" produced bupkis response, until Ricky Schwartz, the cute college dropout from Agoura Hills, remembered he was Eagle. It all added to the fun and confusion. My brother John and I loved going there, two un-outdoorsy types encouraged to hike and handle a bow and arrow, a skill set that has yet to come in handy for either one of us. We made lanyards and glued popsicle sticks together for reasons that escape me, sang "Kumbaya" around the campfire, swam and rode horses, slept under the stars in sleeping bags and yelled "Ho!" (as opposed to Hurray!") a lot. The night the Eagle (the lunar module, not Ricky Schwartz) landed on the surface of the moon, July 20, 1969, I don't remember seeing it as much as hearing it. The whole camp gathered near the dining hall, where one black and white TV played at full volume, while Ironbow offered color commentary, and if you were lucky enough, or tall enough, you might have caught a glimpse of the historic moment. I remember everybody was very excited, myself included, but without the visual aid of seeing Neil and Buzz taking that giant leap for mankind, it didn't pack quite the same punch.

Ho!

Time For A Trade

What with the aches and pains, the overall kvetchiness meter on high, last night, upon his arrival home from the Network Promo Factory, I handed longtime hubby a Victoria Secret catalogue that landed in the mailbox like a bitch slap to the keppy. "Here," I said, "knock yourself out." "Where'd that come from?" "The Land of Cruelty. Take a look." "I shouldn't." "I insist." "Is there something in here you want?" "No. But there's probably someone in there you'd like." "What do you mean?" "It's time to pick out new." He reached over to give me a hug. "I don't want new." "Careful. I'm covered in calamine lotion." "I can take it." "Don't you want to trade me in for a new model, a gal with long legs, lustrous hair and nice lacy lingerie?" "I like the old model." "Oh, honey, every now and then, you say the right thing." "I've been practicing."

Socks & Sandals

Socks & sandals, socks & sandals
Talk about a footwear scandal
The ultimate fashion faux pas
There really ought to be a law
Bare feet & flip flops, surf & sand
It's not that hard to understand
Hurley, Dockers, Nikes or Reef
Show your toes, guys, that's my belief

Don't be a heel, don't you pretend
That socks & sandals are a trend
The only thing that you can do
Is bid this sad habit adieu
Trust me, men, take off those dumb socks
Whenever you wear Birkenstocks
Be cool, be chill, it's summertime
Socks & sandals, dude, that's a crime

Rapidly Aged

The Altacocker SJG

The devilish side of my sweet daughter-in-law Chlo-Chlo came out in full force yesterday, when she bombarded the family with the most disturbing app-produced photos, so much worse than anything I could've ever imagined. Not that I've even imagined myself 32 years from now. I tend to take things one year at a time. That's about all I can handle. If I'm still around at 93, kina hora poo poo, there's an excellent chance that God willing, I'll have evolve enough not to care what the bleep I look like.  

The Toddler SJG

Still, given the choice, I prefer this unaltered photo of my punim. The cheeks brimming with collagen, the eyes twinkling, the overall innocence. And, as you can see, my hairstyle hasn't changed all that much. 

Who's Calling?

"You sound vaguely familiar."

Only moments ago, my phone rang. Fine, it was my landline, go ahead and judge, I still have a landline. The name of the caller and phone number popped up in the cute little ID window on my phone. Here's the best part. I'd just managed to call myself, without lifting a finger. I picked up the phone, I mean come on, wouldn't you pick up the phone, if you'd just called yourself, and the conversation went something like this:
"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Who's this?"
"This is you."
"Me?"
"You heard me."
"I'm calling me?"
"You got that right, sistah."
"Is this a crank call?"
"Only if you want it to be."
"I don't want that."
"I didn't think so."
"So what do I want?"
"You want to know how you're doing."
"How am I doing?"
"All you have to do is ask."
"I thought I just did."
"Ask again. I got distracted. The dog is barking."
"You have a dog, too?"
"I have a dog named Blakey."
"Me, too. Coinky Central."
"Nah-uh. No coinky. Your dog is my dog."
"Oy vey."
"Just go with it."
"Okay. So... Carol, how's Carol doing?"
"It could be worse."
"It could always be worse."
"So I'm fine?"
"More or less."
"I'll take it."
"Well...."
"Well..."
"It was really nice talking to me."
"Me, too."
"Take care."
"See ya."
"Shalom."
"It's hard to say goodbye."
"I know."
"Let's hang up at the same time."
"On the count of three."
"One..."
"Two..."
Click.

Mad About MAD

Last issue

When I think of MAD Magazine and cover boy Alfred E. Neuman...

I think of myself sitting in the Westwood office of Dr. Alfred T. Baum, an adolescent SJG with a mouth full of braces. A visit to the orthodontist doesn't scream fun, but there was something about it I didn't mind.

First issue

And that something was MAD Magazine. I adored it. I may have only been a pre-teen, and in some instances, the political satire may have gone over my head, but I loved reading it. MAD was hilarious, subversive and kinda naughty. I loved the cartoons and the crazy spoofs of movies and TV. I took pride in the fact that MAD was founded by Jews and resonated with Jewish humor. 

MAD founders Al Jaffee and Will Elder, NY 1936

At some point, after the braces came off and the retainer landed in the trash, my visits to Dr. Alfred T. tapered off. But my love of Alfred E. survived, thanks to my brother John, who kept his MAD subscription going for years. To this day, he still sings MAD's parody of "Hello, Dolly":

Hello, Deli

This is Joe, Deli

Would you please send up

A nice corned beef on rye?

A box of RITZ, Deli,

And some Schlitz, Deli

And a sliver of your apple pie?

Turkey Legs, Deli

Hard boiled eggs, Deli

And a plate of those potatoes you french fry, oh

Don't be late, Deli

I just can't wait, Deli

Deli without breakfast, I'd just die.

My junior high romance with MAD ushered in my lifelong crush on parody and led to my high school worship of Dr. Demento on the radio (a little bit of heaven... 94.7... KMET... twiddle dee).  So thank you, MAD. Thank you for all the laughter. I'll carry your sense of the absurd, the ridiculous and everything in between with me forever. 

Eff-Off! For All Your Needs

(Sherman Oaks) Well, she's been developing it for about, oh, 61 years and counting, but the SJG is excited, if not altogether giddy, to announce her latest sensational, life-changing product. It's called Eff-Off! A spritz or two of Eff-Off! gets rid of all those pesky pests, actual or metaphorical, psychological or familial, that have turned your existence into a  living hell. Looking to repel an army of agitators? A bounty of bastards? A cadre of careerists? A swarm of 'squitors? Make Eff-Off! your go-to for those garden-variety threats that sneak up, sting you in the tush and leave a mark no allergist or shrink can vanquish from your soul and/or epidermis. Developed by a team of really smart scientists, and tested by the SJG and her close circle of ultra-sensitive, messed up peeps, Eff-Off! keeps all baddies at bay, or your money back. Eff-Off! is so powerful, so all-inclusively fabulous, so user friendly, your head may explode. To avoid injury, wear a helmet before application. Available at The SJG Pop Up Shop, conveniently located in the trunk of her swanky new space vehicle, and parked at Gelson's till they tell her to move. Only $12.99. How often does a deal like this come along? Hurry. Supples are limited.

You Don't Say

"I never forget a face, but in your case, 

I'll make an exception." - Groucho Marx

"Even a secret agent can't lie to a Jewish mother." - Peter Malkin

"There is no such thing as inner peace. There is only 

nervousness or death." - Fran Lebowitz

"Never waste good agony." - Jewish proverb

"Include me out." - Sam Goldwyn

"Kvetch like no one's listening." - The SJG