Short Jewish Gal

Abandonment Issues

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sun, 19 May 2013 15:32:00 +0000

Dusty seemed a little resentful when we first returned home. But a quick trip to his K-9 psychologist cleared up some of his abandonment issues. Dr. Chewstein reminded Dusty that he hadn't been abandoned at all. He'd spent the week with the youngest son, who catered to his every need, spoiled him rotten, gave him constant treats, let him sleep wherever he wanted and threw all of the SJG's rules out the window.

Nice View

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sat, 18 May 2013 15:49:00 +0000

Bye bye, New York. We had some laughs, didn't we?

We had some fun. We saw some pretty people.

We saw some shows. We drank a lot. We ate too much.

Why do you do that to us, New York? Why do you

make us lose control? Who knows. But this is why

we love you, scaffolding and all. You didn't rain on

us, New York. Not once. Not even a drizzle. We

thank you for that. The first trip without rain in years.

The first walk to the Met without getting drenched. The

first time we were umbrella-free. Not that we didn't pack an umbrella.

Of course, we did. We're not idiots, New York.

We're from Sherman Oaks. We're smarter than you think.

Still, big hugs, New York. Hugs and kisses. Take care, New York.

Don't be a stranger.

Get Up, Get Down, Go Home

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Fri, 17 May 2013 12:59:00 +0000

Ian Somerhalder: Boone on "Lost"

Oh, the life of the SJG. Does the excitement ever end? Yes, thankfully. There's only so much glam and celeb hobnobbing I can take. Yesterday I went to the CW upfront. Upfront? What the what? It's a network thing for advertisers and affiliates. The fall schedule is revealed, the gorgeous actors come out and wave, and later, they go to a big party just so they can meet me. Fine. They're not that interested in meeting me. But I pretend they are and it's more fun that way. Hubby introduces me to the pretty people and I try to say something, anything, instead of just standing there, looking like lox in search of an onion bagel. Last night, I scored three times.

Ian: Damon on "Vampire Diaries"

To Ian Somerhalder, I said, "You'll always be Boone to me." He hugged me. Score!

Paige Turco: Laney on "All My Children"

Paige Turco: "The 100"

To Paige Turco, I said, "You'll always be Laney to me." She kissed me on the cheek. Score!

Peyton List: Jane Sterling on "Mad Men," the LSD scene

Peyton List: "Tomorrow People"

To Peyton List, I said, "How's it going with the LSD?" She laughed and said, "I haven't taken any this week." Score! I can now return to my regularly-scheduled life in Sherman Oaks.

Hustle Your Bustle

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Thu, 16 May 2013 12:31:00 +0000

Strolling through the Metropolitan Museum's "Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity" exhibit with the tall, elegant Connie Ray, the SJG couldn't help but notice the accentuation of the backside in the 19th century. Good to know they appreciated the booty. "I wouldn't have needed a bustle had I lived back then. I've got a built-in bustle," I said, smacking my tush. An inappropriate gesture in a serious institution of art? Perhaps. I'll let you to decide. Connie weighed in on the matter, a little too quickly for my liking. "You'd be the Kim Kardashian of the 1860s." "Should I be offended or flattered?" "Flattered." "Hmm. In that case, thank you, Connie. Kim is my personal fashion icon." "I know."

Early body shapers

We both agreed that corsets would've done us in, no matter the century. This is a trend that should never make a comeback. Fashion gods, are you listening? To corsets, we say no.

I have nothing like this in my closet.

The bustle lives! Punk edition

I have three graffiti dresses just like these. How many do you have?

Not So Famous Quotes

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Wed, 15 May 2013 12:01:00 +0000

"I got blisters on me feet. I've never walked so much in me life." -- Short Jewish Gal

"I give 'Lucky Guy' three and a half out of five bagels on the bagel scale." -- Short Jewish Gal

"I can't believe I saw the Short Jewish Gal.
A personal high point for me." -- Meredith Viera

"I saw Meredith Viera as I was leaving 'Lucky Guy.' Perfect New York celebrity sighting."
-- Short Jewish Gal

"Does anybody really know what time it is in me body?" -- Short Jewish Gal

Costume Party

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Tue, 14 May 2013 13:01:00 +0000

The beautiful, ornate door to the Plaza Hotel. Why can't my front door in Sherman Oaks look like this? Why can't I have a golden revolving door? Because it would look dumb and out of context in suburbia, that's why. Thus ends the Q & A portion of the blog.

"There is no confusion like the confusion of the simple SJG. The other day, as she stumbled aimlessly through the city, directionless, not knowing north from south, east from west, she came upon the Plaza Hotel, the sort of rich establishment Gatsby once frequented, until that fateful day the concierge took the clothes off his back and put them on exhibit by the tea room." Thus ends my noble attempt to write like Fitzgerald. But check out these pretty costumes from the just-released "Great Gatsby." Me likey. Me likey very much.

I told hubby he needs a pink suit. He disagreed. I bought him one, anyway. Shush. It's a surprise.

Driving Miss SJG

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Mon, 13 May 2013 13:22:00 +0000

A long day of travel. Incident-free. Oh, except for the pat down at the airport. It was my first time. Clearly, I must've looked suspicious... of extreme silliness. As the security gal ran her gloved hands over my torso and tush, telling me to turn this way and that, all I could do was giggle. "Oooh, that tickles," I said. "She's laughing," the security gal said to the security guy. Guess they don't get gigglers that often at LAX. But what else was I supposed to do? Bark? Sing? What's that? Stand there and be all serious? Behave? Oh. Okay. I'll do that next time.

Driving Mss SJG

At JFK, hubby and I were greeted by our driver. How often do I get to say that? Only when I travel with the big shot TV exec I wed a while back. "Hi, I'm Josh," the driver said. "Hi Josh, sorry about my headphone hair. I wore headphones on the plane, to block out all the annoying people." "Your hair looks fine," Josh said. "You're nice," I said. Out came his life story. It made the long ride into the city more enjoyable, not to mention, educational. Josh had been a musician, sold encyclopedias, and worked in the horse race business, before settling on schlepping people back and forth to the airport. When he mentioned growing up in Stockbridge, Mass, I sang a little "Sweet Baby James." "... Now the first of December was covered with snow/And so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston..."

Wonderful book. Stop what you're doing and read it.

"Funny you should mention that," Josh said. "I've got a story about Stockbridge." "Spill it," I said. Out came the tale of his father, Mordecai Bauman, a Julliard-trained singer/cantor who started Indian Hill, a summer camp dedicated to the arts. Many famous types passed through Indian Hill, including Carly Simon as a counselor, and Arlo Guthrie. "Hang on, I just read Meg Wolitzer's book, 'The Interestings.' It's all about that camp." Meg Wolitzer went to Indian Hill, too, and wrote a wonderful book about a fictional camp based on the original. And there I was, talking to the son of the founder. Now, if that's not a cosmic coinky-dink, tailor-made for the SJG, what is?

Better Not To Know

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sun, 12 May 2013 14:14:00 +0000

Mid-70's, with Mom. At some point, she gave me this funky
kaftan and I started wearing it. She was always giving me things.

You never know, you know? And maybe that's a good thing. Because if you knew, you wouldn't want to know. You'll find out soon enough, anyway. Better not to know. Much better. Because if you knew, you'd want to change what you can't. In fiction, you can. But not in real life. Real life doesn't work that way. So. Better not to know. Better to enjoy the time you have together while you're having it. If only you were that smart. If only you could hit pause and freeze the moment forever. But you can't. You're too busy living to remember to hit pause. But that's okay. Later, you'll remember. Later, you'll remember all the details, all the laughs you shared, and how silly you got talking on the phone together. You'll remember the last time you said, "Bye, Mom. Love you. Talk to you tomorrow." You'll remember that and more. You never know, you know? And maybe that's a good thing. Because if you knew, you wouldn't want to know. So. Better not to know. Much better.

Not Enough Room For My Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sat, 11 May 2013 14:50:00 +0000

Packing. What is it about packing that I find so overwhelming? Everything. Every time I pack, I think of George Carlin's routine about stuff. This is why I hate packing. I've got to figure out what stuff to bring. What if I bring the wrong stuff? Then I'll have to buy more stuff. I don't want to buy more stuff. I have enough stuff as it is.

1-800-ENTITLED

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Fri, 10 May 2013 15:22:00 +0000

It's true, sometimes the SJG gets a little testy, especially with people who test my low reserve of patience. Why these people appear out of nowhere, why these people are planted at the mid-point of an otherwise lovely day, I can't tell you, but I assume it's all part of a right-handed conspiracy: "Let's eff with the lefty's equilibrium." Take yesterday's mid-point disturbance, which naturally, I'm choosing to take very personally, mainly because it happened to me. I parked my car in a residential neighborhood near an elementary school. Finding parking in this particular crowded neighborhood is nearly impossible. On the rare occasion that I do find a parking spot there, I tend to get out of the car and dance in celebration and gratitude. "I found a spot, bitches! I found a spot!" Then I check every sign, read every restriction, call 1-800-LAWYER to make sure my car won't be towed or ticketed while I'm getting my hair cut, and proceed to my destination in an legally-endorsed way.

Life in suburbia. Such a challenge for the SJG. What happened next? I'm so glad you asked. Spoiler alert: An exchange of unpleasantries. See what I did there? I hooked you. Keep reading. This blog is over soon. I have things to do, like plan what to wear for my court appearance. Just kidding. Or not? So, I got my hair cut by the leader of the SJG Beauty Team, I paid at the front desk, and schlepped back to my car in the residential neighborhood where, as I was soon to learn, bitchy gals roam free, and I'm not just talking about myself. The school was getting out early, which meant swarms of little people and parents and cars on the streets, the sort of situation the SJG loves to avoid. I've done carpool. I've done the school thing. For years and years. I don't need to revisit the commotion of afternoon pick-up.

But in this frenzied moment, I just had to suck it up, swear a little under my breath -- there were children present! -- and hurry to my vehicle. At the end of the hill, where I'd parked, however, my vehicle had vanished. This, I took as a very bad sign. Where I thought I'd parked, was a suburban vehicle, instead. Momentarily, I assumed I'd lost my mind. Had I parked on another street? I kept walking, bravely, hoping the mirage would clear and there would be my vehicle. I was just about to call 1-800-LAWYER when I realized the source of my confusion. The big-ass van was double-parked in front of my car. Oh! No wonder I couldn't see it. In time for Mother's Day, a youngish mother had blocked my car, offering her children an important lesson in entitlement. At this juncture of relief and WTF, I blurted out, "You can't park there. I can't get out." I know, I know. I could've said, with a proper English accent, "Excuse me, mum. Might you move your big-arse car? Ta!" But I didn't.

Calgon, take me away from this situation

The driver came back with the kind of sarcasm I'm not used to, and I know from sarcasm. It was a New Age banter of, "Oh, really? I'm not allowed to park here? I'm not parked. You are." I gave her my signature look of what-a-bitch, got in my car and waited for her to leave, since I couldn't until she did. As I sat there, she kept waving at me, another strange gesture, not the one I was tempted to offer her in exchange. She appeared to be spouting all sorts of empowering messages at me, but I didn't hear them. Wisely, my windows were up. And she continued to wave at me! Before she drove away, and as she drove away. More waving! As if to say, "Bye bye! Now you can leave! Was that so terrible? Waiting two seconds? Do you feel good about the negativity you just spewed into the universe while I picked up my children?" Hmm. Let me think about that. All I felt was annoyed and baffled by her passive-aggressive behavior. Next time, I'll just park in the lot and pay the seven dollars. Aggravation like this, I don't need.

May We Have Your Attention, Please?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Thu, 09 May 2013 14:57:00 +0000

"Ladies and gentleman, please turn off your cell phones before the show you paid a ridiculous amount of money to see begins. The actors on stage who trained for years to appear on Broadway would prefer not to hear your eff'n cell phone. If your stupid cell phone goes off during the performance, you will be physically removed from the theater. We also recommend that you don't attempt to text the actors on stage during the performance. They're too busy acting to text you back. Should you choose to unwrap a cough drop during the show, to cough, sneeze, pass gas, or, the worst offense of all, talk to yourself, talk to the person to your left, talk to the person to your right, you'll be ejected from the theater. This is Broadway, people, not your high school production of 'Phantom of the Opera.' And, as a final note to the Short Jewish Gal, who thinks she belongs on Broadway, we're here to inform you that, alas, you do not. Once again, you're delusional in your thinking. You may walk on Broadway. You may not be on Broadway. That means: no singing along during the performance. No dancing in the aisles. Control yourself, SJG, unlike the last time you visited the city that never sleeps. Unless you'd like to spend the night in jail, please use the seat belt we've installed to keep you exactly where you belong. In the audience, not on the stage."

My Badly-Lit Universe, And Welcome To It

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Wed, 08 May 2013 15:05:00 +0000

Is it me, or is the lighting bad in here?

It has recently come to short attention span of the SJG that the universe appears to be harshly lit and unkindly fluorescent. To clarify, I'm talking about the interior of the specific universe I occupy, and that's the only universe that really matters. Self-involved? How dare you! I'm getting to you in a second. Your personal universe may be candle lit and soothing. If this is the case, good on you! A recent study proves that everyone looks wonderful in candlelight. But in my universe, a small domain, a two-mile radius of schlepping here and there, I'm lit poorly by unnatural, unflattering light. I have it on good authority that cavewomen weren't subjected to fluorescent lighting, and therefore, worried more about survival than how they looked. Fast forward to the SJG universe. This mean-spirited, judgmental lighting needs to stop, and it needs to stop now.

At least in the market, so fluorescent I need sunglasses, there are no mirrors to reveal just what's going on with my anatomy at this stage of the game. Actually, that's not true. In the produce section, as I grab flat parsley or cilantro, or maybe a nice cucumber or some basil leaves, there is a mirror reflecting on the vegetables. Why there's a mirror in such a place, I have no idea, other than to let the veggies know they're looking pretty. Who knew veggies were so vain? They probably think this blog is about them. It's not. Get over yourself, veggies. The produce mirror is there for only one reason: to reflect badly on the SJG, if, God forbid, I should look up at an angle, while reaching for a mango, and see myself. The overall effect is unfortunate. I will spare you the details, other than to say, I've looked better.

The harsh lighting in the market, the odd mirror there to taunt me, I can handle with a trace of dignity. What I can't handle is the horribly cruel lighting in department stores, chain stores, any store where they want me to spend money. When I walk in, I may be tempted to spend money. But then, if I try something on, and am subjected to the shockingly bright, dressing room version of myself, an unhelpful, demeaning view of my every known and unknown flaw, I want to run screaming from the establishment. And yet, most times, I muster the courage and stay. I stand there, I try on clothes, I keep the weeping to a minimum, and I thank the harshly-lit universe for letting me know that the beige pants I'm considering are all wrong. So wrong on every level. Also wrong: the crazy green top the saleswoman keeps telling me looks great on me. It doesn't look great. I know it. She knows it. And so does the cold, unloving lighting in your store. So, thank you, universe. Thank you for the awful lighting you subject me to on a daily basis. Thank you for keeping me humble, and sparing me a percentage of dumb fashion decisions I'm inclined to make, even with good lighting.

What To Bring

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Tue, 07 May 2013 14:46:00 +0000

The March of the Rugelach

"What should I bring for Mother's Day?"

"Oh, you don't have to bring anything, Daddy."

"I want to bring something. How about a nice bottle of wine?"

"Can I be honest?"

"When are you not?"

"I don't need a nice bottle of wine."

"Then what should I bring?"

"How about some rugelach?"

"I used to get that at Junior's."

"Junior's is Lenny's now."

"It's not Junior's."

"You can get rugelach at the market."

"Where?"

"The bakery section."

"Does my market have a bakery section?"

"Every market has a bakery section."

"Does Trader Joe's have rugelach?"

"I'm not sure. But don't make a special trip there. You really don't have to bring anything, Daddy."

"I'll bring rugelach."

Why, Guacamole? Why?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Mon, 06 May 2013 14:49:00 +0000

Why. guacamole? Why? Why must you be so yummy, guacamole? So tasty? So delish? Why, guacamole? Why? Why did hubby bring a platter of you home on Cinco de Mayo? Because you were there, guacamole. That's why. Still, I asked him: Why, hubby? Why? Why did you do this me? You know I have no self-control when it comes to guacamole! Why, hubby? Why? Why didn't you leave the extra platter at work, where it belonged? Why did you bring temptation into the house? Surrounded by chips? And not just any chips. Homemade chips. Why, guacamole? Why? Why not fresh fruit? Why not carrots? Why not cucumbers? Why not, God forbid, quinoa? Those, I could've resisted, easily. Those, I could've nibbled on, briefly, without losing complete self-control. Why, guacamole? Why? Why must you be so yummy, guacamole? So tasty? So delish? I'll tell you why, guacamole. I'll tell you why, right now, guacamole. Because if you didn't make me lose my mind, you'd be something else. You'd be a platter of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies, and then, guacamole, only then, would it be even harder to resist you.

Sorry, Did I Scare You?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sun, 05 May 2013 15:30:00 +0000

The SJG scares easily. Naturally, I blame the genetic package I received in utero. The embedded message: "Here's some anxiety, some neurosis, and a nice helping of shpilkes. Enjoy." My entire family is a jumpy bunch. I learned early that sneaking up on my father, which I did once and only once, some time in the early 70s, was a huge mistake. He was downstairs, turning the lights off, putting the house to sleep for the night. I wasn't trying to scare him, I swear. I just needed his immediate attention. I walked up behind him, in my dainty way, and said, "Daddy, I can't sleep." He wasn't expecting me at that moment. He thought I was upstairs sleeping. His reaction: He grabbed his heart, jumped two feet off the ground and yelled, "Aaaaaaacccchhh!" He gets his jumpiness from his dad, who scared easily, too. When my grandma gave him a surprise party, the guests whispered "surprise," for fear that yelling "Surprise!" would scare my grandpa to death. Hubby knows how easily I scare, but it took him a few decades to figure out how to handle me. In the past, if he entered a room and I didn't hear him come in, I grabbed my heart, jumped two feet off the ground and yelled "Aaaaaaaaaaaaach!" Just like my daddy. So now hubby lets me know, "It's me, I'm walking into the room, I'm in the room now." So much better. If only everyone else would give me the same courtesy. Yesterday, I was in Macy's and a mannequin waved. I admit that threw me. Then the mannequin turned slightly and smiled at me. I grabbed my cell phone. "Hello? Men in white coats? Can you please come and collect me? I've officially lost it." Not to worry. Before the guys from the funny farm showed up, I realized that the mannequin was an actual live leggy model put there to surprise jumpy-ass people like me. Ha ha. Not funny Macy's. Not funny. "You scared me!" I said. "Sorry, " the leggy model said. "People keep telling me that." "Then stop doing it."

Let's scare the SJG! She's an easy mark!

It Could Be Much Worse

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sat, 04 May 2013 14:36:00 +0000

"So, how's the retina look?"
"It's not much worse."
"So, it's worse?"
"No."
"But you just said it isn't much worse."
"It isn't."
"So, then, it's a little worse, but not much?"
"No. It's not worse."
"So, it's not better, it's not worse?"
"That's correct."
"So, it's the same."
"Yes."
"So, maybe next time, just say that."

Dateline: Sherman Oaks

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Fri, 03 May 2013 14:03:00 +0000

Monday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": A loud confrontation in Gelson's results from a love triangle involving a short, Jewish allergy-prone shopper, a handsome produce manager and a Greek yogurt supplier.
Tuesday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": The disturbingly cluttered closet of an internationally-known blogger is explored in hopes of finding that cute pair of flats she bought at Nine West four years ago.
Wednesday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": An enabling mother of two who has never won the lottery, let alone played the lottery, shares her uninspiring story.

Thursday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": Riveting details surrounding the various parking lot mishaps, bumper scrapes and traffic violations of a near-sighted kugel-maker who sometimes forgets to look where she's going.
Friday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": A hometown bagel-hoarder under 5'2" is shocked when she becomes a suspect during the investigation of disappearing trash cans in her posh neighborhood.
Saturday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": A rapidly-aging woman who holds her pen funny opens up about her challenging life as a left hander.

Sunday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": Keith Morrison travels to a dark, mysterious place called the Valley to interview the SJG about all the typographical, grammatical and linguistic crimes she has committed in her daily blog.

The Attack of the Killer Bougainvillea!

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Thu, 02 May 2013 14:54:00 +0000

Look out!!! It's coming for you next!!!

It comes from a backyard that is not your own! It sneaks over your fence! It invades your private property! It strangles your innocent greenery! It tricks you with its pretty leaves! It takes over your landscaping! It is unstoppable! It is thorny! It is evil! It is uninvited! It creeps over your lawn! It enters your house without knocking! It is coming for you next! Run! Run from the killer bougainvillea! What part of this aren't you getting?! Don't say I didn't warn you! Run! Or die!

Bitch or Byotch, What's The Diff?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Wed, 01 May 2013 15:05:00 +0000

Well! Thank you for clearing that up!

Some of you may wonder, where does bitchiness come from? Are you born bitchy? Does bitchiness evolve or do you wake up one morning and realize, I'm such a bitch! As always, the SJG is here to help illuminate, clarify and confuse. But first, you may wonder, why am I all up in your face today about bitchy this, and bitchy that? Why am I not focusing on all the oven-fresh goodness that life has to offered? If I knew that, I wouldn't be me. Now then. Last night, as I stepped, Capezio first, into the dance studio, I encountered a scary Dance Mom who gave new meaning to the word Bitch. My friend and I were in the hall, waiting for a class to finish on time, which they never do, because God forbid they give a crappola that there are other dancers on the planet who need to get their groove on (see what I did there? I went all bitchy without warning!). The Dance Mom opened the door of the smaller studio, so aggressively, that she nearly knocked my friend unconscious. The door came "this close" to ka-knocking her in the ka-noggin. How close? Really close. What, you think I carry around a measuring tape? I'm not an interior decorator. But I know a good one. You want measuring, call my mother-in-law. Why are you bothering me with this?

So, as the Dance Mom barreled out, all territorial and outta my way, I channeled my overdeveloped maternal instincts, yanked my friend out of harm's way, and said, "Careful." I swear it was a very nice, "Careful," as opposed to an attitude-infused, "Careful." There was no imaginary "Bitch" at the end of my helpful statement, which, if I'm being honest, which I am most of the time, was directed more at my friend than the Entitled Dance Mom. But oy, did she give me a look. Instead of saying, "Oh, whoopsie, my bad, sorry, I apologize from the bottom of my tacky, knock-off, cheap-ass copy of an expensive running shoe," this raging fount of negativity said, "I didn't do it, intentionally," huffed over to the drinking fountain, flashing me the "die,bitch, die" look, stormed back into the studio and slammed the door. Really? Get a grip! And ex-squeeze me for living. But that, my friends, is a walkin', talkin' definition of bitchiness.

So, in answer to your earlier questions, bitchiness comes from deep within your messed-up psyche. You are not born bitchy. No, you are not. Bitchniess evolves over time, due to your environment, how much bitchiness you're subjected to from an early age, and then, once hormones come into play, it's anybody's guess. You're just a time bomb of uber-bitchiness. Not that menfolk can't be bitchy, but I think they prefer another term: a-hole. "He's such an a-hole." Pretty much the same as, "She's such a bitch." Thus ends one in a series of SJG lectures on bitchniess, or if you prefer, byotchiness. You're welcome! And please, have a bitchin' day.

How To Be Taller

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 14:33:00 +0000

Hell, yes!

"Limb Lengtheners of L.A. How may we make you taller?"
"Hi, this is the Short Jewish Gal. I was wondering the same thing."
"How much taller would you like to be, ma'am?"
"Well, I always wanted to be 5'2."
"How tall are you now?"
"On a good day, maybe 5'1 and a half."
"We can get you to 5'3," no problem."
"Tell me more!"
"First, we'll set up an appointment with one of our highly-trained height specialists."
"Cool. Is it covered by insurance?"
"I'm guessing no."
"Oy. Is it expensive?"
"We charge by the inch."
"So, what's involved? I hope we're not talking medieval torture racks."
"God forbid. Mostly, it comes down to top secret supplements, top secret stretching techniques, and, above all, positive thinking."
"Get outta here! What does positive thinking have to do with height?"
"Everything. You see, SJG, height is a state of mind. If you think tall and feel tall, you're tall. How do you feel right now?"
"Pretty short."
"Then you need to come in, immediately."

More Short Jewish Jokes?

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 15:02:00 +0000

A man is lying on the operating table, about to be operated on by his son, the surgeon.
The father says, "Son, think of it this way ... If anything happens to me, your mother is coming to live with you."

Two bees buzz around what's left of a rose bush. "How was your summer?" asks bee number one.
"Not too good," sez bee two. "Lotta rain, lotta cold. Not enough flowers, not enough pollen."
The first bee has an idea. "Hey, why don't you go down the corner and hang a left? There's a bar mitzvah going on. Plenty of flowers and fruit."
Bee two buzzes, "Thanks!" and takes off.
An hour later, the bees bump into each other again.
"How was the bar mitzvah?" asks the info-bee.
"Great!" sez buddy-bee.
The first bee peers at his pal and wonders, "What's that on your head?"
"A yarmulke," is the answer. "I didn't want them to think I was a wasp."

Ba-dump-bump.

Marital Advice

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:21:00 +0000

Every day, I follow the same mental health regimen. I read two advice columns, Dear Amy, and my personal favorite, Dear Kibitzer, and instantly feel better just knowing that the problems of this little SJG don't amount to a hill of beans, compared to all the other troubled souls in this crazy world. Sometimes the advice-givers are so wise, I take their suggestions out for a test drive. The other day, a frustrated spouse asked Amy how to reconnect with his wife, a standoffish gal who's pretty chintzy with the affection. Amy told him to "devote 10 minutes each day to looking her in the eye, stroking her hand and asking questions and listening." Naturally, I challenged hubby to do the same. I bet him he couldn't do it without cracking up, losing his mind, or falling asleep. "Oh, you think so?" he said, whereupon he looked me in the eye and patted my hand while I shared some important concerns.

"We're almost out of dog food," I said. He stroked my hand. "Uh-huh." "I noticed the sink is cracked in the guest room." He touched my knuckles. "Aw." "Sometimes, I feel like you'd rather wash the car, than my hair, like, the way Robert Redford does in that movie... with Meryl Streep, the one where she says, 'I had a faarrrrmmm in AFF-ri-Ka...' How come you never wash my hair while I bask in the sun outside, like Meryl?" He petted my left pinky. "I could hose you, and the dog off at the same time. Would that work for you?" "That would be wonderful. I feel so connected now." He caressed my right thumb. "Good talk." "Hey, come back here. It hasn't been 10 minutes."

The Coffee Thief Strikes Again

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 14:52:00 +0000

A Short Jewish coffee thief was spotted this morning in the kitchen of a home in Sherman Oaks, stealing a cup of java before the coffee had even finished brewing. "She does this every morning," said an anonymous hubby. "Why she can't wait till the coffee's done, like normal people, I can't tell you." The anonymous hubby described how the impatient coffee thief manages this daily crime: The coffee maker has barely started up and there she is, complaining about a sinus headache, wielding her coffee mug and mumbling, "Coffee, need coffee, must have coffee." Oh, and it's not just any mug, according to the anonymous hubby. "It must be a pretty one. She hates the plain beige mug. She says it doesn't work for her. She needs the nice one with the green glaze." He went on to say that the Short Jewish coffee thief honestly thinks the coffee will stop brewing long enough for her to snatch her first morning jolt of caffeine. But it just keeps brewin', it just keeps brewin' along. The coffee pot stops for no one, not even the Short Jewish coffee thief, despite what the owner's manual says.

You're Fired!

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 14:49:00 +0000

How dare you!

The youngest went all Donald Trump on me yesterday. "You're fired, Ma!" "Fired? From being your Ma?" "No, Ma, you're not fired for being my Ma." "Whew! Color me relieved!" "You're fired from appearing in any more of my student films." "Oh, eff them! I wasn't that bad!" "You got some big laughs." "So, you're firing me just as my acting career takes off? Oh, the cruelty!" "I'm not the one firing you, Ma. Blame the head of the film department." "The head of the film department is canning my ass? Ouch." "He wants us to use actors we don't know. But he liked Uncle John." "Oh, I see. The clown stays in the picture, but the mother, the one who schlepped you around in utero, who gave birth to you -- " "Ma, it's not personal." "Have I taught you nothing, son? Write this down: Everything is personal." "Hang on, let me get a pen."

The Art of Whining

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Starr Schneider) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 14:52:00 +0000

The SJG has passed along my gift for kvetching, whining and complaining to my sons. They're like sponges, my boys, soaking up all my quirks and putting their own personal stamp on each and every neurotic tendency I've exposed them to, and well, I couldn't be prouder. But now, a disturbing canine trend has come to my attention, and I wouldn't be me unless I unloaded it onto you and roped you into my latest cause for concern. Too bad all the good causes are taken, and I'm left with this: my dog, my Labrador, my daily companion, is the biggest whiner in the family. I'm not sure how exactly I transferred my love of whining to Dusty, and yet, the evidence is all around me, so, once again, I must accept blame. All day long, he whines about something. If I talk on the phone, he whines. If I talk to someone in my house, he whines. Basically, if I don't meet his demands, he whines.

Each whine conveys the same two-pronged sentiment:
1) "What about me?"
2) "Give me a treat and maybe I'll stop whining."

I've come to the conclusion that Dusty is the neediest dog, not to mention, the most manipulative. They say children learn by example. I'd like to add my dog to that equation, and well, I couldn't be prouder.