The Embarrassment Principle

Can a dog embarrass you? Absolutely. Overheard at the vet:
"Stop."
"Bad boy."
"Binky, quit barking."
"Binky, I said no."
"Binky, you're embarrassing Mommy."

Poor Binky. I feel for ya, little guy. The SJG has been there. I was raised by the Embarrassment Principle, too. "Kids, don't embarrass us tonight." "Kids, don't embarrass us today." "Kids..." Well, you get the picture, Binky. By the way, I never quite figured out what "don't embarrass us" meant. When it comes to my own sons, I'm happy to report, "Don't embarrass me" never escaped my lips. There was no point. Embarrassment was a foregone conclusion, especially with the eldest. Let's just say he's fond of flatulence, and leave it at that. Come to think of it, I've never told Dusty, "Don't embarrass Mommy," either. Gee, I'm pretty evolved for a human.

Look, Binky... Binky, pay attention, I'm talking to you. I'm sure with some long-term therapy, 10 years, maybe more, you'll learn to deal with your issues. Not everything is about you, Binky. In time, you'll accept the good and the bad sides of your doggy self. In time, you'll embrace your truth. Which comes down to this: Be the dog you want to be. Keep barking, Binky. Just, you know, modify the bark a bit. A little behavioral modification never hurt anybody. When you're in the waiting room, for instance, could you maybe drop the volume and lessen the frequency? You're not the only barker in here, dude. Sheesh, all the fuss you're making. Shush, you cute little narcissist. Seriously, Binky. You're giving me a migraine.

An Unhealthy Grudge

It’s hard to put into words what makes Grudge so insulting to your senses. Each painful crunch reminds you of that mean-spirited orthodontist who ruined your gums and your will to live. One taste leads to resentment toward everyone who's ever done you wrong, and we hear that's a lot of people. Dare to eat an entire Grudge in one sitting and you'll be filled with such rancor you may be tempted to file a grievance. Grudge goes great with a big platter of acrimony. You simply have to try Grudge to understand how indignant an apple can be. Since it was introduced in early 2015, Grudge has emerged as the best apple to give your enemies, and we hear you have many. Wrinkly on the outside, bitter on the inside, Grudge will match that giant chip on your shoulder. Grudge sends a message out to the world, and that message is: Bite Me. Born in a field in Sherman Oaks, using unnatural methods, crossing Jealousy and Revenge with a hefty helping of Unresolved Issues, the result is pure animosity. Any way you slice it, dice it or chop it, Grudge is the only apple that lasts a lifetime. It never browns. It just deepens your belief that everyone is out to get you, and chances are, you're right. 

True Confessions

Yesterday at dance class, after being called a "demanding Crapricorn" by someone who shall remain nameless (hint: I may have shoved her out the door and said, "Move! How can I admire my own reflection if you're standing in front of me?") I told the remaining dancers not to mess with me, or I will make up a year's worth of horoscopes that will forecast doom, gloom and crop failures. This led to a personal tale, oft-told in the blogosphere that revolves entirely around me, of how I made up the horoscopes for ’Teen Magazine. "What?!" cried a dancer. "Tell us more!" "I was going to till you rudely interrupted me."

I was just out of college, a humble editorial assistant. When I wasn’t walking the publisher’s dog, making coffee, sorting through mail and answering the phone, I was concocting the anonymous monthly horoscope column. They pawned it off on the absolute lowest gal on the editorial food chain. You could not get any lower than me. I was the consummate flunky in every sense of the word. Every month I consulted a pile of worn-out astrology books for inspiration. Say I read that Sagittarians must tame their restless energy and need for personal independence. ’Teen readers would get a dose of the following nonsense: “Good news! Success awaits you… as long as you don’t let that restless energy lead you astray. Stay focused and your smallest efforts will be rewarded!”

After awhile, I got pretty good at it. My horoscopes weren’t half-bad. Letters poured in praising my astonishing accuracy. One month, I even got it right for an entire class of fifth graders. That’s a lot of zodiac signs to tackle. I had hidden powers. Who knew? Once I left ’Teen and moved on to more exciting journalistic endeavors – writing for a bankrupt newspaper comes to mind – I sadly never rekindled my brief and shining career as Astrology Girl. Yet somehow, the experience has left me refreshingly bitter. I still read my horoscope, mainly to check out what kind of total kaka they come up with on my behalf. I plan to keep reading them till Jupiter aligns with Mars. Until then, I urge everyone to follow the stars, both planetary and mortal, and see where it takes you. Just remember you’ve worked hard for this moment. So enjoy it!

More Like Lady Mary

Oh, why can't I be more like her?

Dear SJG,

A few days into the New Year, and I've already broken my first resolution to behave more like Lady Mary on "Downton Abbey." I've tried so hard to act cold and aloof, snippy and elegant, and exceedingly stone-faced. I've tried never to crack a smile. I've tried to scold those I deem beneath me, which is just about everybody. I've tried to hire a housemaid to do my hair and gently advise me on matters of the heart, but no one has applied for the position. Deep down, I'm willing to do anything to save my family from ruin, but without Lady Mary's strong will and arrogance, I'm afraid I can't quite pull it off. Is all hope lost?
Awaiting your reply,
Not Enough Like Mary

Dear Not Enough,
Don't despair. We all have a little Lady Mary in us. I'd bet a week's wages that somewhere in your collection of costume jewelry, there's a remarkable string of faux pearls waiting to be draped around your delicate neck. Open a drawer and you'll find a hidden pair of long gloves. Search your soul and let your snooty attitude shine. Don't give up, my dear. Channel your inner Lady Mary and get on with it. Be the haughty British bitch you've always wanted to be. Point your nose up at everyone. Scowl like you mean it. Say something witty yet cutting. You can do this.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Words To Eat By

"In the absence of willpower, 
I will have another tortilla chip."

"Your chocolate babka has put a spell on me."

"Why eat one cookie when you can eat two?"

"Give a dog a taste and he'll take a plate." 

Puffy Isn't What I'm After

Not the look I'm going for.

To celebrate the New Year, I went shopping. You didn't think I stayed home to watch football, did you?  I would never do that, voluntarily, or without sufficient alcohol in my system. I have my standards. Shopping malls never used to stay open on New Year's Day, or any holiday, for that matter, but now they do, and I'm thinking it has something to do with money. Somewhere around 11 a.m., I heard the call of discounts and pointed my car in the direction of 50 percent off. I had an important mission, one I failed at, miserably. You see, I need a heavy winter coat. I haven't owned a heavy winter coat since, oh, 1977-ish when I spent time in England as a wandering minstrel.

The Tournament of Moses

Oy! I got my own tournament!

Live! From Sherman Oaks! It's The Tournament of Moses! And here's your host for the very brief yet meaningful parade, the Short Jewish Gal:

Shalom and happy new year to you and yours. God willing you got some sleep last night and are starting 2015 off right, unlike me, who got zero shut-eye, thanks to the a-hole neighbors who blasted the most oppressive techno-torture crap party music till at least 3 a.m. when the police finally showed up.  But I digress. Despite my severe sleep-deprivation, I'm so excited to host the Tournament of Moses. This is a biblical figure who deserves his own parade, don't you think? I mean, seriously. What a mensch.