Short Jewish Gal

What Women Talk About At The Gym

2012-01-29T09:14:00.000-08:00

Mainly, we talk about health, all aspects of it. We talk body parts -- the ones that are falling apart, the ones that are getting better, the ones we can no longer identify. Yesterday was no different. Gene, my gorgeous friend who has no right to be that tall, and the SJG had a lengthy discussion about doctors and why they should never be too good-looking, especially gynecologists. It's just wrong. It makes us uncomfortable. I once had a handsome gyno and had to break up with him. Next appointment, I called up and cancelled. "I can't see him anymore," I told the receptionist. "Reason for leaving?" "He's way too hot. Can you recommend an ugly doctor?" "Hold, please." Not only do we discuss our own health issues, which keep getting weirder with age, but Gene and I like to dole out unsolicited advice to unsuspecting gals we take under our wing. On Saturday, we did our best to cheer up Erica (*name changed to protect her good reputation), who is facing her first colonoscopy on Tuesday. Gene and I are veterans of this procedure, and regaled Erica (not her real name) with stories of blocked plumbing, 911 calls to Roto-Rooter, jello that sits in the fridge for months, reminding you, "Oh, crap, I could only eat jello before my colonoscopy," and other unappealing side-effects that the SJG is far too classy to mention here. We also helped clear up how to say colonoscopy. Erica just couldn't bring herself to say it right. She kept putting the accent in the wrong place, omitting the second O, so it sounded like "co-LON-ska-PEE." The more I said co-LON-ska-PEE, the more it started sounding like a fun ride at a Swedish county fair. "Ride the Co-LON-ska-PEE, if you dare-ska!" If not a ride, then, at the very least, a fabulous new product, advertised, with great enthusiasm, on late-night TV. "New, from Ronco, the revolutionary At-Home Co-LON-ska-PEE. Order now and we'll throw in a free instructional video." Gene and I did ten more minutes brainstorming about this sensational idea, before we noticed that Erica (not her real name) had vacated the premises.

Walk, Don't Run

2012-01-28T09:03:00.000-08:00

Unless you're being chased

Most days, between 2ish and 3ish, I call my dear friend Cheryl and we share a one-word exchange. "Walkies?" I say. "Yes," she answers. A few minutes later, Dusty and Scout run to each other in slow motion, ecstatic to sniff each other. It's a thing of beauty to behold, a love that can't be denied. Our walkies are a wonderful diversion in my daily routine of writing/I don't feel like writing. Cheryl and I trade pithy thoughts, dissect the state of the union, lambast the politicians, and basically, philosophize about this n' that. We stroll down the peaceful sidewalks of Sherman Oaks, doing our best to remain upright, which is sometimes more difficult than you'd think. Friday's walk presented a few unexpected obstacles that upped the adrenalin, significantly. First came the roving pack of hungry wolves, eager to snack on our doggies. Oh, wait, sorry, that's not what happened. Pardon my slight exaggeration. What actually happened was this: two dogs, a big one and a mid-size, broke out of their backyard, and came charging at us, which, I admit, scared the eff'n ka-ka out of me. Since entering the elite club of dog owners, nearly 10 years ago, I've only encountered this situation once or twice, and each time, I've yelled, "Oh, @#$%!" and gone straight into panic mode. When it comes to panic, I'm an expert. This time I was more proactive. As the mid-sized dog tried to make a bagel out of Dusty's bum, I went ape-sh*t, started yelling, "No! No!," did some fancy foot work and took off with Dusty across the street. Cheryl handled things much more calmly. She taught preschool for years and knows how to pacify wild beasts. But don't you fret none. In the making of this cinematic blog, no animals or humans were permanently harmed. Of course, my sense of well-being may have been bruised. And then, on our way home, Cheryl went all Stunt Man, somersaulting down the sidewalk just to prove she still has what it takes, and skinned her elbow. For today's walkies, I'm taking a cab.

Drunk At The Wheel

2012-01-27T07:59:00.000-08:00

They do look a little farshikkert here

The big news in the SJG house yesterday? Nothing to do with politics or sports or even the fact Demi Moore is right down the street at Sherman Oaks Hospital. No, the big news: "Wheel of Fortune's" Pat Sajak revealed that he and Vanna used to get hammered at a Mexican restaurant during two and a half-hour breaks while prizes were loaded onto the set in Burbank. "Vanna and I would go across the street and have two or three or six (margaritas), and then come and do the last shows and have trouble recognizing the alphabet," Sajak said in an interview. We are obsessed with this story, not just because it's an OMG of over-sharing and why are you telling the world this now and did you clear it with Vanna first. We are obsessed because, in the eyes of the first born, Pat Sajak's margarita admission proves, once and for all, that... well, there's no way to phrase this delicately, so I'm just going to put it out there... Pat and Vanna have done it. Yesterday was Billy's huge "I told you so" moment. He even called his father at work to share his glee: "Did you hear about Pat and Vanna! They used to black out together. This is basically a guarantee that they used to @#$%." Hubby remains neutral on the matter. This morning, I tried to clarify a few things with our son. "Just because they got drunk doesn't mean they did it," I argued. "Do I have to spell it out for you, Mother?" "I'd like to buy a vowel." "I'll give you a U."

To The Left, To The Left

2012-01-26T09:06:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up to this on "The Today Show": "Researchers have now discovered what they think is a link between left-handedness and some serious medical conditions." Wonderful. Fellow leftie Savannah Guthrie went on to say, "Everyone knows some of the greatest thinkers, entertainers and athletes in history were southpaws. But scientists have been studying why approximately 10% of the population favors the left hand over the right, and it turns out being left-handed isn't always a sign of greatness." Savannah! How dare you! "The latest research is showing a variety of brain conditions are more common in lefties." Brain conditions? Tell me more! "Language. dyslexia, stuttering, autism, as well as mood disorders, such as depression..." I raised my hand. Here! "... and schizophrenia." I lowered my hand. Not here.

Savannah was just getting started. "Some studies have shown left-handed people earn salaries on average 10% lower than righties." That's not good. "And though it's partly due to genetics, scientists now believe left-handedness may be caused by mothers who were stressed or depressed while pregnant." I raised my hand again. Here! My mother had double pneumonia and chicken pox when she was pregnant with me, and had to chase after my two demonic brothers (and I say that with love). No wonder I'm a lefty. But what about my left-handed eldest, watching the report with me? "Were you stressed when you were pregnant with me?" he asked, pointedly. "I don't like your tone, young man," I said. "Just answer the question, Mother." "Well, I threw up for nine straight months, with no days off. What do you think?" "Thanks a lot," he said, and stormed off to work.

At least, Savannah did share some good news. "Five of our last seven presidents were lefties. So were four of the five designers of the mac computer. One in four Apollo astronauts used their left hand, that's far above the earthly average, and 100% of Today Show co-hosts are left-handed." Woo-hoo! The SJG walks among the greats! And then, finally, this: "Lefties are more artistic generally than right-handed people and make better lovers." Well, duh. Tell me something I don't already know.

Face Time

2012-01-25T07:59:00.000-08:00

Dad and Paula

The other day, I called Paula, my dad's girlfriend (every 90 year old man should have at least one) to wish her a happy birthday. Ladies of her generation would never reveal their age, unlike moi. In the past week I've blurted out mine, repeatedly -- "I'm 54, bitches!" I may not know Paula's exact age, but I sang to her anyway, in my best Ethel Merman style. "Well, dear, I have to go put on my face," she said, and it was adios. How much do I love this expression? So muchly, it's hard to quantify. My mother said it daily. She was very big on putting on her face. She never appeared in public without makeup. Never. I rarely saw her without makeup, in fact, except in the early morning hours, when, according to her handbook, it was okay to go without lipstick, blush and eyeliner. But once she headed out to the market or a meeting with like-minded liberals raising money for important political causes, she always looked incredibly put together. Of course, Paula is the same way: tres chic. The gals who came of age when, dare I say it, Frank Sinatra was a teenager just know how to dress and impress, effortlessly. I'll never forget when Paula casually mentioned that she'd once dated Frank Sinatra. I won't deny it. I was impressed. "He was very rude," she told me. "I didn't care for him at all." The date took place in a restaurant. Frankie wasn't pleased with the waiter and threw an ice bucket across the room. The nerve! How much do I love this story? Muchly, I can assure you. When it comes to putting on my punim, most days, I take under a minute. Powder and lipstick and off I go, hoping I don't run into anyone I know. It's an art form, to put on your face. I'm better at taking mine off.

On the Bagel Scale

2012-01-24T07:55:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas morning in Hollywood. The Oscar nominations are out. All in all, pretty impressive. A few head-scratchers, a few sad omissions. Nothing for Ryan Gosling, so good in "Drive." Nothing for "50/50." On the bagel scale, 5 being the highest, here's the SJG reaction to the nominations. It's an honor to share them with you now.

BEST PICTURE
"The Artist" - charming, nice, entertaining. Hubby slept through it. 3 bagels
"The Descendants" - wonderful, touching. 4 bagels
"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" - outstanding. 5 bagels
"Hugo" - freaking great, delightful, a little long. 4 bagels
"Midnight in Paris" - my pic to win, 5 bagels with cream cheese and very expensive lox.
"The Help" - a great film, loved it. 5 bagels
"Moneyball" - well-done, too long. 4 bagels
"War Horse" - old-fashioned, well-done, too long. 2.5 bagels
"The Tree of Life" - Dad said "don't bother," so I didn't. Bagel rating pending.
BEST ACTOR
Demian Bichir, "A Better Life" - fantastic performance. 5 bagels
George Clooney, "The Descendants" - moving, the best he's been. 5 bagels
Jean Dujardin, "The Artist"- nice, charming, expressive. 3 bagels
Gary Oldman, "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy" - When I wasn't confused, I was asleep. Hubby says 4 bagels.
Brad Pitt, "Moneyball" - the best he's been, but not as good as George. 4 bagels.
BEST ACTRESS
Glenn Close, "Albert Nobbs" - Haven't seen it, didn't want to see it, will have to see it. Bagels pending.
Viola Davis, "The Help" - Beautiful. 5 bagels
Rooney Mara, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" - one scary byotch. 4 bagels
Meryl Streep, "The Iron Lady" - great impersonation, so-so movie. 4 bagels
Michelle Williams, "My Week With Marilyn" - great impersonation, so-so movie. 3 bagels
BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR
Kenneth Branagh, "My Week With Marilyn" - great impersonation, 3 bagels
Jonah Hill, "Moneyball" - outstanding, 5 bagels
Nick Nolte, "Warrior" - sad, moving, 4 bagels
Christopher Plummer, "Beginners" - terrific, deserves to win, 5 bagels with all the fixings.
Max Von Sydow, "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" - touching, 4 bagels
BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Berenice Bejo, "The Artist" - loved her, 4 bagels
Jessica Chastain, "The Help" - gifted, heartbreaking, 5 bagels
Melissa McCarthy, "Bridesmaids"- hilarious, 4 bagels
Janet McTeer, "Albert Nobbs" - Bagels pending
Octavia Spencer, "The Help" - my pick to win, 5 bagels from Nate n' Al's

SJG To Buy Dodgers

2012-01-23T07:49:00.000-08:00

Welcome to SJG Dodger Stadium

Today is the deadline day for anyone interested in submitting a bid to purchase the Los Angeles Dodgers. So far the list of potential buyers is a veritable "who's-who" list of sports legends, and one major surprise. Bids are estimated to come in at over $1 billion. Some insiders predict that the team could even sell for up to $1.6 billion. Fans should be pretty pleased with the long, star-studded list. It includes former Dodger greats such as ex-owner Peter O'Malley, as well as ex-players Steve Garvey and Orel Hershiser. Coming out of left field to place her bid: the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks. "Who wouldn't want to own the Dodgers?" said the SJG. "I've been saving up for years. Back in the day, I made a lot of money babysitting. But my dream to own the Dodgers really took hold in high school, when I used to get free seats to the games, thanks to membership in some hoity-toity academic organization. I believe I may have bought my way into that club. I took my dad to the games, and we never sat in the designated seats because they were awful. We picked the best empty seats, until security told us to move. We'd just play dumb, say, 'Oh whoops, sorry, these aren't our seats?' and find even better seats. We spent the entire game moving around the stadium. My dad taught me a valuable lesson: Never settle. Keep going till you get what you want. I promised him, 'One day, we won't have to schlep from seat to seat. One day, I'll own this place and we can sit wherever we want.' 'I'm going to hold you that,' he said. Well, now's my chance to make him proud and buy the Dodgers. So what if I'm short a billion? I'm doing this for my daddy, and that's what matters."

The Chase Scene

2012-01-22T08:23:00.000-08:00

Pre-chase

Everyone loves a good chase scene. Instead of bad guys in cars careening recklessly through intersections and alleyways, in my house, at least once a week, it's just me chasing after Dusty. No gunfire, no screeching tires, no exciting techno music to heighten the tension. Around here, the crime is always the same. Grand theft. Yet again, the dog has absconded with something that doesn't belong to him - a sock, a towel, a nice pound cake, a turkey sandwich on rye - and off I go, running after him like a complete lunatic.


Mid-chase

I could just give him a treat and yell, "Drop it!" But what fun is that? Plus, we both need the exercise. What could be more aerobic than zigzagging in and out of furniture, hurdling over chairs and cartwheeling down the hall? The SJG likes a good challenge, and this one feels like an Olympic trial. Until one of us gives up. Usually me. "Oh eff it," I said this morning in defeat. "Keep it. See if I care. I've got others." At which point, Dusty shot me an accusatory look, one that said, "party pooper," and retreated, towel in teeth. Next time, I'm calling for back-up.

Miss Piggy

2012-01-21T08:54:00.000-08:00

How much dessert can an SJG eat in one week? A ridiculous amount. Why do my best peeps want to fatten me up at this celebratory time? Let's review the desserts that are soon to land on my backside, if they haven't already. On Monday I hit a new level of gluttony. At lunch with Carla and Cami, a cookie platter, plus a caramel-filled slice of heaven. Double oink. On the way back to Sherman Oaks, I stopped by the home of Connie Ray, star of Broadway, film and flat screen -- everyone should have at least one friend like Connie in their collection. She took time out of her busy day to offer up "something I made for you." She's such a crafty gal, I assumed it was a candle or a needlepoint pillow, embroidered with my name. I was wrong. It was much better than that. Two blueberry-lemon tarts she made from scratch. Have I ever made anything from scratch? Let me think about that. No. I told her I couldn't possibly eat the tarts just yet. "I'll take them to go." She ignored me, lit a candle, the kind you can't blow out, it just keeps relighting (actors!) and watched me huff and puff. As she sang to me in her stage voice, I may have passed out, briefly. Out of pity, she wrapped up the desserts and sent me on my way. She had a plane to catch. "I will treasure these tarts forever," I said, as she shoved me out the door. "Go home and eat them," she said. At home, hubby and the first born presented me with a mocha cake. Can I get an oink oink oink? I ate a dainty slice, lest I start an international incident. Much later, twenty minutes or so, we shared a Connie-made tart, just so that I could text her: "Oh my God, delish!" We ate the second one the following night. By now, I've lost track of the other desserts people have foisted on me this week, out of love, but they've all been yummo, I assure you. Tomorrow, I get to foist a birthday cake on Tim, in honor of his 40th. Naturally, I'll have a tiny slice. It would be rude not to partake. Quadruple oink.

Gone To Downton

2012-01-20T07:51:00.000-08:00

Looks pretty, but can she speak Yiddish?

Allow me to introduce the servants

Is it wrong that I want to live in Downton Abbey? I don't think so. Call me selfish, but, if given a choice, I'd prefer to live in Season One, before the handsome men went off for war and the Granthams were forced to turn the mansion into an infirmary. True, in the land of Downton Abbey, I might stand out. I might be the only Short Jewish Gal they've ever encountered. I'd handle it with my customary grace. Curtsy and smile and put them in their place. After all, I lived in England once. For a whole year! I can do this. I can speak British. Say "flannel" for washcloth and "jumper" for sweater. Drink tea with pinky pointed. Sit at my vanity table, admiring my own reflection, while my lady-in-waiting curls my hair. I was born for this. I belong in Downton Abbey. I can be snooty. Wear silly hats. Boss people around. Just ask hubby. In recent days, I've uttered the following sentiments with a decidedly Upstairs flair: "I'll take my sherry in the parlor." "Fetch one of the servants, will you?" I can be Downstairs, too. I can say, "I love you, Mr. Bates. And I know it's not ladylike to say so, but I'm not a lady and I don't pretend to be." I can be haughty like Maggie Smith. I can say:

This gal doesn't take sh*t from anyone.

"No one wants to kiss a girl in black."
"Last night! He looked so well. Of course it would happen to a foreigner. No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house."
"I couldn't have electricity in the house, I wouldn't sleep a wink. All those vapors floating about."
Must I tell you again? Very well. I want to live in Downton Abbey. Slip back in time and be an elegant Brit. Would someone kindly point me in the right direction? I don't want to be late for tea.

Moms on Facebook

2012-01-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

Here's what started my confusion: "Curse you, Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center and your haunting blankety-blank jingle!" Posted yesterday by my dear friend, blogger extraordinaire, the founder of BoomerGirl Diary, Cathy Hamilton of Lawrence, Kansas. Jewish mother and professional worrier that I am, I immediately pictured Cathy sitting (uncomfortably) in some chilly waiting room, suffering, horribly, and losing her mind while some nightmare hemorrhoid jingle played on loud speakers. Suffering so much she had to share it on Facebook, a great place to find sympathy for any and all life conditions. "Everything okay?" I added to a long thread of responses, most of which barely mentioned her situation. "Let's take Zumba soon!" "Let's have coffee!" I couldn't help but wonder what kind of insensitive locals she was hanging out with these days. Her so-called friends couldn't begin to match my sincere, heartfelt concern.

Then I read Cathy's response: "Carol, it's a commercial that runs all the time on TV here. (You guys probably don't get hemorrhoids in Cali.) The jingle invades your brain and you catch yourself singing it while you're making dinner. "Don't suffer in silence" is the tagline. I'm OK. But thanks for your concern!" "Well, that's good news," I wrote back, relieved. "And you're right. Hemorrhoids have been outlawed in Cali since 2000." Only then could I move on to other people's actual health problems. Like my son's roommate. Even though Billy refuses to be my FB friend (unlike his nicer, younger brother), his friends often friend me, and in return, I offer unsolicited motherly advice. When Cory posted something about his clogged ears, I was all over it, scolding him (gently) for using Q-Tips -- "Oh, hon, Q-Tips make it worse! You need to go to my ear doctor." Naturally, I supplied her name and phone number. He's going today. Next problem, real or imagined.

Sh*t Jewish Mothers Say

2012-01-18T07:28:00.000-08:00

For reasons beyond the SJG's tentative grasp of social media, there's an epidemic of videos, all variations on a theme, depicting the crazy sh*t people say, specifically, females. In this one, sent to me by the lovely Anne Rainer, we have a Jewish dude impersonating a Jewish mamala. Pretty funny stuff. I'm guilty of saying a few of these things myself. Double click if you want a nice full visual. Don't if you're satisfied with a small frame. I can't make all your decisions for you, although, believe me, nothing would make me happier.

Oh, Behave

2012-01-17T07:33:00.000-08:00

The SJG milking my birthday

On the national holiday that was my birthday, and more importantly, MLK's, the fabulous mother and daughter duo of Carla and Cami treated me to lunch at Spago, where we ate obscenely delicious food and debated, at great length, whether the man in the nearby booth was Basil Exposition.

Oh, behave: Basil Exposition and Austin Powers

Back and forth we went. Is that Michael York? No, it can't be. It is. It isn't. There's no way. It's definitely him. It definitely isn't. We got just a tad obsessive over the matter. Carla thought the man sounded British. I was thrown by his dark glasses. Cami said it was the guy from "Austin Powers" and that was that. And then she left, to continue her busy life, and we sat there, pondering the situation. In terms of Hollywood sightings, it was inconclusive. It could've been Michael York of "Cabaret" and "Romeo and Juliet" and so many other great films. Or it could've been an older gentleman who vaguely resembled him. Not till I got home and Googled did I realize that of course, Cami was right. The man in Spago? Definitely Michael York, just sitting there, enjoying lunch with his wife, and making the SJG birthday even more festive.

Dentally Yours

2012-01-16T08:10:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday
Carol

Your friends at Happy Teeth wish you a very happy birthday. We hope that you have a wonderful day and look forward to seeing you again soon. We want you to know we'll be there for all your dental emergencies as you get older and everyone you know starts backing away, in horror, aware that you're certainly not the looker you once were. Your friends at Happy Teeth don't care how ugly you get. We'll take care of you and make you pretty again. When your teeth loosen and fall out at inappropriate times, who loves you, baby? Happy Teeth. When your gums give out, we promise not to laugh, like the other people in your life. We'll fit you in, even if we have no appointments. That's how important you are to us. When you lose your dentures in the bagel bin at Ralphs, we'll make you another pair, for free. Just kidding. We're not that generous. We'll charge you, but we'll be fair. Let's face it. Your friends at Happy Teeth care more about your well-being than anyone else in your life. We hope that one day, you'll leave us all your money, if we haven't taken it all already. Dental care is expensive. So please, Carol, have a wonderful day. And remember, no one loves you like we do. No one. Dentally yours, your friends at Happy Teeth

Snark Fest: The Sequel

2012-01-15T08:21:00.000-08:00

Oh, to be a snarky Brit, who doesn't give a poop what people think. Oh, to be Ricky Gervais. Tonight, I'll tune in again to watch him on "The Golden Globes" and pick up some pointers. Where would the SJG be today had I been snarkier? It's never too late to get my Ricky on. Here's what he told reporters the other day, when asked if he felt nervous about hosting the Globes: "No. What's the worst that can happen? I end my career once a week if you read the press. I do things that could end my career now. That's my extreme sport. If you get fun with it, which I do and I demand, and you get your own way and are happy with what you've done, then nothing can happen to you. You're bulletproof. Everything I say, I can justify it, I can stand by it, as I do every joke I did last year, then I don't care. I don't care if you're offended. I'm going to do a monologue about what happened during the year, and then introduce six or seven people as I did last year. I've got nothing against any of those people in the room. I've worked with many of them. I like many of them. I admire them. They're just gags. I'm not trying to hurt anyone's feelings or give them a bad night or undermine the moral fabric of America. I'm a comedian." Oh, to be Ricky Gervais, who has nothing to lose. It probably helps that he's very, very rich.

The Bare Necessities

2012-01-14T08:22:00.000-08:00

My parents, Ben and Gloria, celebrate the wonders of my tush

On Monday, I turn 45. Oops! Make that 54. That means I've had the pleasure of attending many birthday parties in my honor, the majority thrown by my mother, a gal who knew how to entertain. Sadly, most of the celebrations blur together in my aging brain. A few that stand out: The private screening of "Cinderella" in our living room. I think I was five. The trip to the Ice Capades. I think I was eight or nine. My sweet 16, just a table full of close friends and Mom. And, of course, my 40th, which feels like a zillion years ago. It was the last party she gave me. Two years later, she was gone. But here's what I remember from that happiest of birthdays, a mind-boggling 14 years ago:

I walked into Back on Broadway in Santa Monica, hubby by my side. I was in excellent spirits. And why shouldn’t I be? That night was all about one of my top ten favorite people. Me. Naturally, I planned to get good and schnockered. The first thing I saw was a poster-size, black and white photograph of the cutest butt in history, propped up on an easel. A year old, I’m leaning against the bath tub, clutching a wash cloth, and looking shyly back at the camera, butt-naked, caught for all eternity. A closer look revealed an undeniable fact: the shape of my tush hadn’t changed much since 1958. Still heart-shaped and ample, despite a lifetime of squats, Jane Fonda pelvic thrusts, lunges and countless other attempts at rear-end reduction. And now the friends who gathered to celebrate the wonder of me would learn just how far back this situation goes. All the way back to the beginning.

Standing over by the easel, grinning deviously: Mom and Dad. I started to laugh, and so did hubby, then they joined in. Clearly, I was cool with this monster tribute to my derriere. It could've gone another way. Had I been mortified, that poster would’ve disappeared faster than chocolate at a PMS convention. But I turned the other cheek, so to speak. All night long, comments ranged from “Nice ass” to “That ass hasn’t changed” to a Jimi Hendrix-styled riff of “’Cuse me while I kiss your ass.” Considering the alternative -- a full-frontal view -- I probably got off easy. A wonderful night, full of food and wine, birthday cake and dancing. As for the poster? It's still in my closet, planning its big Hollywood comeback. Not in this lifetime, baby.

All About Me Day!

2012-01-13T08:03:00.000-08:00

The Sherman Oaks Commission on All Things Jewish has announced exciting plans to celebrate the birth of the SJG on Monday, January 16. In addition to flying a Good Year Blimp over the intersection of Ventura and Van Nuys Boulevards, where the SJG spends much of her time, the commission will introduce an art, writing, and multimedia contest for students from across Sherman Oaks. "The Short Jewish Gal believes strongly in arts and crafts, self-indulgent poetry, and of course, the Internet as a self-promotion tool," said Shayna Madela, executive director of the commission in a press release. "The SJG still has a lanyard she made at camp, a book filled with her own bad poetry, and a video collection of all the people she's stalked on Facebook." As part of the 54th Annual SJG Summit, lucky participants will begin their journey in the parking lot of County General, where the SJG was born, and will then travel across town to Nate n' Al's, the first deli she ever ate in, as far as she knows, and then on to the nursery school where she went missing, thanks to a group of trouble-makers who locked her in a playhouse. Next comes a visit to Warner Avenue, where a teacher found a note, written by the SJG, that said, "Drop dead," and answered, "Well, wouldn't that be nice!" Emerson Jr. High will follow, where the SJG was sent to the Girls VP for making a face in Girl's Glee. After that, Uni High, where she did nothing bad ever. And finally, UCLA, where students will be forced to read every single article she wrote for the Daily Bruin. SJG Day will end with an appearance by, who else, the Short Jewish Gal, during which she'll give a self-congratulatory speech, pay homage to herself with a lengthy interpretative dance, and perform several numbers from "SJG: The Rock Opera."

Tradition

2012-01-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

Cap and gown. UCLA graduation, 1979: Grandma Shorty,
Peter, the SJG, John, and Grandpa Bill

Every night after dinner, at 6:30 sharp, we talked to our grandparents. While my dad spoke to them, the three of us waited in the den for the signal. From the kitchen, my dad would call, "Okay!" Then we'd trade off, having identical conversations. "Hi Grandma. How's ba you? Hi Grandpa, how's ba you? Did you have a nice day?" That was the extent of it. "Love you. Talk to you tomorrow." Next night, same exact conversation. Every Sunday afternoon, at 3 sharp, ding dong, there they were, tiny Grandma Sara, who later earned the nickname Grandma Shorty, and the very tall Grandpa Bill. Their accents were thick, their sense of humor unparalleled. No matter what they'd been through, they could still laugh and tell great stories. We all sat in the living room on Lindbrook Drive, eating pretzels and sipping Coke. Sometimes they'd share amazing tales of Russia, how they escaped and came to America with bupkis. Sometimes we'd play checkers and gin rummy. Other times, we'd listen to comedy albums. Alan Sherman. "You Don't Have To Be Jewish." Nichols and May. There was entertainment, too. Spontaneous piano recitals. Guitar solos. My honorable attempts to sing like Joni Mitchell. A magic show. Some modern dance. Some Fred and Ginger. Some soft shoe. At some point, my grandma would slowly rise from the sofa. "Give me a push, lover," she'd say and my grandpa would gently nudge her upright. At 4 sharp, we walked them to the door and said goodbye. Eventually, the nightly calls dwindled to once a week, the Sunday visits ended, but not the connection. Eventually, it was just my grandma on the phone. "Hi, Grandma, what's new?" Her standard answer: "Everything is old, including me." And then, those calls stopped, too. But I can still hear their voices in my head. After all these years, I have to say, the reception is as strong as ever.

Automotive Etiquette

2012-01-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

Dear SJG,
The other day, I made a right turn on Ventura Boulevard, on a red light. In my humble opinion, there was plenty time for me to merge into traffic without causing a vehicular annoyance to other drivers. However, a ~~bitch~~ lady in a Toyota disagreed, projecting an aura of extreme negativity, as though I were usurping her cosmic space. To show her dissatisfaction, she sped up behind me, and, much like a maniac sprung from the House of Meshuganas, tried to run me off the road, all while honking and flipping me off. I've still not recovered from her road rudeness. I find myself entertaining bad thoughts regarding this person's automotive future. I'm feeling a little guilty. What would the SJG have done, if faced with this dilemma?
Thank you,
Bad Thoughts in Sherman Oaks,

Dear Bad Thoughts,
Chillax, already. You've done nothing wrong here. You saw an opening and you took it. If that ~~bitch~~ lady with the stick up her tush has issues, that's her problem, not yours. Plus, no one gave you a ticket, so get over it. And remember what Woody Allen said in "Annie Hall": "Who would want to live in a place where the only cultural advantage is that you can turn right on a red light?" Millions of peeps, that's who, Woody! Under the circumstances, I think you've conducted yourself with considerable restraint. Had I been in your Uggs, I would've reacted a bit more aggressively, taken it to the next level, followed that ~~bitch~~ lady down Ventura until we were within window-screaming range, and said, "How dare you! Don't you know who I am?" But then, I've tallied up enough legal fees and family members no longer answer my calls, afraid I might be hitting them up for bail money. So I'd have to say, "Better you, than me," and leave it at that.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Special Delivery

2012-01-10T07:45:00.000-08:00

At the nice sushi place, I thought it was time to clear up a few misconceptions for the eldest son, officially 24 years old. "Honey, I hope this doesn't upset you, but you weren't actually delivered by UPS." He stared at his chopsticks, gathering his thoughts. "But you always said I came wrapped in a comfy package, overnight express." "I lied." "For 24 years, I've been telling people I was delivered by UPS, and now, you're saying that's not how it happened?" "I'm afraid so." "Then how the @#$% did I get here?" "I delivered you." "As in, you drove up to the hospital in a truck?" "As in, I endured a hellish labor that lasted many hours, during which I grunted, screamed, and at one point, laughed hysterically for no reason at all, until finally, you entered the world with a pointy head that made your grandparents very nervous." "But it was worth it, right?" "Absolutely."

What Can I Help You With?

2012-01-09T08:06:00.000-08:00

"So, how are things going with you two?"
"Pretty good, I guess, overall."
"I'm sensing some hesitation."
"Well, it's just that, sometimes he doesn't always understand me."
"In what way?"
"Sometimes his auto-correct skills leave a lot to be desired. It feels like he's always trying to make me say something I don't want to say."
"Can you give me an example?"
"Yesterday, in the calendar app thingy, I thought I wrote, Lunch with Kyle. But it wound up Lunch with Lyle. I don't know any Lyles. What's that about? Is he trying to gaslight me?"
"It's possible he's just trying to help."
"When did help and control become synonymous?"
"Maybe you need to bring this up with him."
"I wouldn't know how to start without sounding angry. As in, why are you effing with my spelling? I used to spell fine until you came along. Now, I'm constantly questioning myself."
"Are there any positives you can point to, regarding this relationship?"
"Oh, yeah, absolutely. I still find him very attractive. He's so smooth and shiny. People say we look really good together. Sometimes I think I'd be lost without him. He's great at navigating. His GPS skills are awesome. He tells me to turn left with such authority. It's hot."
"So there are some good things going on."
"Tons. He takes really good photos. Really flattering. He takes out the red spots in the eyes. He makes you look skinnier than you are. He's very considerate that way."
"It sounds like you're fairly content."
"We still have a few things to work out. I'm not too thrilled with his girlfriend."
"I didn't realize this was an open relationship."
"He told me up front that Siri comes with the package."
"How do you feel about her?"
"To be honest, a little ambivalent. She's kinda bitchy at times. You never know when you're going to press her buttons. Like, the other day, I happened to mention that I need a number. I thought I was being clear. I need a number. And she got all huffy. 'Anita Numbert? Who the hell is that? Is he cheating again? That sonofabitch. I'll kill him.' And I said, Siri, calm your ass down. There's no Anita Numbert. I said, I need a number. And she said, 'Sorry. Sometimes I overreact. What number would you like?'"
"Well, SJG, it looks like we're out of blog space. Shall we pick this up next week?"
"Okay. Thanks, Doc. You always make me feel so much better."
"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

What Would Bob Think?

2012-01-08T09:16:00.000-08:00

One of the many benefits of living in the Valley, a place I swore to God I would never inhabit, never ever, and I've been here since 1986, is the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Who needs to schlep to LAX when you've got your own small town, folksy airport nearby? It's so easy to park, check in, depart to exciting locales, or pick up a loved one, as I did yesterday, when I went to fetch the first hubby. The doors parted and there he was, the fast walker, zooming past Baggage Claim. "Honey," I said, waving frantically, hoping he still recognized me. He'd been gone one day. At this stage, a gal can change overnight in strange ways. Skin that once situated nicely in its designated spot can sag left or right, depending on how you slept. Luckily, he remembered the sound of my voice, and turned his head. "I didn't see you. Where were you?" I pointed to the large, blaring video kiosk the airport installed a while back. It was currently blasting a theatrical trailer for "War Horse" at deafening levels. I removed my hands from my ears. "I was trying to get as far away from that horrible thing. Why is it there?" Network promo man that he is, he explained that these video kiosks are everywhere now, in shopping centers and markets, anywhere you've got a captive audience. "I hate them," I said, as we walked to the car. "I wonder what Bob Hope would think about this sick advertising ploy." "He'd love it He'd want to be on there, 24/7, telling jokes." Like this one: "She said she was approaching forty, and I couldn't help wondering from what direction." Ba-dum-bump! Personally, I'd prefer a Bob Hope joke-a-thon to movie trailers wailing off the wall in Baggage Claim.

Now Hiring

2012-01-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

Early morning dog walker needed. Duties and responsibilities: Haul your butt out of bed before you're actually awake. Dress in warm yet fashion-forward clothes to make good impression. Collect outdoor poopy deposits of a dog named Dusty. Navigate bumpy, cracked suburban terrain. Quick-footed a plus. Must be ready to dodge obstacles that pop up at random intervals. Abandoned shopping carts. Runaway strollers. Fallen branches. Spiky little tree balls from hell.

Skills: Fast learner. Patient. Loving. Ability to cope with compulsive sniffing. Excellent decision making and analytical skills. Excellent leash management. Ability to deal with sleepwalking neighbors. Calm under all situations. Black belt in karate a plus. Ability to speak Dog. Good emotional balance. Salary: Iffy. Benefits: Psychological. Hours: Monday - Sunday, 6:45 a.m. to 7 a.m. Apply: www.shortjewishgal.blogspot.com. Hurry. Employer anxious to fill position. Hasn't slept late since 2003.

Just Call Me "Q"

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

Scott D at the mic, spitting rhymes again

"Take your mother into the recording studio, she's going to try to edit out a few words here and there." -- SJG pretending to be "Q" as in Quincy Jones, famed music producer, yesterday. It's possible I got a little too into my new role. "Sounds a bit jumbled. Try it again." "You're rushing. Take your time." "Do you really need to say @#$% that much?" "Shush, mother." At one point, Dave, the engineer, unaccustomed to seeing moms in the studio, told me I'd have to toughen up a bit. "More eff'n energy in the chorus," I said. "Why don't you get in there and rap with him?" "Maybe later," I said. On the other side of the glass, the college boy, heading back to the Cruz today, nixed that idea. Apparently, someone beat me to it. There's already an SJR out there. Senior Jewish Rapper. Aka: Gittle Langer Saks. God forbid I should try to steal the mic from Gittle. That would be so beneath me. Plus, I don't hit senior status for another decade. However, MAJR (Middle-Aged Jewish Rapper) does have a nice ring to it. In the meantime, look for Scott D's EP, "The Mensch." Dropping soon, homies.

Kvetching Rights

2012-01-05T08:23:00.000-08:00

The SJG has had many career high points. The first time my name ever appeared in a publication, I was so excited, I called up Mr. Ben Starr, and said, "Daddy, I've been printed!" After that, nothing has quite matched the initial buzz of recognition. Sure, seeing my name on other things -- court orders, magazine articles, the TV screen -- made me proud. Sure, all those prestigious nominations for awards that less deserving writers won (not that I'm bitter) made me feel good about myself, in a "who would've thunk it" kind of way. But believe me, the excitement wears off, quickly. The thrill is transitory, and once again, you're waiting for your agent to find you something, anything, it doesn't matter. And yet, some things last longer than expected. Thanks to the Internet, some honors never lose their luster. They last for infinity and beyond. A while back, I Googled my favorite word of all time. You know it, say it with me now: Kvetch. Today, I Googled it again. Pay attention, I'm only going to tell you this once, or twice, ten times at the most. I Googled Kvetch and -- trumpets please -- I'd joined the Google pantheon. Right there, under results: "To Kvetch Or Not To Kvetch," Short Jewish Gal. Plus! A tiny photo of moi. But wait there's more. "So You Think You Can Kvetch?" Short Jewish Gal, came up next. Plus! A tiny photo of moi. Can you blame me for kvelling? I mean, come on, people! This is an honor far greater than all those writing awards I got nominated for, only to sit there in the audience (once I even went to New York to sit there on live TV) and watch other, less-worthy people get up and say, "First, I'd like to thank..." (Not that I'm bitter.) But Googling Kvetch and seeing my name come up? That's the kind of heady recognition that takes on a life of its own. You don't believe me? Go ahead and Google Kvetch for yourself. In the meantime, I'd like to thank the short people, the mid-sized people, the annoyingly tall people (you know who you are) for helping me get to where I am today. I will do my best to match this level of achievement, but I can't make any promises.

Menu Planning

2012-01-04T08:46:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, so many, I'm embarrassed to tell you, but it was definitely BGB (before giving birth), hubby and I laughed our way through Jackie Mason's hysterical one-man show on Broadway. The routine that stayed with us the most concerned Jews and food and how we're always planning our next meal, even while we're eating our current one. In the home of the SJG, this observation rings 100 percent true. While hubby eats breakfast, I ask him what he wants for dinner. His answer is sweet but unhelpful. "Whatever's easiest for you." What's easiest is take-out. Not that I indulge that often. Maybe once a week. Maybe twice. I refuse to be pinned down to an actual number. Let's just say, at the Italian place I call weekly, they cut me off after hello, and tell me what I'm getting. "Chopped salad. Extra garbanzo beans, no meat. Margarita pizza." In strange locations throughout my house, I find all sorts of notes I've scribbled, notes that should exhibit a writer's brain at work -- character traits, plot points, story arcs, act breaks, chapter endings, dialogue. Here's what I scribbled yesterday on a notepad from the Santa Cruz Holiday Inn Express: "Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Hawaiian BBQ, Cuban." Menu options for Tim's birthday party. And in bold lettering: "No cheese! No hazelnuts! No chocolate!" Tim has allergies. These scribbles explain so much about me. So I'm a little bit obsessed with food, but only when it comes to breakfast, lunch and dinner, and maybe a snack or two in between. There are worse things to be obsessed with, like the state of the world, and who wants to think about that?

Two Oys

2012-01-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

Two broke girls... and my brother

Sometimes I can't see him at all. It's a blink and he's gone situation. But last night, my brother, the Extra, was front and center on "Two Broke Girls." There was no missing him. He was right there in the grocery store, right behind the two stars as they got into a nasty-yet-hilarious argument with another customer. They held up the line and my brother looked appropriately disgruntled. Two seconds after his debut, I called him up to compliment him on his brilliant performance. "Oh my god, John, you stole the show." "So you saw me?" "How could I miss you? You were all over that scene. First you were deciding on bakery goods. Which roll should you buy? Nice work with the hands, by the way. I could totally see how important the bakery selection was to you." "It was very important." "That came across. And then you got in line and you had to deal with those two broke girls and their stupid coupons. You looked so heated." "We were told to look mad." "You looked mad as hell. You looked like you were gonna give those bitches a piece of your mind. There was eye-rolling and heavy sighing involved."

John, the grocery store customer

"And two oys." "I heard them both, and I've never been prouder. This was your greatest performance ever." "Stop, you're embarrassing me. Go on." "You deserved top billing." "Thank you." "But your face said everything: You were the pissed-off customer in the grocery store and you weren't going to take it anymore." "I gave it all I had." "It should be a recurring part." "God willing."

Don't Overdo It

2012-01-02T08:20:00.000-08:00

It's important to stretch

It's true, I tend to go overboard when it comes to exercise. I've been known to over-Zumba, over-aerobicize, over-spin, with unhappy results. Apparently, I'm too enthusiastic for my own good. But lately, I've been feeling like a Santa Cruz banana slug. My retina man -- everyone should have a retina man -- told me to cool it with the exercise, for the second time in two months. "I see something suspicious," he said, before zapping me. "Can you at least get out some of the fine lines, the broken vessels, while you're at it?" I asked. "No," he said, "it's not that kind of laser treatment." Fine, be that way. So, the jazz hands have been in hiding, the booty-shaking has slowed to a slight swaying motion, the feet have failed to bring me joy. And then came the week-long cough-a-thon. But on January 1st, the SJG said "oh, eff it" to all this sluggishness. I had to move and sweat for mental health purposes. "I'm going for a walk," I announced to hubby, who was on the driveway, doing, what else, car repairs. "Don't overdo it," he said. "How can I overdo it? I'm just going for a walk," I said, all snippy-like. Off I went to the park, to walk with gusto. I gave it all I had. I was into it. I was feeling it. I was in the zone. And for my efforts, I got a giant blister on my heel. "How'd it go?" hubby asked, upon my return. "Terrific," I said. "Why are you walking funny?" "I may have overdone it a little." "How do you overdo walking?" "It's a skill," I said, and went off to find a bandage.

The SJG Float

2012-01-01T09:16:00.000-08:00

Last year, Pasadena rejected the SJG Float, made entirely of onion bagels, cream cheese and lox imported from Costco. "I'm here for the Tournament of Moses," I told security. They grabbed me at the gate. "That's roses, not Moses, ma'am. You're not on the list of floats. Scram." "Let the SJG go!" I said, and schlepped back to Sherman Oaks in defeat. I vowed to return this year. So this morning, there I was, freezing my tuchas off, putting the finishing touches on my new float, the Giant Matzoh Ball, when a security guard tapped me on the shoulder. "The parade's not till tomorrow, ma'am." "Very funny." "I'm not kidding. It's tomorrow." "The Moses Parade is always January 1st." "It's Sunday, ma'am." "So, we can't parade on Sunday?" "Not in Pasadena. And just between us, it's Roses, not Moses." "Oy gevalt, how am I going to keep my giant matzoh light and fluffy till tomorrow?" The guard leaned in, closely. "Can I let you in on a secret?" "I'd be honored." "Seltzer." "Excuse me?" "A spritz of seltzer makes all the difference." "Says who?" "My bubbie. Works every time." It was then I noticed his badge. Goldstein. "I'll give it a try." "It couldn't hurt," he said. "Good yontiff," I said. "Abi gezunt!" he said, and went on his way.

Buh-Bye 2011

2011-12-31T08:08:00.000-08:00

Two-Zero-One-One
At midnight, you're done.
Take the money, run.
One percent had fun.
Two-Zero-One-One
And so it goes, hon.
Look what you've begun.
You misbehaved, son.
Two-Zero-One-One
Who lost and who won?
Too many reruns.
Please send in the sun.

Dusty's New Year's Resolutions

2011-12-30T08:26:00.000-08:00

1. Marry longtime girlfriend.
2. Learn Hebrew.
3. Steal more socks.
4. Steal more shoes.
5. Steal more towels.
6. Take that cruise.
7. Launch mayoral campaign.
8. Record greatest hits.
9. Become YouTube sensation.
10. Finish novel.

SJG Cancels Friday

2011-12-29T08:24:00.000-08:00

Friday has been cancelled

The Short Jewish Gal, the last one on the block to see the sun go down every day, has decided to change her personal dateline and will now be the first to see the sun rise, on account of her highly competitive nature. The SJG is getting ready to skip a day and shift her internal time zone forward by 24 hours for completely selfish reasons. "I never know what day it is, anyway, so this made perfect sense to me," she said in an exclusive interview. The SJG dateline, which runs through the middle of her backyard, and currently passes to the west of the nice granite island in her kitchen, means that the SJG is 11 hours behind everyone else's Mean Time. "I'm tired of being so nice. It's time to get mean and stay mean. Where has nice ever gotten me?" As the clock strikes midnight on Thursday, the SJG goes straight into Saturday. "Let's face it, this hasn't exactly been the greatest year. Why? Don't get me started. So I'm anxious to get it over with. Enough already. Plus, cancelling Friday means one less day of people annoying me, cutting me off in traffic, and worrying me sick by coming home late. Losing a day is good for my mental health." After the change, the SJG will be one hour ahead of her immediate family, and three hours ahead of her casual acquaintances. "I'm feeling very proactive. I'm taking charge in ways I never thought possible. I've also decided to switch driving on the right side of the road to the left side, so I can feel more British."

Best Looks of 2011

2011-12-28T08:27:00.000-08:00

The Halloween surprise

The fascinator that failed

No autographs please

Teaching the goyim a few moves


Pretty fetching in my balloon crown

It's hard to pick my favorite look of the year. In terms of fashion, I do believe I stepped outside the box. I went for the wow factor. I dared to be different. I listened to my beauty team, which may have been a mistake. In 2012, I may have to rethink a few things.

Last Year's Resolutions

2011-12-27T08:24:00.000-08:00

Let's all take a moment out of our busy lives to review the SJG's resolutions for 2011, and see how many I actually accomplished.
1. Take up neurosurgery. (Didn't do this)
2. Circumnavigate globe in newly-purchased tugboat. (Really meant to do this)
3. Audition for "Spider-Man" lead aerialist. (Called back twice; didn't get it)
4. Curtsy more. (Did this!)
5. Open "SJG: Hora! Hora! Hora!" in Vegas. (Opened show. Closed show same day)
6. Stop mooning pedestrians. (A work in progress)
7. Earn extra cash driving big rig. (Application denied)
8. Remind people they're SJG-adjacent. (Permit for neon sign on roof denied)
9. Develop miracle anti-kvetching drug. (FDA approval pending)
10. Take Thomas The Talking Torah public. (Investors needed to make this dream come true)

A Christmas Pumpkin

2011-12-26T09:11:00.000-08:00

Those sandwiches look delish.

On Christmas morn, Santa left a pumpkin on the fireplace, a good sign that my day was off to a bad start. Normally, Santa leaves bupkis. A leftover Halloween squash? Santa's got a mean streak. Who knew? On Christmas Day, I missed a major noshing opp: brunch at Elena's, an annual tradition for four gals who went to Emerson, Uni and UCLA together. Elena kept hoping for a Hanukkah miracle, that my voice would return, but my voice couldn't catch a flight back in time. On Christmas night, I missed another noshing opp: dinner at my in-laws. My mother in-law told me to stay home and rest and keep my germs to myself. So while everyone gorged in Brentwood, the SJG threw my own festive pity party in Sherman Oaks.

I popped a few frozen latkes in the oven, lathered on the applesauce and low-cal sour cream, and watched "When Harry Met Sally" for the zillionth time. Whenever they ate on screen, I texted the college son. "What are you eating now?" "Some caviar cheese thing." I texted a sad face. Oh, how I adore hors d'oevres! "What are you eating now?" I texted, a few minutes later. "Latkes, turkey, spinach and challah." "That hurts," I texted, adding two weeping faces for extra guilt. "Dad told me to stop texting." I texted back eight hysterical, screaming Edvard Munch faces. On screen, Harry and Sally were at the deli. Sally liked her sandwich so much, she achieved faux nirvana right there in the booth. The power of fresh rye bread. I resisted the urge to text, until the strained party scene. Harry and Sally had hit their "not really talking" phase. Harry's date brought a chocolate cheese cake to die for. The vicarious thrill was more than I could handle. I fell apart. "What are you eating now?" I texted. My question went unanswered. I got nothing back. That hurt most of all. By the time Sally and Harry were describing their coconut wedding cake, with the chocolate sauce on the side, the three wise men appeared with a care package. I reviewed the contents. I wasn't all that impressed. "You've got to be kidding," I croaked. "What's wrong?" hubby asked. "No dessert?" "Sorry." "Not even a cookie?" "I didn't think you'd want one." "Have you met me?" "They were just these little cookies some neighbor made." "Were they good?" "They were okay." "Don't lie to me. They were the best cookies you've ever eaten, weren't they?" "They were nothing special." "You're just saying that to make me feel better." "Is it working?" "Not so much," I said, and went upstairs to watch the Food Channel.

Can I Interest You In Hanukkah?

2011-12-25T08:50:00.000-08:00

A classic. Jon Stewart explains the Festival of Lights to Stephen Colbert. Enjoy.

Kvetching In Silence

2011-12-24T09:08:00.000-08:00

Me, too!

Awfully quiet around here. No incoherent rambling. No inappropriate laughter. No uninterrupted whining. No sudden outbursts of Broadway show tunes. Not that anyone is complaining. Is it my imagination, or do the menfolk look a little bit elated? They're managing just fine without all the daily verbal instruction, the gentle reprimands, the unsolicited advice. Even Dusty doesn't miss the clever banter, the endless rhymes, the idle chit-chat. Yes, for the past few days, the SJG has gone more or less mute, thanks to laryngitis. "Don't talk," my family keeps telling me. "Don't whisper," they add. "That makes it worse."
So I'm not saying a thing. Who knew it would be such hard work? I'm exhausted from trying to project my every need, telepathically. What fun is kvetching if no one can hear you? And, just between us, kvetching loses its impact when written down. Friendly demands fall on deaf ears when delivered via text message. "Is it too much to ask for chicken soup?" doesn't carry the same weight on a notepad. "What part of 'I'm out of throat lozenges' didn't you understand?" doesn't pack the same wallop on a post-it. "I'm stilling waiting for that eff'n tea" looks weak when worn on a sign around my neck. But don't worry. I'm sure my voice will return any day now. Till then, I'll make faces, I'll gesticulate, I'll play Charades, I'll hire a skywriter to convey my simple requests: "Would it kill you to do your own laundry?" I'll suffer in silence, with my customary dignity and grace. For I am the SJG. I have a reputation to uphold.

My Gift To You

2011-12-23T07:26:00.000-08:00

This holiday season, I wanted to give you, my blog-reading peeps, my faithful bleeps, a special gift of thanks. And so, for the remainder of Hanukkah, I've arranged for all parking meters throughout the land to accept chocolate coins. That's just the kind of power the SJG wields at City Hall. I walked in, filled out a form, and told the clerk, "Make this happen." "Sure, lady, whatever. Next!" Oh, please. You don't have to thank me. It was nothing. The reward for doing a mitzah is to do another mitzvah. This is me, being thoughtful, spreading the love, making your life a little easier. So go out there, drive safely, and park to your heart's content. And don't forget the gelt. God forbid you should get a ticket.

Now accepting chocolate gelt

Hanukkah In Santa Monica

2011-12-22T07:34:00.000-08:00

Provided by eldest bro' Peter. This is my favorite Hanukkah video. Ever. Enjoy.

Best Post-Latke Bod

2011-12-21T07:31:00.000-08:00

Not good for the figure

The SJG Fitness Channel, along with Manichewitz Homestyle Potato Latke Mix, is sponsoring "The Search for the Best Post-Latke Bod." If you can eat latkes, many latkes, not just one, without them landing straight on your tush, and have the "before and after" Hanukkah photos to prove it, I will personally schlep to your house and deliver the prize: My newest exercise DVD, "The Hora of It All," plus the chance to Hora! Hora! Hora! with me on the SJG Fitness Channel. Trust me, dancing the hora with me will burn more calories than any silly spinning class some skinny gal pressures you into taking so you can look like her. You can't, so don't bother. To enter, just submit your "before and after" Hanukkah photos -- don't even think of spelling it Chanukah,which my friend Elizabeth, the rabbi's daughter, insists is the correct way -- or you'll be immediately disqualified. Good luck, eat up and may the best tush win.

Oh, Hanukkah

2011-12-20T07:56:00.000-08:00

Oh, Hanukkah! You start tonight?!

Oh, Hanukkah, I thought you started tomorrow night, but according to the Internet, a reliable source on all things Jewish, you start tonight. This is the kind of Jewish math that drives the SJG more than a little meshuggah. My calendar tells me Hanukkah starts tomorrow, which means you really start tonight. Can you blame me for being confused? This glitch says so much about you, Hanukkah. You still feel like the little holiday that could, chugging up the mountain to bring eight toys of diminishing importance to the Jewish children of the world. And let's face it, Hanukkah, you pretty much leave out the adults. The last Hanukkah gift I got was... who can remember? After the Easy Bake Oven, it was all downhill for me, gift-wise. I seem to recall a sweater one year, maybe a nice Hanukkah check, but somewhere in my 20s, those stopped, too. The only way I'm getting a Hanukkah gift is if I go out and buy one myself, bring it home and wrap it. "Happy Hanukkah, SJG. You rock. Love, the SJG." But listen, it's okay, Hanukkah. I know you're busy, trying to compete with Christmas. It's a big time of year for you, Hanukkah. I get it. But next year, could you at least send me a "Save The Date" card, so I know when you start? If Trader Joe's has sold out of the frozen latkes I pass off as homemade, be forewarned, Hanukkah. You can expect a call from my attorney.

Everybody Say Yeah, Yeah!

2011-12-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

Completely unposed: Tim and John at First and Hope

On Sunday, I arrived at my brother's house at 10 a.m., which seemed a little early for our outing downtown, but now and then, I like to do what I'm told, so I stood there at the door, waiting, obediently. Finally John appeared, in his robe and slippers. "Come in, don't let the dog out, I'm not ready." "I like what you're wearing." "Funny." Off he went, presumably, to put clothes on for the long day ahead. And I do mean long. But I'll get to that in a second. Then Tim came out and gave me a hug. "The Timmy!" I said. I can't remember when I started calling him The Timmy, but they've been together 10.5 years now, so I think he deserves an official title; he is the miracle that walked in and made John's life 150 percent better (and vice versa, John would want me to add). A moment later, John reappeared. "Okay, I'm ready, let's go." I turned around and there he was, still in his robe and slippers. "Kidding," he said, and disappeared again.

At some point, he lost the robe and slippers and the three of us headed downtown, to brunch at First and Hope, a very nice place where the waiter made us guess his nationality. "You're from Belgium," John said, not missing a beat. The waiter looked shocked. "No one ever guesses it right." "Do we win anything?" I asked. Again, he looked baffled. "There needs to be a prize," I told him. He went off to figure it out, and was so fermisht, we never saw him again. During brunch, we dissected the latest tabloid gossip. "All true," John said, and explained why Demi and Ashton broke up, why Jada and Will almost broke up, and shared other highly entertaining scoops. My brother just knows stuff. Tim blushed throughout, for John loves to paint a vivid picture of the Hollywood elite.

Later, we went across the street to see "Fela!" a big, strange, colorful, very long musical about the famous Nigerian musician who got thrown in jail 200 times. They had us up on our feet immediately, to shake our booties (a favorite activity of mine), and shout "Yeah yeah!" It was a little misleading, setting us up for a joyous celebration that quickly turned dark and disturbing. On the ride home, we couldn't remember a single song from the show, so we substituted other show tunes. "Hello, Fela, well hello, Fela, it's so nice to see you out of prison again." "How do solve a problem like Fela?" "There's no Fela, like our Fela, like no Fela I know." Needless to say, we were laughing and behaving very poorly after such an important show. But can you blame us? We just wanted to sing yeah yeah.

I Hope This Comes In My Size

2011-12-18T07:59:00.000-08:00

Stop smiling, you two.

Leave it to my friend Kiki Hoffman, a non-Jew who knows how to throw a swinging bar mitzvah, to find this matching set of dumb menorah pullovers. Something knitted, with a Maccabee running around, would've brought tears of joy to my eyes, but these ugly schmattas are a good start. I sure hope Kiki ordered me a small. She knows how I hate to look bulky. By the way, do the people in this photo know the true spelling of my favorite Christmas-adjacent festival? It's Hanukkah, people. Not Chanukah. Why there are two spellings, I can't tell you, but I believe, with all my heart, that if we could come together on this matter, if we could all just spell it the same way, it would be a bigger miracle than the oil lasting eight nights. There's only one way to spell Christmas. Why must we have so many variations? Why must we complicate everything? Sure, it's fun to disagree now and then, to argue for no reason, to stir things up for the sake of lively discussion. Did I mention I married a national debate champion? We have podiums set up in the living room in case an issue should arise. But please, just this once, let's agree. Let's all spell Hanukkah the SJG way, and that includes the tacky sweatshirts.

Ugly Christmas Sweater, Aisle Three

2011-12-17T08:06:00.000-08:00


"Dude, I'm wearing the ugly Xmas sweater. Swoop me in five."

Last night, the rapper known as Scott D. joined his brother Bill S. for an ugly Christmas sweater party. Apparently, wearing an ugly Christmas sweater is all the rage this season. Iguana, a vintage store on Ventura Boulevard, is so hip to this situation, that when you walk in, they take one look at you and say, "Ugly Christmas sweater? Aisle Three." For the SJG to even consider a Christmas sweater, let alone pass it off as a birthday present, may be the ultimate shanda, but cheap, it wasn't. Iguana is cleaning up with these ugly sweaters. But the ugly one Scott D. picked out, illustrating the 12 Days of Xmas, a lady's sweater, I might add, complete with the turtle doves, the French hens, the what-have-you's, cost 28 bucks plus tax. I held it up to him, and said, "Happy Birthday." He's 20 today, which means, 20 years ago, I screamed, "Get this thing out of me!" while birthing him. And last night, there he was, fully grown, my boychick, in an ugly Christmas sweater. The whole thing made me wonder if there are any ugly Hanukkah sweaters out there. I certainly didn't see any at Iguana. Not one sweater with a Star of David, not one vest with a glittery menorah. Come next year, I plan to give birth to a new event, complete with gelt, dreidels and a crazy brew of Manischewitz Punch. The Hideous Hanukkah Sweater Party. I better get busy with the knitting. I may need some help. Any volunteers?

Fo Shezzy

2011-12-16T07:54:00.000-08:00

Nothing gives a mother more joy than to watch the mensch she gave birth to 20 years ago tomorrow, do something sensational. It was kvell-worthy. It was, how the young people say, off tha hizzy fo shezzy. Many times, I've listened to the college boy do his rap thing, but I've never seen him do it in an actual recording studio, tucked into a very questionable part of Van Nuys, that, I admit, made me a little nervous. "We're early. Let's wait in the car," he said. I viewed the dark alley behind us, and said, "Let's not." So in we went, and for the next 45 minutes, I sat there on a sofa, watching the engineer fiddle with high-tech equipment, while Scott D stood behind the glass and took charge of the mic, rapping to, what else, the Rugrats theme, hip-hop style. He rapped about social injustice and the debt ceiling. He referenced Roberto Clemente and Harry Potter. He spit divine rhymes. He committed "no lyrical crimes." Sophisticated stuff. Way over my head. I loved every minute.

Proof That I'm Old

2011-12-15T08:04:00.000-08:00

I used to know stuff, but now I know less and less with each passing day. Yesterday, I stared at the locked toilet seat at my friend's house and thought, okay, I may not have an engineering degree, but I can figure this out on my own. Many moons ago, I lived in a baby-proofed home. I dealt with latches. I put strollers together. But the locked toilet seat wasn't a latch situation. It was M.I.T. complicated. It had a thing you were supposed to push and slide and a lever and a secret government code to enter. No baby, let alone grown up, was getting that toilet seat upright without some serious mental effort and a Ph.D. I tried several approaches, all of which failed. I started to feel like that gal on the commercial, who's always, "Going and going and going..." Another minute and I would be going on the floor. I gave up. and opened the bathroom door. "Uh, I need a little help in here." Soon I had more help than I needed. Kelly, my writing partner, came in, followed by the babysitter and the babysitter's daughter, a recent law school grad. What followed was a ten-minute discussion about baby proofing and how did we survive without it. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm going to have an accident," I said. Finally, they joined together and liberated the toilet seat for usage. "Okay, gang, thanks so much, I'll take it from here," I said, shoving them out the door. Next time, I'm bringing a port-o-potty.

Get In Line

2011-12-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

A conversation with Mr. Ben Starr. "Hi, Daddy, how are you?" "I just got back from the market." "How'd it go?" "I'm sick of the market." "Me, too." "I go, I look around, I stare at everything, I stand in line. I'm sick of standing in line with all those people." "I don't blame you. You're 90 years old, and it's enough already with the marketing." "I'm sick of it." "So, stop going. I'll shop for you." "No. I'd rather do it myself." "But you're sick of the market." "I still need to eat."

The Butt Dial

2011-12-13T07:55:00.000-08:00

It's happened to all of us. You get a phone call and all you hear is weird ambient noise, a faraway voice from another dimension, possibly ordering a sandwich, or a mob hit. It's very hard to tell. "Wah-wah--tomatoes." "Wah-wah-take-out-Tony." This phenomenon, according to my sons, is called the Butt Dial. The thought of someone's butt dialing me is disturbing on many levels. My sons assure me the Butt Dial is unintentional, and now, with the advent of the uber-sensitive iPhone keypad, it happens more often. I should know. Yesterday, my brother John tushy-dialed me. "Hello?" "Wah-wah-wah." "John?" "Wah-wah-wah tomatoes." "What?" "Wah-wah." "Oh @#$%, I'm hanging up." I called him, immediately, using my fingers and my best accusatory tone. "John? Did you call me a second ago?" "No." "Don't deny it. My phone rang and your number came up." "But I didn't call you." "Oh, yes you did." "I didn't." "Then your butt did." "How dare you." "You heard me, you butt dialed me, your sister. How could you do that to me?" "I didn't mean to." "But you did and I'm traumatized. Trauma. Tized!!! " "I apologize, profusely, from the bottom of my bottom." "You don't sound terribly sincere." He started singing, "You gotta be sincere." "Don't you Bye Bye Birdie me. You butt dialed me. I'm telling Mom." "You do that." "Good day, sir." Click.

SJG Nixes Trade

2011-12-12T07:16:00.000-08:00

"I was all ready to live in Sherman Oaks.
I had my bags packed and everything."

After all he's done for us, the eldest son was relieved to learn late Sunday night that he wasn't being traded to another family. "We're not the Lakers," I reassured him. "Even though you're getting older and your game isn't what it used to be, we still appreciate all the joy you've brought us, the nonstop nachas, so we've decided to keep you." Naturally, the college son wondered where he stood in the highly-contentious negotiations. "Well, honey, in all honesty, we were thinking of swapping you for Chris Paul," I told him, "but then we thought maybe you'd be a little hurt, so we nixed the trade. Looks like you're stuck with us, too."

When I Think of Hanukkah...

2011-12-11T09:07:00.000-08:00

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see candles breaking as they hit the prongs
There goes a red one, there goes a blue.
I take more out of the box and try again.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see educational toys stacked in closets
Rejected by the two young sons
Who only wanted Hot Wheels and Power Rangers.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I smell latkes frying in a pan
I hear the smoke detector going off
A reminder to remove the batteries next time.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see Star of David cookies I bought at Ralph's
For the second grade holiday party
A better person would've made them herself.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see me hunting for hidden gifts
Where did Mommy stash them all?
Please God, let there be an Easy-Bake Oven.

When I think of Hanukkah:
My mind spins like a wooden dreidel.
Where did all the menorahs go?
Can we get back the one Scotty made in preschool?

The Year We Bought Stuff

2011-12-10T08:20:00.000-08:00

Maybe the toaster will be next

2011 has been a year of buying stuff we didn't want to buy, but then, what else is new? First the washing machine and dryer broke. We replaced them with nice new machines that hum a few bars when you turn them on. "Da da da da da da" sings the washing machine when I open it. "Da da da da da da" sings the dryer. I love to sing along with them. It makes doing laundry so very festive. Next thing we replaced: the fridge. The nice new one doesn't sing, but it does make beep beep sounds like a truck backing up if you keep the door open longer than ten seconds. It is so very annoying. One day, I will figure out how to make it stop before I lose my mind and must be committed to The Institute for the Very Very Nervous. We had a few months off from consumer spending, and then, the other night, the TV in the bedroom sang its swan song, too. Actually, it was more like a pesky fly. Buzz, buzz, buzz went the TV. Off went hubby to Best Buy. Ba-bye, hubby. Bring back something pretty. He did. A nice new flat screen that does all sorts of things, depending on the channel. It sings and dances, talks and dramatizes, animates and shows me that everyone is getting older, even Jon Stewart. I am deeply in love with my new TV. It is my favorite TV ever. It knows exactly what I want. Three days in, and I'm already way too attached, but then, what else is new? I will be so sad when my favorite TV ever breaks in a few years. Till then, I'll treat it with respect. I'll enjoy our time together. I'll relish every moment. I'll take cute photos of us running on the beach, or just nesting at home. As 2011 winds down, I've learned such a valuable lesson: Appliances come and go so quickly here. You just never know which one will go next, so be kind to them all, every single day, and maybe, just maybe, they'll be kind to you. Until they break and the damage is irreparable and out you go, into the cold, unforgiving consumer world, to spend again.

Time Freeze

2011-12-09T07:57:00.000-08:00

We're in flashback mode over here. One son asleep, the other showering because there's no hot water in his apartment. Permission to freeze this moment, please.

It's Her!

2011-12-08T07:32:00.000-08:00

It's her! It's the SJG!

Representatives for the Short Jewish Gal vehemently rejected published reports that residents of Sherman Oaks were paid to cheer and act excited for the cameras when the famed blogger arrived at Gelsons to do her weekly marketing. "The Short Jewish Gal is a massive star in the blogosphere, and attracts huge throngs of fans as she travels the Valley and Westside promoting herself," a spokesperson said in a statement. "The only people paid were performers who danced down the aisles at Gelsons while the Short Jewish Gal selected delicious, low-calorie, hearth-healthy items. The idea that fans were paid to cheer is completely ludicrous and entirely false." A report in Who's Who In Sherman Oaks claimed that 200 or more alleged fans of the SJG were each given 150 chocolate coins and a free brunch at Solley's to mimic enthusiasm for her arrival. A source close to the SJG told W.W.S.O. that confusion over payments made to dancers who performed alongside the SJG may have led to the false reports. The source called the charge of fan-planting "ludicrous" and "insulting" to the blogger's devotees, who beg her for photos and hugs wherever she goes.

Storey Telling

2011-12-07T07:57:00.000-08:00

Every struggle I've ever encountered, according to my dad, has been character building. By now, my character is a major highrise. In the past ten weeks, I've tried this concept out on the college boy, at least 132 times. As fall quarter winds down today, he's added a few storeys to his own construction site. He's lived alone. He's helped a roommate move in. He's attempted to cook his own cuisine, which explains all the Domino's Pizza charges. He's attempted to learn Italian, which explains all the tutor charges. He's pondered and re-pondered what the hell he should major in, and in his noble quest, came up with a non-existent gem: Hip Hop. If only he could major in Hip Hop, he would be so happy. But he can't. Who said life is fair? Tomorrow, he comes home to his mother. He needs a break from all that character building. Winter quarter, I'm sure he'll be adding another floor to the site. I hope the permits come through.

The Nite Before Chanukah

2011-12-06T07:44:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before Chanukah
and all over the place
There was noise, there was kvetching
Soch ah disgrace!

The Kinderlach, sleeping,
uneasily felt
The chocolate rush
from the Chanukah gelt

And me in the easyboy,
so stuffed with latkes,
I stretched the elastic
which held up my gatchkes.

When up on the roof
(and it has a steep pitch)
A fat alte kakker
was making a kvitsch.

I jumped up real quick
and I ran to the door,
Was it a bandeet,
or only a schnorrer?

He wasn't alone;
he had eight ferdelach,
And called them by name
as he gave a gebrach:

"On Moishe, on Yankel, on Itzik, on Sam,
On Mendel, on Shmendrik, on Feivush, on Ham;
My kidneys are kvelling;
do you give a damn?"

He had a white beard
and payyes to boot,
And to keep out the cold,
he had such a nice suit!

A second from Peerless,
I could tell at a glance,
But the cut was okay,
and so were the pants.

He was triple XL,
a real groisser goof,
So I yelled out,
"Meshuggener! Get off from Mein roof!"

He jumped down and said
as he shook hands with me,
"Max Klaus is the name.
You have maybe some tea?"

So I gave him a gleisel,
while he shook his white mop,
Mutt'ring, "Always the same thing,
They're dreying my kopp!"

From Vancouver to Glacer Bay,
Outremont to Reginek,
Every shmo in the world
hakks meir a cheinik!

They're screaming for presents,
and challah with schmaltz,
And from Brooklyn alone,
the back pain, gevaltz!"

So we sat and yentehed,
and we spun the old dreydels,
(He took all of my money,
and one of my kanidels)

He said, "Business is not bad,
a living I make,
But I'm getting too old
for this Chanukah fake;

And the cell phones, you see
how my pacemaker dings?
For two cents I'd quit,
and move to Palm Springs?"

And he gave a geshrei
as he fled mit a lacht,
"Gut Yontiff to All,
Vey is Mir, Such a Nacht!"

-- courtesy of Jokes About Chanukah

Competitive Gift Wrapping

2011-12-05T08:18:00.000-08:00

What color ribbon would you like?

I might as well confess. So many years have gone by, I have nothing to be ashamed of, not really. It was something I did, something I was good at. Gifted, in fact. Back in college, every Christmas break, I was a gift-wrapper for the goyim. Not a sheet of Hanukkah wrap ever made it out the door. I wrapped gifts in a tiny cubicle in the basement of a bookstore in Westwood, and it was hellish. Why did I do it? Why did I subject myself to such manual labor? I wanted my job back. In high school, I was a cashier at College Bookstore. Other friends started waitressing or working in dress shops. Not the SJG. A spiller from way back, I knew, instinctively, that I would be the worst waitress ever. I knew I would spill hot coffee, I would drop, I would break. And working in a dress shop, which I did once, proved somewhat disastrous. I was too honest with the customers. "I wouldn't buy that, it's not flattering." All I wanted to do was sell books, to soak up literature, to bath in the glory of words. I'd only been there a few weeks when the owner came in and saw me at the register. "How old are you?" he asked. "I'm 16 and a half," I said, trying to sound mature. The next day, I was fired for looking too young. "The owner thought you looked about 14," they told me. "We're so sorry." I'm pretty sure it was illegal, but in 1974, I couldn't afford Gloria Allred. So every Christmas, I'd audition to get my job back, to show how responsible I was, and it worked. I always got hired back in the summer. Hours of wrapping books during the holidays taught me a harsh lesson about people. Sometimes, they're not so nice. "I'm sorry, we can't wrap those for you," I told the a-hole standing there with a huge bag of toys. "Why not?" "For starters, you didn't buy them here." "So?" "Store policy." "Place is probably run by a bunch of cheap Jews," he said, storming off. Gift wrapping brings out the anti-Semitic nasty in some folks. Who knew? Now I just gift wrap for fun, not profit. I'm still good at it, too. Thanks to those hellish cubicle days at College Bookstore, the SJG knows how to work the ribbon and the scotch tape, and most importantly, how to stick it to the putzes of the world.

This Idea

2011-12-04T08:32:00.000-08:00

This idea came to me in the middle of the night and I thought it was genius. This idea will make the SJG rich, rich, rich. I could hear Dan Aykroyd pitching it on SNL. "New, from Ronco..." In the harsh morning light, however, I see that implementing this idea may be a little difficult. This idea may require tiny electrodes embedded in my keppie. This idea may require backing from a giant Japanese electronics company. This idea may not be ready for prime time, not quite, anyway, but I'm inclined to share it with you, in case you'd like to jump on the bandwagon as an early investor. Nothing irks the SJG more than Dream Interruption (trademark pending). Dream Interruption happens when I flip over in bed and wake up, mid-dream. Dream Interruption happens when someone I'm married to wanders in, past midnight, because he's fallen asleep on the sofa (nightly occurrence). Dream Interruption happens when my bladder directs me toward the bathroom. No matter the cause, I love my dreamworld, in which I'm the star, the hero, the gal in charge. In dreams, I can fly and sing well and perform miraculous feats and visit with loved ones no longer in the here and now. Sometimes my mother pops in to say hello, or my grandparents, or one of the wonderful close friends who checked out far too early from this overcrowded hotel. I'm a huge fan of R.E.M. Last night, my dream took me to a hip, happening party. I was all dressed up, I was looking fine, I was... oh hell, right when the party was kicking into gear, I turned over and woke up. What happened at the party? Did I meet George Clooney? I'll never know. The not knowing is the worst. A great party like the one in my dream only comes along once a decade. But then this idea came to me: What if I could invent a special remote control to pause my dreams when necessary? What if I could turn over, reposition myself, tap the remote and I'd be right back in nocturnal bliss with (insert celebrity name here)? Wouldn't that be fantastic? Granted, it's a little derivative, a little like that Adam Sandler movie "Click," were he gets a universal remote and can rewind or fast-forward his life. But I don't want any of that sci-fi nonsense. I just want to pause my dreams so I can get right back in there and see how they end. I want closure. Is that too much to ask? I plan to spend every waking moment making the Dream Remote (patent pending) a reality. Call me a dreamer, but I think I'm onto something.

Bad Hair Year

2011-12-03T08:23:00.000-08:00

On Friday I called an emergency meeting of the SJG Beauty Team. "Some people have a bad hair day. I've had a bad hair year. What do you have to say for yourselves?" Renee, CEO of the SJG Coiffski, and Lenny, President of the SJG Hair Color Wheel, stared at me, bitterly. "Well? Speak up." Renee cleared her throat. "Listen, SJG, you can't blame us for your baby fine ka-ka hair. It's impossible to work with, but year after year, we wave our magic wands. Once you leave the salon, you're on your own." "Point taken, Renee." I turned to Lenny, who was busy doing a crossword puzzle. "Do you have anything to add?" "What's a five letter word for female canine? Oh, wait, I've got it. Bitch." "How dare you." "Here's the dealio, SJG. I do what I can with that wispy mess you call hair. I work the chemical process, I highlight, I get out the gray. I do my best to help volumize that choppy mop of I don't know what. Once you leave the salon, you're on your own." "So what you're both saying is this is on me? On my DNA?" "Yes," Renee said. Lenny looked at me. "What's a four letter word for are we finished? I need to get back to my real customers." "We're done. I don't know what got into me. The truth is, I'd be nowhere without my Beauty Team," I said, handing them each a fancy gift-wrapped bottle of wine. "Group hug?" "What's a two letter word for I don't think so?" Lenny asked. "No," Renee said. "Guys, come back here, I was just kidding. I love you. I'd be lost without you." Meeting adjourned.

What Was That?!

2011-12-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

Shiksa version of the SJG

There I was, sitting at my desk, Dusty by my side, when I heard a door shut upstairs. "Hello?" I said. Silly question. Automatic response, I guess. My heart went thumpity-thump. I was the only one home. I stood at the base of the stairs and looked up, expecting maybe the ghost of Hanukkah past. "Hello?" I called again. No answer. Okay. Just my imagination running away with me. I went back to my desk. A minute later, I heard it again. A door shutting. I looked over at Dusty. "Oh, crap!" Dusty didn't seem too worried, but I knew, like any horror movie I'm too scared to watch, I needed to take action. I needed to go into the dark basement and have a look-see, so you could all scream at me, "Don't go down there, SJG!" Well, relax. I didn't go down there. I don't have a basement. But I did go upstairs, armed with, what else, pepper spray. "Hello? Anybody there? I've got pepper spray! I'm not afraid to use it!" I quickly found the culprits: two open windows on a windy day, rattling stuff, making doors shut, basically, effin' with the SJG.

High Anxiety

2011-12-01T07:45:00.000-08:00

The cover of this week's Time Magazine is a headscratcher. Anxiety's good for you? This is big news to me. My personal theme song, courtesy of Mel Brooks: High anxiety, whenever you’re near/ High anxiety, it’s you that I fear... Anxiety entered my life at birth, if not sooner. I was born in a car in the hospital parking lot. The whole thing made me pretty jumpy out the gate and set the tone for a lifetime of inspired what-iffing and riffing on various imaginative personal catastrophes. Growing up, anxiety hid behind the door, biding its time. In my early, post-college twenties, it pounced at me and said "boo." So I ran like hell, all the way to a grandfatherly, Freudian shrink with white hair, a white beard and a thick German accent, straight out of Central Casting. "What's wrong with me?" I asked. "You're a little nervous," he said. I went to another shrink, a smart lady with short brown hair. "What's wrong with me?" I asked. "You're very nervous," she said. I went to a support group full of very very nervous women. Very nervous didn't seem so bad, compared to very very. I started to calm down a little. Each decade brought a new therapist or two, a fresh look at anxiety. Eventually, with a little chemical help, I found a way to kick anxiety in the ass. I got a little tougher. I turned my what-if's into so-eff'n-what's. It finally occurred to me that I can't control much of anything, anyway. What a revelation. Maybe someone could have told me this sooner? Even so, no matter how fancy Time Magazine gets with it, how cerebral, how "this study said this, this study said that," anxiety has no "likes" on its fan page. Anxiety is a bad road trip and some of us just get stuck in the back seat, till the car pulls over and lets us out, to pick up a new passenger.

In An Alternate Reality

2011-11-30T07:55:00.000-08:00

The 2011 Rockefeller Center Hanukkah Bush will be lit for the first time tonight on NBC, with live and taped performances by famous Jews, from 7 P.M. - 9 P.M., at Rockefeller Plaza, between West 48th & West 51st Streets and 5th and 6th Avenues, Manhattan. Performers include Barbra Streisand, Simon & Garfunkel, The Three Adams (Sandler, Levine and Duritz), David Lee Roth, Bette Midler, Carole King and Neil Diamond. As an added surprise, the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks will celebrate the wonders of Hanukkah with an interpretive modern dance, to the tune of "I Had A Little Driedel." Free latkes and gelt on a first come, first serve basis. The Rockefeller Center Hanukkah Bush is a world-wide symbol of All Things Jewish. The giant bush, traditionally from Israel, is illuminated by 30,000 environmentally friendly LED lights on five miles of wire, and crowned by a Swarovski crystal Jewish star. Tens of thousands crowd the sidewalks for the event and hundreds of millions watch the Hanukkah Bush Lighting Ceremony broadcast live across the globe. So join us, won't you? We insist. And bring a sweater. It might be chilly.

We Love You, Conrad

2011-11-29T07:55:00.000-08:00

... oh yes we do!

When it comes to comfort movies, "Bye Bye, Birdie" tops my list. I watched it again the other night and enjoyed every corny moment. I was only five when the film came out, and from that point on, wanted to be Ann-Margret, with the long red hair and killer bod. I wanted to live in goyisha Sweet Apple. I wanted to go steady with Hugo. I wanted Conrad Birdie to kiss me on "Ed Sullivan." I wanted to slip into this cheeky song-and-dance fantasy, if only for a moment or two, and finally got my chance in junior high, when my friend Laurie and I performed "Kids!" for the Daddy-Daughter Dinner. You know it. You've sung it to your own offspring in one form or another: "Kids! I don't what's wrong with these kids today!" There we were on the big stage, Laurie and I, dressed in our dads' baggy pants,lip-synching to Paul Lynde's classic rant against "noisy, crazy, sloppy, lazy loafers." Naturally, we rocked it. The reviews were stellar. According to our dads, we were "fantastic!" And while we're on the subject, a few months later, a bunch of us did "The Telephone Hour" for the Mother-Daughter Tea. It was a mini flash mob, as I recall. I can't remember how many of us were up there, or whether we actually sang, "What's the word hummingbird?" or pretended to, but once again, the reviews were stellar. According to our mothers, we were "sensational!" Sadly, my budding stage career ended right there. I never lip-synched again, never grew up to look like Ann-Margret, never wore bright pink skin-tight pants, never got pinned by Hugo. But I'm alright with that, I've made peace with it. As long as I can watch "Bye Bye, Birdie" every now and then, I'm good. Who needs goyisha Sweet Apple, when you've got the wonder, the charm, the excitement of Sherman Oaks?

In Cyberspace, No One Can Hear You Shop

2011-11-28T08:02:00.000-08:00

Not online, however.

In cyberspace, no one can trample you, pepper spray you or eff u up. If that's not a reason to spend without leaving your house, what is? This morning, my inbox floods with Happy Cyber Monday! 50% off! 75% off! Well, how can I resist? When it comes to clothes, easily. I'm not good with the online shopping. I study the pretty models, in their pretty tops and skin-tight pants, and what occurs to me isn't, oh, joy, oh, rapture, please God let them have it in my size. I find it demoralizing. I can't picture myself in clothes worn by tall skinny gals. I need an online version of me. Give me a short Jewish gal. Give me a gal under 5'2." Give me the SJG Line of Casual Wear. Fill an online page with petite middle-aged models, well-endowed in the backside, and I will throw dollars at you. Trust me, it will never happen. So I'm stuck shopping in stores, where I'm genetically required to try on an ark-load of stuff before I find one thing that works, maybe two if I'm lucky. It's always been this way. Early shopping experiences with my sweet mother taught me to fill up a fitting room with random selections, try everything on, and then, hang everything up again. We never left a pile on the floor. I've done my best to teach my sons the same store etiquette, with very little success. If I shop today, if I'm bold enough, if I have the stamina and drive, it will be in battletorn stores with weeping/angry salespeople. But don't let that stop you. Stay in and spend. I dare you. Happy Cyber Monday, to you and yours. Let me know what you buy, and what you return.

Hello, I Must Be Going

2011-11-27T08:05:00.000-08:00

The college boy just got here and now he's going. Only Groucho can cheer me up. Hooray, hooray, hooray.

Hello, I Must Be Going

Animal Crackers

— MOVIECLIPS.com

Spread The Gelt

2011-11-26T08:06:00.000-08:00

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 at Disneyland. 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.

We Ate, We Drank, We Went Home

2011-11-25T08:06:00.000-08:00

Billy, Howard, Scotty and the SJG drop by a random house for a nosh

Grandpa Ben and Scotty

Some very silly people: Brother John shows his jazz hands

The Cuzzy Contingency: Allison, Levi, Andy, Willa and Lucas Kaplan

Still Crazy In A Turkey Outfit

2011-11-24T08:15:00.000-08:00

Paul Simon, an unhappy turkey

One of the best SNL's ever, November 1976. Paul Simon walks out on stage, dressed as a giant turkey. He starts singing "Still Crazy After All These Years," but stops and addresses the bandleader.

Paul Simon: Cut it. Forget it. Forget it, Richard. [ turns to the audience ] You know, I said, when the turkey concept was first brought up, I said there's a very good chance I'm gonna end up looking stupid if I come out wearing it. I mean, everyone said, "Oh, it's Thanksgiving, go ahead." You know, I felt it was not in any way in keeping with my image, the lyrics, "The Boxer", any of these songs. They said, "Hey, you know, you take yourself soooo seriously. Why don't you stop taking yourself soooo seriously for a while and loosen up a little bit, and maybe people will laugh. You want to be Mr. Alienation, you can be Mr. Alienation." Well, I didn't want to be Mr. Alienation. I want to be a regular guy, but I feel this has just been a disaster. I'm sorry. I'm just gonna go and change." He leaves the stage and walks out of the studio, toward his dressing room. Lorne Michaels waits in the corridor, clapping.
Lorne Michaels: Wonderful!
Paul Simon: You call that wonderful?
Lorne Michaels: What? You had a problem?
Paul Simon: That was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life!
Lorne Michaels: What? The band came in late?
Paul Simon: The band was fine! It's not the band!
Lorne Michaels: I don't understand what the problem is.
Paul Simon: The problem is, I'm singing "Still Crazy" in a turkey outfit. Well, would you like to sing in a turkey outfit?
Lorne Michaels: I thought it worked great!
Paul Simon: Yeah? What do I look like, Jan Michael Vincent, here? You think I'm looking good?
Lorne Michaels: You look great! Honestly! Why don't you just go change.
Paul Simon: Yeah, let's just do that. Let's just say it was a difference of opinion.
Lorne Michaels: Okay, maybe it was a difference of opinion, but I think it worked great. [ Paul tries to exit to the hallway, as Lorne faces the camera ] We'll be right back after this following message.
Paul Simon: [ stuck in door frame ] I can't fit through the door!
Lorne Michaels: [ rolling his eyes ] Alright, I'm coming.

My Labrador, Myself

2011-11-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

My canine twin

Much has been written about women who hit perimenopause at the same time their teenagers go into hormonal overdrive. But what about the weird connection between pet owners and their beloved animals? In my own case, Dusty and I are hitting certain milestones at the same time, and quite frankly, I'm alarmed. This dog and I are so in sync, we share the same middle-aged mishegas, the same allergies, the same jumpy personality, the same need to feel loved and appreciated. We are, as they say, simpatico. Sometimes I need someone, preferably with a medical degree, to remind me that I didn't actually give birth to Dusty. Yesterday, our similarities attained a new level of you've-got-to-be-kidding when I took him for his annual checkup at the vet. Turns out, we have yet another thing in common now. "His eyes look a little cloudy," the doctor said. "He's probably seeing little black spots, too." I looked at her in disbelief. "You're freaking me out here." "Oh, it's nothing to worry about. He won't go blind." "I just went through this myself," I said, and regaled her with my torn retina ordeal, as if it were deeply relevant. She smiled, patiently, and played along. I bet she gets this a lot from wacky pet owners who over-identify with their animals. "Do you think Dusty got tired of hearing me talk about my eyes, and figured, hey, it's my turn?" "It's possible," she said, indulging me, "or it might just be a coincidence." "A cosmic one," I added. She escorted Dusty out of the exam room for the full spa treatment. Teeth cleaning, nail clipping, and various extractions. While I waited, I found myself wondering what other ailments Dusty and I might share in the future. Leaky bladder. Faulty memory. Uncontrollable napping. Whatever awaits us, God willing, we'll get through it, hand in paw.

Things We Say On Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T07:34:00.000-08:00

Things we may or may not say this Thanksgiving:

Let's play football on the front lawn.

Were there any Jewish Pilgrims?
Bring out the first turkey! The first turkey?
Who wants to say grace?
This turkey is to die for.
Your turkey is better than Carol's burnt cheesecloth turkey.
I heard that!
Let's sing a medley of Thanksgiving songs.
You're so funny when you're drunk.
Is this going in the blog?
Oh, @#$%, I spilled cranberry on my shirt.
Leave room for Andy's famous cheesecake.
These pants fit when I walked in.
I will now recite a short soliloquy on gratitude.
All credit cards accepted.
Excuse me while I Occupy this sofa.
Don't make me get out the pepper spray.
God bless Rick Perry.
Next year, Jerusalem.
You got so tall.
You got shorter.
Thanksgiving means thanks living.

Top Ten Things I'm Grateful For

2011-11-21T07:54:00.000-08:00

This year, I'm uber-grateful for the following:
1. I don't have to take folding chairs out of the garage.
2. I don't have to take anything out of the garage.
3. I don't have to set the table.
4. I don't have to iron the table cloth.
5. I don't have to cram 24 people around the table.
6. I don't have to coordinate what 24 people are bringing.
7. I don't have to buy two turkeys.
8. I don't have to figure out new ways to ruin two turkeys.
9. I don't have to obsess over when two turkeys are done.
10. I don't have to host Thanksgiving.

Don't Rap With Fire

2011-11-20T07:59:00.000-08:00

Scott D at the mic

Never follow a fire-eater, or date one

Talk about chutzpah. The other night, the college boy, aka Scott D, performed one of his rap songs at a campus talent show in front of 80 students. I asked him how it went: "Pretty good. Not necessarily the most lively audience, but the lines got a lot of laughs, unless they were just laughing at my wardrobe." "Did you get any feedback?" "One guy said my Krafts singles line was genius." "Rap it for me, with feeling." "Writing these rhymes to you like a love letter, stackin cheddar Kraft Singles, Scott Deezy wit the funky hip hop jingles." "I'd have to agree. It is genius. What were some of the other acts?" "There was this one girl. She ate fire." "What?" "She was a fire-eater." "You're kidding." "She didn't really eat fire. It was an illusion." "I'm glad to hear it." "I figured you would be." "So, honey, you went up against a fire-eater." "Yeah." "That's a tough act to follow." "I went before her." "Work with me here, would ya? Next time you perform, don't share billing with a fire-eater." "Okay." "You can't compete with that." "Got it." "In fact, keep away from any girls who eat fire. That's just a good rule, in general." "No fire-eaters." "Right." "What if they're Jewish?" "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Snuggies Optional

2011-11-19T09:12:00.000-08:00

Formal Snuggie Wear

Last night, the SJG and First Hubby headed to a whole other zip code, something we rarely do, but when we do it, we go all out. We packed our survival gear and took to the road, prepared to brave the elements, with our extra large snuggie, our thermos of hot cocoa and our comfy, solar-powered butt-warming cushions. Upon arrival, we took our seats and I began to chant, "Go take that ball, go down the field and score, score!" Whereupon First Hubby leaned in and whispered, "Shush." "You're shushing me at a football game?" "We're not at a football game." "That's crazy talk. Of course we -- " A brief interlude to reconsider our surroundings. First Hubby was right. We were not a sporting event. We were at a joyous matrimonial event. We weren't not in the bleachers, rooting for our team. We were on white folding chairs. There were twinkly lights and flowers, ushers and bridesmaids, a guy at the piano. We were at a wedding in Beverly Hills. An outdoor wedding. You heard me. In November! If that's not throwing caution to the wind, what is? "We better lose the snuggie," I told First Hubby, sadly. "I think people are staring." So we wiggled out of our flannel blankie ensemble, hid the thermos under the seats and chanted for the bride and groom, instead. Following the lovely ceremony, we got to go inside, which made me so happy, I couldn't wait to hit the dance floor. I pulled out the signature moves, the gyrations. It was all about shake it, don't break it. Only something did break, mid-shake. My fun rhinestone necklace. Beads just started falling everywhere. Here a bead, there a bead, everywhere a bead-bead. Throughout the night, nice people kept handing me the remnants of my accessory. Lesson learned: Dangly costume jewelry and wicked dance moves? Not a matching set.

I Worry Therefore I Am

2011-11-18T07:44:00.000-08:00

A source of parental worry

You're never too old to get a little well-meaning parental advice. This from my 90-year-old dad, during our visit yesterday: "Honey, can you walk in those shoes?" He's concerned about my flat espadrilles. "I seem to be doing okay in them," I say, and proceed to pretend-trip over a rug by the front door, with sound effects and everything. "Whoa! Oh, no! Help me, Daddy!" "Sure, make fun," he says, "but I'm worried about those shoes." "I can see that." "I don't trust them." "You should." "I don't." "You feel strongly about it, do you?" "Very much so." "How can I help?" "You can be careful walking down the stairs." "I shall," I say, suddenly British. Accent or not, I can tell by the way he's looking at me, he's not convinced. The likelihood that I can navigate the journey safely plagues him. "Call me when you get downstairs." "Okay, Daddy." "And don't text the boys while you're doing it." "Absolutely not." Now I lean in and give him a big kiss. "Love you, Daddy." "Love you. Get rid of those shoes." "No. I like them." As I close the door, I go into a whole, "I've fallen and I can't get up" routine. He's laughing. But on the inside? Very worried. A minute later, I call him. "This is your daughter. I've made it safely to the car without tripping or breaking any bones." "Good, now drive home and call me when you get there." "Will do, Daddy-O." As I drive off, I realize that in my family, to worry is to love. This is my heritage. This is how I earned my degree in Advanced Fretology. I Worry Therefore I Am, just like those before me. If I didn't worry, I wouldn't be me. And like Sammy D. sang, way back when, "What else can I be but what I am?" Good question. Here's my suggestion box. All ideas welcome.

Bah, Oy Vey

2011-11-17T08:02:00.000-08:00

Usually, it happens around Thanksgiving. This year it's happening a week early. Usually, it's KOST-FM, my destination for "soft rock." This year, it's KOST-FM and the WAVE, my destination for "smooth jazz." Both radio stations that I listen to, in my fast-approaching, old fart-hood, for comfort and joy, are playing holiday music already, and I'm not talking "I Had A Little Dreidel." I'm talking "Deck the Halls." And it's not just the radio stations, it's the markets and the department stores, bombarding me with their Christmas-centric decorations and good cheer. What I wouldn't give to walk into Bloomies and see a bowl of glittering Hanukkah gelt on display. What I wouldn't give to walk into Macy's and see a platter of nice crisp latkes and a sign that says, "One per Jew." But it'll never happen, not even in Sherman Oaks, where Jews roam freely. Not that I have anything against Christmas. It's a lovely holiday. In December. The end of December. Right near Hanukkah. But Hanukkah gets no love on the radio, with the exception of that Adam Sandler song, or in the stores, with the exception of Gelson's, where I have yet to hear "Hark ye merry gentleman" over the loud speakers. Gelson's may be Jewish in spirit, but it remains wisely non-denominational. My main kosher beef with this early start on the holidays is I can't get the holiday music out of my head. I walk around singing "Deck the Halls" and "Do You Hear What I Hear" and the answer to that is, yes, I do hear what you hear, and could you please make it stop? I'm already walking around singing "Silent Night." It's too early for that. It's just wrong. It's against the SJG code of ethics. Not to mention which, I'll get kicked out of the All-Hanukkah Girl Choir of Sherman Oaks, if anyone hears me singing "O Holy Night," and we can't have that happen, can we?

Make Me Taller, Anne

2011-11-16T08:56:00.000-08:00

Soon I'll have legs like this

Before I started my first ever Pilates session with Anne, the wise and wonderful friend training to become a certified Pilates maven, I had a few key questions. I was a virgin, Pilates-wise, about to climb onto something foreign. I wanted to know what I was getting into. "What the hell is that?" I asked, in my generally demure way. "It's called the Reformer," Anne said, unaware of how many questions I was going to hit her with during the next hour. She went on to tell me about Joseph Pilates, adored by dancers for his stretching and strengthening exercises, conducted on machines with funny/disturbing names: The Cadillac. The Electric Chair. "So Pilates is all about torture," I said. "Not at all," Anne said. Whereupon I challenged her to convince me, otherwise, and she did a splendid job, positioning my feet and my legs and telling me to use my powerhouse! She taught me how to breathe -- apparently, I've been doing it wrong all these years -- and how to twist this way and that, how to squeeze my massive glutes and engage my scalpula. "So I'm going to have long legs after we're done today?" I asked her. "Maybe not today," she said, "but I've grown half an inch since I started doing Pilates." "I'll take it. Make me 5'2"." "Okay," she said. "Can I get that in writing?" "No," said Anne. Smart girl. I hit her with another question. "Why do I have so much tension in my neck, Anne?" "You're Jewish. It's genetic. That's where our tension goes. Straight to the neck. We can't help it." "I never knew that. What else have you been keeping from me?" She smiled and told me to straighten my legs and spread my toes and do other things my body objected to, but I did them anyway. "I can't divulge all my secrets in the first session," she said. Nice way to get me to keep coming back. If I'm going to get taller, it might take awhile.

Wossamotta?

2011-11-15T07:54:00.000-08:00

Eenie meenie chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak.

I'm not even at the end of my driveway and there she is, that lady with the big dogs. They're going wild, barking and lunging forward, and she's yelling at me. "Hi!" she calls from across the street. "Does your dog wanna play with my dogs?" And now Dusty is going wild, barking and lunging forward. "Uh, no," I say. Dusty gives me a look. What's wrong with me? Of course he wants to play. He's a dog. He doesn't care if things get out of hand. "Why not?" the lady calls. There's so much barking and growling, I can barely hear her. I can't think of a good answer, other than, "Go away," so I say nothing. Maybe she'll get the message. She doesn't. "Wossamotta?" she asks. "Why doesn't your dog wanna play with my dogs?" "It's, just..." my voice trails off. Hers revs up again. "You know, they played with your neighbor's dog the other day and they all had a good time." What is the etiquette here? Do I tell her, nicely, she's a pain in the butt, stop asking me the same thing every time I see her? Do I tell her I'm not letting her dogs anywhere near my precious 9 year old pup? I don't. I try this, instead. I pull out an old excuse I haven't used in at least 17 years, a standard from the preschool era, when the youngest was three. Moms would call, dangling invitations, and he'd never want to go anywhere. Not to a birthday party. Not to anything. It could get awkward. Over time, I figured out a nice way to say no thankie. So I give it a shot now: "I'm really sorry," I yell, over the bark-a-thon, "but my dog just doesn't do play dates. He's very shy. It's hard for him. But maybe when he's a little older and can handle it." With that, I hurry down the street, tugging on Dusty's leash, hoping that settles it, and she'll never bother us again. But I know she will. I know there's another "Wossamotta?"in my near future.

Communication Made Easy

2011-11-14T07:59:00.000-08:00

Since the arrival of my smarty-pants phone, I've discovered a new way to communicate with my sons. Some days, we simply swap emoji-icons. The eldest downloaded this app for me, full of more than smiley faces. Much more. Flowers, hearts, coffee cups. High-heels, airplanes, hand gestures. It's the best cut-to-the-chase technique for a worrier like me. If I text the college boy, "How did the quiz go?" and get back a row of happy faces, I'm ecstatic. A row of sobbing faces means I better get on the next plane north. For an over-reactor like the SJG, emojis can be a little dangerous. Some times, I need hubby to talk some sense into me. "Honey, I just got a frantic emoji from Santa Cruz. I'm heading to the airport." At which point, he talks me off the ledge and I unpack. Some days, the working son sends me a random series of emojis that tell me his state of mind. A coffee cup means he's tired. A slice of cake means it's someone's birthday in the office. An airplane means he wants to move to New York, where he just spent a week, and found the female population far superior to the one in Los Angeles. I answer his airplane with the most unhappy face I can find, my way of saying, "Leave and I'm going with you." Come to think of it, the Japanese emojis are a bit limited, from my emotional standpoint. So I'm coming out with own app: Emoji-Oy-Cons, perfect for mothers everywhere. The faces show a broader range of hysteria, worry and fear. It'll be out in time for Hanukkah. Enjoy!

If You Can't Say Something Nice

2011-11-13T08:39:00.000-08:00

What fun is that?

At the deli yesterday, the SJG let loose with the free-wheeling vocab for which I'm famous, and disturbed a few of the better-behaved diners. As we revisited our Warner Avenue graduation photo from 1969, a sprawling portrait I haven't looked at since, well, 1969, both Ned, the newly-reelected Westlake politico, and Mickey, the visiting orthopedic surgeon from Michigan, were far too classy to speak disparagingly of former classmates. "Oh, yeah, he lived down the block." "Oh, yeah, he had a cute sister." Their commentary was tame and adult-like. Mature and nostalgic. The SJG, on the other hand, had no problem operating verbally on a target or two. Am I sentimental about that period of my life? Let me think about that. No. You'd have to pay me millions to go back to those days of uber-shyness and endless, unrequited boy crushes. "Look, there's so-and-so. What an asshole!" I said, pointing to a certain butt-heinous individual in the third row. Ned and Mickey stared at me, in horror, as if I'd committed a major karmic no-no. I looked at Ned, still one of my closest friends on the planet. "What?" All Ned could do was shake his head. I looked at Mickey. "What?" All Mickey could do was fiddle with his utensils. "Oh, for @#$%'s sake, what's wrong?" "The way you said asshole," Ned began, visibly shaken, unable to finish his thought. Mickey took it from there. "It was chilling." Ned looked at Mickey and nodded. The two of them were sharing a moment. "When you call someone an asshole, you really mean it," Ned continued. "It's powerful stuff," Mickey agreed. "But he was an asshole to you, Ned," I reminded him. "You're right, he really was," Ned said. "Go on, say it. Come on, it's liberating. What was he?" "He wasn't a good guy," Ned said. "Seriously? That's all you got?" "I'm from Indiana." "Oh, for @#$%'s sake, let's order."

Let's Do Deli

2011-11-12T08:24:00.000-08:00

This morning I will make a sacred pilgrimage to the holy deli of my youth, to the temple of Jewish soul food. To get there, I must travel back in time, over the canyons and through the woods, to a faraway land called Beverly Hills, to a place called Nat n' Al. In my house, Sunday mornings meant bagels. If we were lucky, those bagels came from Nat n' Al. Nothing made me happier than to go to Nat n' Al's with my dad on a Saturday afternoon and watch him order a dozen this, a pound of that. He knew how to get it done. The last time I deli'd at Nat n' Al? I can't tell you. It's been a few decades, at least. These days, I deli, Valley-side. Art's, Jerry's, Solley's. But today, I'll deli old school, with old friends I've never deli'd with before. I'll probably have to walk the non-Jews through the menu. "You want lox on the bagel. Trust me on this. You don't want a plain bagel. You want onion." If you deli with the SJG, I'm going to take care of you, whether you like it or not.

Happy Numerology Day!

2011-11-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

Today is 11-11-11. This is supposed to be significant for all sorts of cockamamie reasons, none of which I understand. For the SJG, 11-11-11 adds up to bupkis. Since birth, numbers have not been my friend. The mere mention of math sends me into post-traumatic-shock. I see myself in my little chair at Warner Avenue, staring at math problems and feeling dumb. I see myself asking my dad to help me with my math homework. Good with numbers, really good, he felt strongly that New Math, as they called in back then, was the worst idea ever and made no sense. "I know that, Daddy, that's why I'm asking you for help." "They should go back to the Old Math." These scenes always ended badly, with me crying hysterically. In junior high, you may be shocked to learn that my infinity for math failed to emerge. I see myself sitting in 7th grade math class at Emerson, focusing more on the the cute boy in the seat in front of me than on the blackboard. This trend continued, and by 10th grade, they put me in Algebra Sloooow. Math for Dummies! At first, I was humiliated. Until I saw who was in the class with me. Cute boys. 11th and 12th grade football players. Jocks! Guys I never would've met if they hadn't been as math-phobic as the SJG. Algebra Slow was a gift from above. I had the best time ever. The teacher had just been through EST (remember EST?) and insisted we call her Terry, not Mrs. Gray. She talked a lot about agreements, as in "we have an agreement you won't talk while I'm talking." She was my hero. "See you in Geometry Slow," I said at the end of the year. More cute boys. More fun. A+. For a brief period in my life, I kinda liked math (for all the wrong reasons). And then came the SATs. You may be shocked to learn that Math for Dummies did little to prepare me for Real Math for Smarties. So happy 11-11-11. I hope this day adds up to greatness for you and yours. I plan to subtract it quickly from my memory.

SJG Running For Oscar Hostess

2011-11-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

Elect me hostess and I will dress like this

It is never too late to enter politics. The SJG is excited to announce my campaign for Oscar Hostess. Quite frankly, I'm hurt that my name hasn't been thrown into the ring, already, alongside Kermit the Frog. Sure, the famed Muppet would be an inspired choice, but so would the SJG. This is me, stepping into the spotlight. Elect me Oscar Hostess and I will make the show watchable again with my charming patter, intermittent kvetching and dance moves. I will make a giant kugel and serve it to the audience. I will sing a medley of Oscar tunes. I will do-re-mi-fa-so-lo-ti-do you till you beg for mercy. I will change costumes every five minutes, on stage, based on suggestions from the audience. "We want Liza!" Done. "We want Cher!" Done. "We want Helen of Troy!" Okay. Why not! I will know when to quip and when to shut up. I will keep the show going. I will choreograph. I will economize. I will bring it, if it's the last thing I do. So let me entertain you. Let me make you smile. Put me on stage at the Kodak and I will deliver, and cut your taxes at the same time. A vote for the SJG is a vote for change.

Nedly

2011-11-09T07:47:00.000-08:00

Mazel tov!

This morning's news has filled me with great joy. I'm near-giddy to learn that my Warner Avenue comrade, my dear friend, the only man I know who can operate a forklift, you heard me, I'm talking about high-powered politico Mayor Ned Davis, has scored a big win in the cutthroat politics of Westlake Village. Ned has been re-elected to the City Council! The whole thing continues to fascinate and baffle the SJG. First he ran for City Council and won, and then he got to be Mayor, and then he had to run for City Council again. I don't get it, but I love it so much, I think we should bring this local ego control to Washington. Elect a senator, and just when he's getting a little too comfy, a little too thrilled with himself, send his tush back to his humble roots in the state senate, and then make him run for Senate again. Greatest idea ever! I plan to bring it up with Ned on Saturday. Fingers crossed that his political clout extends to Sherman Oaks. There's this street I live on that needs to be repaved.

The Bar Mitzvah Mom

2011-11-08T08:04:00.000-08:00


Saturday Night Fever: Kiki (purple dress) gets her groove on

The Bar Mitzvah Mom, aka, Kiki O'H had her attorney inform me that there will be serious legal consequences if I don't devote today's blog to the wonder that is Kiki O'H. So, under duress, I'm going to tell you more about her. This gal, a real looker with thick lustrous hair I would kill to have, knows how to throw a gala. Kiki O'H was born with the party gene. Ever since I met her, when was that, back in the '90s, I believe, I have marveled at her ability to entertain the troops. Yes, Kiki O'H is all about making people feel special when they're far from their personal zip code. Over the years, we have traveled to various locales just to bathe in the splendor that she creates. That time in Chicago when she married our very close friend "Ralph"? Spectacular. "Ralph's" 50th in NYC? A veritable glam-a-rama. A festival of fun. Oh, and that time I stayed with the O'Hs? Kiki treated me like I was visiting royalty. The rest of the O'Hs? Not so much. The kids kept asking, "Is that the new nanny?" But Kiki O'H made me feel good about myself. This past weekend, she outdid herself. There was the pre-Friday Night services gourmet buffet. There was the post-Bar Mitzvah banquet of hors d'oeuvres, followed by the sumptious, super-delish din-din. There was a Sunday brunch we didn't attend for selfish reasons (we were airborne at the time) and I'm sensing a little bitterness on her part, a little disappointment. But Kiki O'H, I will make it up to you the next time you wing west. I will eat two bagels in front of you. I will eat lox and white fish. Then I will tell you whatever you served in Scarsdale was so much better. In case I haven't said it enough, Kiki O'H is the hostess with the mostess. She even took time out of her hosting duties on Saturday night to teach me this move, which I had not yet worked into my repertoire:

I learned this from Kiki

So thank you, Kiki O'H, for doing what you do. You are the Bar Mitzvah Mom. The SJG salutes you. Now call your attorney and say, "Never mind."

Bar Mitzvah-A-Thon

2011-11-07T10:14:00.000-08:00

Eric ponders the mysterious ways of the SJG

Early Friday, we left rainy Burbank and hours later, landed in NYC, where it was chilly and sunny. Normally, the SJG heads East to dance, sing and recite Shakespearean soliloquys on the Broadway stage, till Security hauls me away. But this quick trip was different. This was all about the Bar Mitzvah-A-Thon in Westchester, where they take celebration to new heights. (Who knew?) We traveled with our dear friends the Schotzes, great people we've known since high school. My history with Eric involves him giving me sh*t, and me giving it back. On this trip, it started on the plane, when I slipped half a trankky beneath my tongue. "It's my pre-game anti-anxiety strategy," I told him. He didn't understand. My other pre-game strategies puzzled him, too. The nasal misting, the antibiotic on the Q-tip. "What the @#$% are you doing?" "I'm avoiding a double ear infection, like the one I got flying into Seattle about 20 years ago." He didn't understand that part, either. At JFK, the hubbies walked four miles ahead of us, in a rush for what, I don't know. Linda told me her father Stan never minded following Eric. He'd always say, "Wherever he's going is good." I prefer to be escorted by a Victorian gentleman taking care of my every need. To this day, my brother John insists on walking curbside, in case, God forbid, a horse and buggy should go by and splash me with mud.

This is how I like to stroll

Friday night, we went to a nice Reform temple in Scarsdale to watch Michael, the Bar Mitzvah boy, say a few nice things in Hebrew. I did my best to behave myself, but I can't speak for, or defend, the other members of my party, which included Paul, another dear friend we've known since junior high. Let's just say the rabbi made them stay after services and write, "I will not sleep in temple," 100 times on the blackboard.

Linda keeps the SJG warm

In the morning, hubby and I were so desperate for coffee, we bowed our heads in gratitude every time the waiter poured us a cup and said, "Thank you, sir, may I have another." Later, we went on a walking tour of White Plains with Eric, Linda and their son Zach, born one week before Scotty, and therefore, my substitute son for the weekend. I hugged him often, without warning, and he tolerated it so well.

Linda, Zach and Eric

We also visited a huge, sprawling mall, where my only goal was to find product to salvage my hair, impaired by long hours of headset wear on the plane. "Is this White Plains or Sherman Oaks?" I asked Linda, as we shopped in Sephora. She wasn't sure, but showed me a great new mascara to buy. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at CVS, so that Eric, who made fun of my nasal misting on the plane, could buy Afrin. The rest of us stayed outside. While hubby and Linda, the maven behind Vintage Jules (see how I worked that in?) got busy with their phones, Zach and I witnessed the emotional and heart wrenching breakup of Tanisha and her boyfriend Ray-Jay. According to Zach, who has younger ears and heard more, Tanisha cheated on Ray-Jay. Ray-Jay didn't like that. He said they were done and wanted the money back that he'd loaned her. Tanisha didn't have the money (what?!) and stormed off. "And they made such a nice couple," I said, trying to comfort Zach, who was pretty upset by the whole thing.

And on to the Bar Mitzvah, a joyous occasion. Michael did a sensational job and we kvelled like crazy. At the after-party, we drank and schmoozed and charmed our way through the room, and, as happens often, I did a little on-the-spot therapy with someone in need, offering my usual brilliant insights into the human condition. It was easy to zone in on his personal mishegas and set him straight. "It comes down to this," I said, hoping I had nothing stuck in my teeth, "Just stop doing that thing you keep doing and you'll feel better." "That is genius," he said. "I'm here to help," I said, humbly. The schmooze fest shifted to the main room, where the music blasted, forcing us to dance, dance, dance. I brought out my special Bar Mitzvah booty-shaking moves, currently outlawed in several states, until my feet cried out for relief and I sat down to watch the Bar Mitzvah video. I promise you, this video put all other Bar Mitzvah videos to shame. This video featured famous people like Brian Williams and Henry Kissinger and Shaq because the father of the Bar Mitzvah boy is a big eppis. He asks and they say yes. Post-video, we danced some more and marveled at the sparkly high-heeled extravaganzas worn by Kiki, the gorgeous mother of the Bar Mitzvah Boy. She certainly knows how to throw a party. "How you holding up in those shoes?" I asked her. "I'm in agony," she said.

At the party with hubby

Gloomy Eeyore

On Sunday, we arrived at JFK far too early, and made our way through security. A man in line ahead of us had a giant stuffed Eeyore perched on his shoulder. I patted Eeyore and asked him if he'd had a good time in New York. Eeyore looked at me, gloomily, and said, "Everybody crowds round so in this airport. There's no space. I never saw a more spreading lot of people in my life, and in all the wrong places." "I couldn't agree more," I said. I was so busy talking to Eeyore, I forgot to take off my belt. The man with the badge proceeded to shame and ridicule me for my egregious boo-boo. Nothing I am not accustomed to already.

A Moment To Rant

2011-11-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

Beauty sleep is so important to the SJG. If I don't get my mandatory allotment of snooze time, I turn grumpy and mean. This morning, I am both. I blame Jay Leno. I am so angry at Jay Leno, so heated. Last night, I stayed up to watch Jay Leno. I never watch Jay Leno. I don't find him funny on any level. Watching Jay Leno is painful. But, I forced myself to stay up and make this sacrifice. I said, fine, I'll watch his dumb, unfunny show (even though we'd recorded it) because I was too excited to sleep. How could a mother like me sleep, knowing her eldest son was going to be included in one of Jay Leno's lame-ass, unfunny prerecorded bits? About a month ago, he'd been "pranked" at a convenience store, when he attempted to buy Doritos laced with a live scorpion. Last night was the night for hilarity to ensue. Last night, hilarity ensued (not really, it was lame) without him. Those bastards cut him out. My reaction may surprise you, for it's so out of character. It went something like this: "WTF! WTF! How @#$%'n dare they! Who the @#$% do they think they are! I @#$%'n hate Jay Leno!!!!" My rant played on a continuous loop for the next 15 minutes, until hubby politely asked me to turn the volume down on my rage, so he could get some sleep. "How can you sleep at a time like this?" "I just close my eyes and do it." And so, he did. I, on the other hand, did not. I was too busy wondering how to break it to Billy this morning. He'd planned to watch his big moment of glory with us this morning. After much thought, here's what I came up with: "Those @#$%'n bastards cut you out." To which Billy responded, "@#$% Jay Leno!" Like mother, like son.

Long Distance Call

2011-11-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

"How may I help you?"

"More Seasons, Westchester, how may I help you?" "Hi, this is the SJG from Sherman Oaks, where it's warm and sunny most of the year." "Are you calling to rub that in, ma'am?" "Not really. I'm mainly calling to ask if there's still a power outage going on, as Mr. Al Roker would say, in your neck of the woods." "If there were a power outage, I wouldn't be answering the phone, now would I, Miss SJB?" "It's SJG. Short Jewish Gal. Not SJB. Short Jewish Bitch. Although, both names could easily apply on most days. And you could be answering the phone, if the More Seasons were on a generator." "To answer your original question, Miss SJG -- " "It's Mrs. SJG. I haven't been married 31 years for nothing." "Sorry, ma.am. Mrs. SJG, let me assure you we have power in White Plains." "What about Scarsdale?" "What about it, ma'am?" "Is there power in Scarsdale?" "One moment while I check." "Don't take too long. I'm calling long distance." "Some parts of Scarsdale are still without power." "Wonderful. Does that include the part of Scarsdale I'm going to for a Bar Mitzvah?" "That part is fully juiced." "How do you know that?" "Here at the More Seasons, we know things. Will that be all, ma'am?" "No. I have a few more questions." "Of course you do." "What's the scaffolding situation over there in Westchester?" "I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't follow." "NYC is all about the scaffolding. Every block, there's nothing but humanity crammed beneath the scaffolding, bumping into each other, single file, shoving. I find it all very aggressive. So, I'm asking, is there an epidemic of scaffolding in Westchester? I really have to rethink this trip if there's scaffolding." "One moment while I check." "Don't take too long. I'm calling long distance." "I just spoke to Mr. Nucky Thompson, who heads the White Plains City Planning Office, and he assures me there's no scaffolding within a 50-mile radius of White Plains." "Oh, thank God." "Anything else, ma'am?" "Any snow predicted for this weekend? I'm getting all dressed up. I can't wear strappy sandals in the snow." "No snow. Any other silly questions?" "No, that about covers it." "Have a nice day, Mrs. SJB."

What About The Gifts?

2011-11-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

I give this marriage 72 days

Very few came to the door of the SJG last night to collect their free candy. At first, I took it very personally, as I tend to do, and self-medicated with Peanut M&Ms. Where had I gone wrong? I'd put the damn pumpkin out. Had I carved it? No. But I'd put it out there. I'd positioned the creepy hand in the mailbox. I'd hung the giant pumpkin cutout on the door. The house of the SJG was Halloween-friendly. No graveyards, no skeletons, no witches and goblins. Yet, I'd made some effort, hadn't I? Apparently, not enough. I went to bed sad and woke up with a chocolate hangover. But then, after a cup or three of coffee, the reason for the low turn out hit me. The reason was simple. The impending Kardashian divorce, announced on Halloween morn, had upset the trick or treaters. How could they, in good conscience, dress up and scarf candy and have fun, when Kim was sitting home, suffering? Or I think she was in Australia, suffering. Wherever she was, I ~~hope~~ know she was suffering. Seventy-two days of marriage to a very tall man! Seventy-two days with a guy who wanted her to freeze her mega-tush off in Minnesota and make babies! Seventy-two days of agony. Poor girl. All those thank you notes, for nothing. My heart goes out to her. In the meantime, I'm left with an overage of candy. This is not good. Not good at all. I can't resist Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. They are my drug of choice. Get them out of the house! Get them out now! So I'm making hubby bring it all to work. Let his co-workers eat the chocolate. Better them than me. Oh, and speaking of Snickers, do you think Kim will return the nice candy dish I sent her as a wedding gift?

Adventure on the Red Line

2011-10-31T08:13:00.000-07:00

We're off to see Sinatra

When you think of the me, the SJG, as I hope you do daily, every 15 minutes or so, I'm sure what comes to mind is this: "Oh, that SJG, she's always up for adventure." Followed by, "Gee, I wonder which Harley she's taking out for a ride today." What's that? These are not the things that come to mind? Well, I'm a little hurt. I am too up for adventure! Take yesterday. Yesterday, I took the Metro for the first time. Can I get a woo-hoo? Of course, I took along my bodyguards. I'm not crazy. The lovely Nadine, Joan and Carrie, dear friends from dance class, stood by me every step of the way, shielding me from harm, guiding me through the purchase of my ticket, showing me where to wait for the Red Line, telling me when to get on -- "Wait till the doors open! Good girl!" -- and when to get off. It was all so helpful. The ride to Hollywood and Vine was incident-free, just the way the SJG likes it. We brunched, we saw "Come Fly Away," at the Pantages and it was all fabulous. Then we crossed the street and went back down to the Metro and got followed by a whacked-out guy dressed in black. As we bought our tickets, he stood near by, mumbling creepy stuff, like, "Hey, you like Sinatra? I can sing better than Sinatra. You want me to sing for you? It's a dollar." We did our best to ignore him, but someone, I think it was me, said, "Uh, no thanks." Then he started swearing at us, and saying rude things and left. We got back on the Red Line and that was enough adventure for the SJG. I can now cross taking the Metro off my bucket list.

Fore!

2011-10-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

It's not every day a gal gets to wear a tiara. There I was at the Country Club's annual "Come As Your Favorite Biblical Jew" Halloween Brunch, all dressed up like Queen Esther, when, much to my surprise, I won the top prize. "Mazel Tov to the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks! Come on up and get your free ticket to see 'Come Fly Away' at the Pantages." I was so overcome with emotion, I had to step out onto the veranda to collect myself. I didn't even see the golf ball headed my way until it was too late.

Broadway Star/Squirrel Expert

2011-10-29T08:54:00.000-07:00

Connie Ray in "Next Fall"

It's always good to have a star in your menagerie of close, personal friends. You never know when someone of such grace and stature, such talent might come in handy. Sure, Connie Ray has appeared on Broadway, television and the big screen, but underneath all the glitz and glam and tight-fitting couture, is really just a humble farm girl from North Carolina. A kugel-loving, lanky ginger who knows the weirdest stuff imaginable. When in need of earthly advice, I turn to her and she never lets me down. "Help me, Connie," I said the other day, "help me, please, I beg of you." "What is it now?" she asked. "The evil squirrel is back. In fact, he never left." "I already told you what to do about him." "You told me what to do when he destroys my potted plants. Cover the soil with rocks to stop the little bastard from digging." "And did you do it?" "Not yet." "Carol! That was years ago." "I know, I know, I'm weak." "So what's the problem now?"

Troublemaker

"The little bastard is destroying the grass. He's digging holes everywhere and burying his goddam walnuts. Hubby's ready to take him out." "You want to borrow my shotgun?" "No, but thank you. That's very generous." "Do you have a walnut tree in your backyard?" "No. I don't know. What do they look like?" "They have walnuts on them." "What's your point, Connie?" "If you have a walnut tree, get rid of it and you'll get rid of the squirrel." "I'm pretty sure we don't have a walnut tree." "Well, he's getting those nuts from somewhere. So you have to set a trap for him." "A trap?! I can't do that." "Of course you can. Just get a trap and put a nut in there, and when you catch him, drive him somewhere far away and let him go." "This is sounding like an episode of 'The Sopranos.'" "I'm not saying you have to murder him." "Any other suggestions?" "Call Pest Control and have them set the traps." "So they come and take the squirrel out?" "Exactly." "I don't want to hurt the little bugger. I just want him to stop. Maybe I could call a meeting. Have a sit down. Talk some sense into him." "Try that," Connie says, "and get back to me." "I can see you're disappointed in me, but Connie, I'm just a nice Jewish girl from Westwood. I'm not a squirrel killer. Your ways are so foreign to me." "It's a rodent, Carol." "I know, but when it's not destroying our backyard, it's kinda cute." "Then keep it and give it a name." "That's your best idea yet. I'm thinking Biblical. King Solomon, King David, King -- hey, where are you going, Connie? Don't leave! Come back! I need you!"

The Early Works of the SJG

2011-10-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

Like skeptics Walt Whitman, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Sigmund Freud and Charlie Chaplin, 87-year-old social scientist S. Calum Gilfillan believes that William Shakespeare was not the real author of the famous works which bear his name. Gilfillan became a doubting Thomas in 1920, when an English schoolmaster, J. Thomas Looney, published Shakespeare Identified, "the greatest detective story of all time." According to Gilfillan, Looney concluded that the only person who could have written the plays was Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford. -- UCLA Daily Bruin, 1976

And now, some 35 years later after I exposed this wacky theory to my fellow students, and tried to disprove it by interviewing David Rhodes, my English professor (smart move on my part), they've gone and made a hot, bodice-ripping movie called "Anonymous," based on my brilliant early reportage. It opens today. Call me deluded, but I fully expect a fat check in the mail, plus a hearty acknowledgement in the credits: "Had the Short Jewish Gal not written about the Earl of Oxford back in the pre-Internet days, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, the filmmakers would've been forced to make up stuff." You're welcome. Now, pay up. Oh, and as for Willy the Shake, and where this former English major stands on the controversy, let's just say, I've been to Stratford, capiche? I've seen the thatched roof. I've seen the folios. I've lived in the promised land of Shakespeare, okay? Shakespeare is Shakespeare. The real deal. How do I know this? I just do. I don't care what the others say. I love him. I love him for his plays. I love him for his sonnets. I love him for the man he was and the man he wanted to be. He compleats me. (Shout out to ye olde English majors everywhere.)

Easter Bonnet Or Gynecological Diagram?

2011-10-27T08:10:00.000-07:00

I think we can all agree that life has its fair share of disappointments. Yesterday, a spectacular one arrived via the US Postal Service. My fake Princess Bea hat is a dud. A letdown. A cautionary tale. Unless I tilt my head just so, don't walk, don't move, don't eff with gravity, the thing simply won't behave. It's a flip-floppery disaster, sliding this way and that on mine keppy. That didn't stop me from emailing this silly photo of silly, silly me to my nearest and dearest for instant commentary. Cheryl wondered, "Is that an octopus or a uterus on your head?" Both, I believe. Carla asked if she could borrow it for an upcoming event. Connie told me I looked royal. I told her to curtsy when she sees me this afternoon. Still, I have a plastic tiara on reserve and a long strand of pearls as backup, in case my fake Princess Bea hat just can't keep itself up for the Halloween party. Or maybe my brother will make me another balloon crown. Hint hint.

The Princess Is Awake

2011-10-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

Mine came first

Coinky-dink? I think not.

Going once, going twice . . . one world-famous royal balloon fascinator, sold! The bow/pretzel-shaped balloon extravaganza worn by the Short Jewish Gal for no reason other than silliness went for major bucks in an Ebay auction that ended on Tuesday. An anonymous winning bidder snagged the historic piece of balloon millinery for a staggering $130,000. All the money raised from the 10-day auction will be donated to good causes through the SJG Initiative. "The hat, designed by my brother, the renowned balloon artist Mr. John Starr, has its own personality, and I am so happy that we have raised the most incredible amount of money and can make an even bigger change for the lives of those less fortunate than the royal moi," said the SJG. "Clearly, my fanciful headpiece has inspired several notable rip-offs since I first wore it doing errands in Sherman Oaks. No names mentioned, but a certain ginger-haired princess wore a shockingly similar, fallopian-themed fascinator to a certain wedding, without giving me or my brother credit. Bitter? Just a tad. Nonetheless, I'm willing to let it go, as long as the princess in question loans me her shameless copy for Halloween."

Halloween Costume Clue #2

2011-10-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

I made my film debut in The Young Victoria (2009). I had a minor, non-speaking role in a number of scenes. I like to think I stole the movie from Emily Blunt. Who am I?

Who Am I?

2011-10-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

My brother's Halloween/10th Anniversary with Tim celebration comes up on Saturday. What to wear? What. To. Wear? The bloody screwdriver sticking out of my cheeks? The bloody knife sticking out of my neck? I've done that so many years in a row. Such fun scaring the sh*t out of the young'ns at the front door. But you know how I hate to repeat myself. This year, for the party and the impressionable trick-or-treaters, I'm going classy. No blood, no gore. This year, I'm aiming for a whole other kind of spooky. I've placed my order and while I await the arrival of my haunted apparel, I'm going to give you a few hints: I want to use my position to help others. I've volunteered as a sales clerk at a department store. I have plans to start my own fashion label. In 2010, I competed in a marathon. Who am I?

Do You Have This In My Size?

2011-10-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

The battered feet of the SJG got a workout yesterday, trying on high heel strappy sandals in a big warehouse store. Any shoe with a heel makes me feel like I'm playing dress-up in Mom's closet. Any heel over two inches makes me feel like I'm on stilts. Any stiletto makes me feel like a streetwalker. This is problematic, considering every freakin' shoe out there these days is Heidi Klum high and getting higher. Every shoe on the market makes you tower over the world like a Glamazon. And that's just standing still. Walking in them? That's too advanced for the SJG. So, you wonder, why must I torture my soles with this nonsense? The explanation is simple. I have three parties to attend in November. For the SJG, who never goes anywhere but the market and the gym, this is a big deal. There's the Bar Mitzvah back east. (New York is still deciding whether to let me back in, after all that kvetching I did over the scaffolding, but I'm pretty sure it's a lock.) There's the fancy dinner at the Hilton honoring my big shot cousin, Mr. Andy Kaplan. There's the black tie wedding at the Four Seasons. That's a lot of dress-up for me. I have enough trouble finding my workout clothes in my closet. Three outfits and fancy shoes to go with? If they're in my closet, they're outdated, uncool and qualify me for the Fashion Hall of Shame. Not to worry. I've met my wardrobe needs. I basically cornered a nice lady at a boutique in Studio City and said, "Help me, I'll pay retail. Help. Me." She was so gifted, this fashion maven, putting outfits together, teaching me I can still look hip and happening and bohemian chic, that I hugged her until she told me to stop. But what about the shoes? There she was of no help, whatsoever. Off I went to the afore-mentioned warehouse, after bombing out at the department store, where they carry nothing in my size, and served myself at the shoe buffet. I tried one of these and one of those. As usual, I tried on too much. Sandal after ridiculous sandal. I strutted through the store, waving at strangers, just to see if I could hold my own without falling down and/or crying in agony. One pair of glittery Hooker heels almost made it to the register, until I heard weeping and realized it was coming from me. Finally, I settled on some really boring black satin sandals to see me through the Bar Mitzvah-thon. If I can stand, walk and dance without spraining an ankle, I'll have accomplished something substantial in my life. If I can't, eff it, I'm wearing flats to the other two events.

Mazel Tov, You've Made The Olympics!

2011-10-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

(Sherman Oaks, CA) – The exciting sport of women’s kvetching will make its Olympic debut at the 2012 Olympic Games, and the 24 American kvetchers who will vie for a spot in London have been determined after six months of qualifying tournaments. Eight women in each of the three Olympic kvetch divisions (Flyweight Complainers, Lightweight Moaners, Middleweight Whiners) will compete in the first-ever U.S. Olympic Team Trials for Women’s Kvetching in early 2012. “The 24 women who have qualified for the first-ever Olympic Trials are all outstanding kvetchers who will represent our sport and country in a first-class fashion,” said Carol Starr Schneider, USA Kvetching president. “They have each dedicated endless hours surrounded by annoying family members, friends, coworkers, movie-talkers, gum-snappers and rude people, in general, to perfect their skills. It's one thing to kvetch. It's another thing to kvetch and make everyone else feel your pain. There's an art to it. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. These ladies have made tremendous sacrifices to chase their Olympic dreams. God only knows how many people they've permanently alienated to compete in this historic event. Mazel Tov to all of these world class kvetchers who have qualified for this once in a lifetime event. And, might I add, if they need any extra support, they can call the Short Jewish Gal hotline, open 24-7: 1-800-WHY-MEEE?”

Tantrum on Ventura Boulevard

2011-10-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

The SJG reacts to parking ticket

I got back to the car two minutes after 4 p.m. Oh, fine. It was more than that. Three minutes. Four tops. And there he was, the parking officer slipping the dreaded envelope under my windshield wiper. I turned on the charmed. "Hi! Hey! How you doin'? Nice uniform! Look, I'm here, no need to ticket me." "I already did, ma'am." "But... but..." He moved swiftly to his car. I followed him. "Wait, what's this mean? Obstructing traffic? I didn't obstruct traffic." He got in the car and rolled up the window. I dropped the charm act and gave him the famous SJG look. Trust me, you don't ever want to get this look from me. Hands on hips. Hard eyes. Scary stuff. He rolled down the window. "No parking after 4 p.m, ma'am," he said, clearly frightened of me. I looked at the fine. "Five million dollars?! I don't have five million dollars." I started haggling. "I can do two million. 2.5 million, but that's my final offer." "Take it up with the city, ma'am," he said, and rolled up the window. "Hey, come back here! Nobody effs with the SJG!" He drove off mid-tantrum. Heartless bastard. In other news, all weekend, I'll be holding a fundraiser in Sherman Oaks. Live music, dancing, All-U-Can-Eat Kugel Buffet. Feel free to stop by and help me pay for my ticket. Do me a mitzvah. It'll make you feel good about yourself.

Top Three Idle Threats

2011-10-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

1. Threatened to boycott Grammy Awards when "SJG: Songs I Sing" scored zero nominations

2. Threatened to boycott Academy Awards when "SJG: A Spiritual Journey" scored zero nominations

3. Threatened to boycott Tony Awards when "SJG: The Musical" scored zero nominations

Moses, Meet Steve

2011-10-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

My friend Mick, Warner Avenue homie/Michigan-based surgeon/fellow blogger, sent this wonderful cartoon to me, in celebration of my new relationship with my iPhone. I feel upgraded in ways I never expected. Who needs Botox? Mr. Style makes me feel youngish again. I order him around, tell him to do stuff and he complies: Find me a smiley face app. Done. Send this photo of Dusty to my sons. Done. Update me on useless info. Done. Normally, I shun any sort of product endorsement. Cigar-chomping, whiskey-swilling newspaper gal that I never was, I do recall many ugly, protracted fights with the ad department of the illustrious Century City News. They were all about synergy, although no one called it that back then. Buy an ad, get a feature, was their motto. Mine was a little different: No eff'n way. For two minutes, I was the editor, the powerful honcho, the chick in the flimsy cubicle calling the shots (sorta kinda not really). I tell you this for a reason, one that escapes me. Oh, wait, it's coming back to me. I would never use my blog to endorse a product, and yet, here I am, extolling the virtues of the iPhone. Am I doing it so that Apple will forever send me, the SJG, a resident of Sherman Oaks who has little if any influence over anyone, a new iPhone every time it comes out? How dare you excuse me of such a thing. That is beneath you.