The Art of Taking Things Personally

Harvard University is pleased to announce a new course has just been added to its fall schedule:  "The Art of Taking Things Personally," to be taught by the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks, international blogging sensation/academic maven/kugel designer. The curriculum will cover such weighty topics as, "How To Jump To Conclusions,"  "It's Always About Me,"  "An Overview of Oversensitivity,"  "The Pitfalls of Positive Thinking," "Why Everyone's Approval Matters" and "The Truth in False Assumptions."

"Stick and stones may break my bones,
But words will stay with me forever,
as they sit inside me, getting turned over
and over, being blown completely out of proportion."

Don'ts & Do's

Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter!
Don't tell me not to fly, I simply got to!
Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!

Do tell me I sing like Babs.
Do tell me I roller skate like Babs.
Do tell me I'm the greatest star.

At Long Last Nicolas Cage

At long last, after numerous technical difficulties:  the short  made by the youngest son of the Short Jewish Gal, featuring my brother John and a short Jewish non-actress who shall remain nameless, for obvious reasons.  But let's just say, she shouldn't give up her day job.  Double click for full humiliation, admiration and ridicule.  A little out of synch.  But then, who isn't?  You were expecting perfection?  And speaking of technical difficulties... may not work on your smart phone.  Maybe your phone isn't that smart after all.  So click on the link instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6o4rVed74uU

The Sock Thief of Sherman Oaks

Sometimes, the SJG re-blogs.  Today, I'm re-blogging a little something from 2009.  Why am I re-blogging?  That's really none of your business.  Oh, fine.  I'll tell you.  A sock has gone missing yet again, a nice soft one.  Color:  White.  Fits like a dream.  I'd like it back.  So I'm returning to my original suspect for questioning:

For centuries, scientists and philosophers have pondered the age-old question:  "Where do all the missing socks go?"  Theories abound, drawing from a smorgasbord of quantum physics, behaviorial science, numerology, the I-Ching, and the Maytag Owner's Manual, circa 1969.  Despite all the brainpower, no one has yet to explain why it is that socks, much like their human counterparts, uncouple at alarming rates, only to be sucked into black holes, never to be seen, much less, worn again. But now, thanks to a generous endowment from Ross Dress for Less, a short Jewish gal from Sherman Oaks believes she has found the instigator of this worldwide shortage.

Over coffee in her palatial Mediterrean estate, the woman, who prefers to remain anonymous, admitted that the guilty party resided at close range. "It's all his fault," she said, pointing to a yellow Labrador.  The dog huddled in the corner, gnawing on an argyle knee-high.  "He steals every sock he comes in contact with, then chews it up and buries it god-knows-where.  He's ruthless. When it comes to cotton-wool blends, he'll stop at nothing.  He'll butt his head through any door.  He'll raid any closet.  He'll dive into any laundry basket he encounters.  He'll do whatever it takes to claim his daily allotment.  It's the look on his face that I find the most troubling.  He knows he's been naughty.  He's told to 'drop it, this instant,' but does he?  No, he doesn't.  He refuses on principle.  Once his teeth get hold of the sock, it's all over."

When a visitor suggested that the woman's dog couldn't possibly be responsible for all the socks that go missing in the universe, she grew reflective.  "Well, duh, of course not.  He's not Santa Claus.  He can't be in a million places all at once.  I'm just saying that if my dog steals socks, your dog steals socks.  He's representative of sock thieves everywhere.  So stop taking apart the dryer, stop thinking you've lost your mind, because you haven't.  The truth is, socks go missing, along with our hormones, for a reason, people.  And that reason is 99 percent pet-related.  Whether you own a dog or a cat, a parrot or a guinea pig, I guarantee that if you get close enough, if you peer right into their souls, you will smell cotton." 

It was announced today that researchers from UCLA plan to follow up on the woman's missing sock hypothesis.  "This could be right up there with String Theory," said Dr. Schmelvin Fondue, professor of physics. "Or not," he added, quickly.  The professor then gazed down at his naked ankle, and asked if anyone had seen a black Calvin Klein that had been on his foot a minute ago.

Could It Be?

Alert the media!  Dick Van Dyke's on the roof again!

What's that on the roof?  What's that clop clop cloppity clop?  Could it be Santa and his reindeer, seriously early and misguided?  They always skip the house of the SJG.   Maybe this year, I get special treatment.  I put in a request for some fall wardrobe upgrades.  Could it be?  Fingies crossed.  Hang on, I'll check.  Nope, no visitors from the North Pole. Could it be chimney sweepers dancing up there?  Singing "Chim chim-in-ney, chim chim-in-ney, chim chim cher-oo"?  Is Dick Van Dyke up there with his broom?  Could it be?  Fingies crossed.  Hang on, I'll check.  That would be a no.  No chimney sweepers, no blokes with bristles.  Not a one.  Could it be a Fiddler?  Up there, fiddling?  Could it be?  Fingies crossed.  I'll go check.  Negatory.  No Fiddler.  Could it be hubby, up there again, cleaning the solar panels on his day off?  Uh yeah, it could be.   Careful up there, hubby.   Come down soon.

Everything's Coming Up Ethel

When life hits a difficult note, the SJG turns to my personal guru for guidance.  We share the same birthday and the same love of musicals. One of us can sing like nobody's business.  One of us pretends to sing and sends family members running for the exit.  When the SJG needs cheering up, I channel Ethel Merman.   I ask myself, what would Ethel do?

"I take a breath when I have to."  -- Ethel Merman 

That's some good advice right there.  Just remember to breathe.  The rest will take care of itself.

A Man Called Lew

Welcome, Lew.

He was a short man with a glint in his eye and a joke in his heart.  I can't recall a phone call that didn't involve silliness and laughter and the following sentiment:  "We'll try to make some sense of this cockamamie world."  Before we got together for breakfast or lunch, we always discussed what we were going to wear.  "I'll be the short Jew in blue."  "I"ll be the short Jew in chartreuse."  He never met a pun he didn't adore.  Even when circumstances turned dire, as they did last November, he went for the chuckle.  "Don't worry, I'm in good hands with Dr. Sid Seizure." He put everyone at ease.  He supported every client.  He never gave up on his writers.  "I promise you this is going to happen," he said, in our last conversation.  And it did happen, the TV movie he'd been trying to get me for a year.  He kept his promise.  He always did.  On Sunday, he passed away.  He's somewhere else now, forming a barbershop quartet in the sky.  No doubt, he's cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Still.  Lew Weitzman gone?  It can't be. There's no way to make any sense of that in this cockamamie world or any other.  No way at all.