Walkability

"Morning, my son. How was the walkability from the guest bedroom to the downstairs kitchen?"
"I'd give it a score of 62, Mother."
"Please, call me Mumsy. Why such a low score? Are you trying to hurt me?"
"Never, Mumsy. But there were a few dangerous and deadly obstacles in my path. Hence, the sub-par score."
"Heavens to Betsy. What obstacles?"
"Let's start with the lamp, the paintings, the autographed Lakers basketball encased in Lucite, the fourteens boxes and the piles of shoes I nearly tripped over in the hallway."
"Well, don't toot in your knickers, child. All that clutter shall be gone soon."
"Do tell, Mumsy. How soon?"
"When the Singing Dry Wallers are done."
"Why must they sing so loud, Mumsy?"
"Ask them."
"Look at the time. I must away to work, Mumsy."
"By the by, my son, what's the walkability from here to work?"
"Zero."
"Welcome back to L.A."

Dusty's Torah Portion

Shalom, and thanks for coming to my Bark Mitzvah. I'm officially 13, which means you need to buy me something nice, and I'm not talking about a ballpoint pen or a football. I want something tasty and delish, and maybe some bling. A collar with my name spelled out in diamonds would be gangsta. Nothing too showy, of course. If you didn't bother to get me anything (cuz you're cheap or you were raised in a barn) don't worry, I have my own PupPal account. We'll figure something out. Anyway, it's really cool that you made time in your busy schedules to join me on this important day. As luck would have it, my Torah portion comes from Deuteronomy: Blessings for Obedience. What does obedience mean to me? Not much, as it turns out, except when it comes to food.

Here I am, obediently accepting my birthday donut. 

But does that make me a bad boy? Not even. My mommy loves me, unconditionally. She never stops calling me silly names and making kissy sounds and calling me a good boy, even when I do things I'm not supposed to, like poop in the house (which I haven't done recently, I swear). In my puppyhood days, obedience was more of an issue. I'd steal socks and shoes, destroy personal property, eat through the carpeting on the stairs, scratch and jump on people. My mommy took me to Obedience School and I learned how to walk beside her and listen to her commands. I graduated with honors, and then proceeded to forget everything I learned. Did I mention I'm a dog? These days, I don't have the energy to stir up trouble. I hardly get off my doggy bed. It's so comfy, why should I make the effort? Let's face it. For the past 13 years, I've brought my family nothing but joy. I'm done chasing after balls and entertaining them. Still, I should probably thank them for the party. There is going to be a party, isn't there? I didn't learn Hebrew for nothing. Okay, so, this is the end of my Torah portion. L'chaim, bitches! And please, leave some hors d'oeuvres for me.

Fingers Crossed vs. Kina Hora

Dear SJG,
Since you're the authority on everything, more or less, I'm wondering if you could help me out. What's the diff between crossing one's fingers, knocking on wood and saying kina hora poo poo poo?
Sincerely,
Very Superstitious

Dear Superstitious,
Aren't you a smarty to ask. Pull up a chair and rest your butt, this may take a while. As a Jewiss of semi-import, I've used all three, depending on the situation, and with slight adjustments. I tend to say "fingies crossed" when wishing other people good luck. So, if a close friend is up for a job, a part or something that, just between us, has no immediate relevance in my life, whatsoever, I'll say, "I'm keeping my fingies crossed on your behalf." Fingers crossed is pretty much a Christian reference about asking God for protection, so I reserve it for my extremely goyisha friends.

There are exceptions, of course. When I'm dealing with the one and only Connie Ray, farm-raised star of screen, telly and stage, I'm required to "dance around a chicken bone" if something good is on the horizon for her. What Connie doesn't know, fingies crossed, is that there are only so many lines I'm willing to cross. But I pretend I'm doing it, which is all that matters.

As for knocking on wood and saying kina hora poo poo poo, both are about warding off evil. I like to combine them for double protection. I'll say kina hora and spit three times, while knocking on my wooden keppy, or maybe a table, just in case evil is lurking around the corner (God forbid) or I want something good to happen for someone I adore, obsessively, and tend to enable and/or smother whenever the mood strikes (which is often). Sure, it may be overkill, but when has that ever stopped me?

Dude, you're overdoing it.

For example, here's something I said yesterday, while tapping on my noggin: "Of course, you'll find a nice big apartment you can afford, one with two parking spots, which would be a miracle, but why not, an updated kitchen, a dishwasher, a swimming pool, a gym and a laundry facility, in a safe neighborhood with great walkability, in a location your devoted mother can reach without taking 18 different freeways, kina hora, poo poo poo."
Hope this helps clarify things.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Bad Hair Decade

The uber-coiffed SJG (second from left) brings 
new meaning to the phrase, "What was I thinking?"

Imagine my surprise when I saw myself tagged in this photo, circa early '80s, by my friend Eric. I literally went into shock and had to be revived by a team of emergency hair stylists.  I'm surrounded by my longtime friends Wendy, Helen, Linda and Maddy.  Check out the major fro' and the pseudo-smile on my punim. I look like I'm the target of a haircare intervention, the theme being, "Say no to the next perm." (Of course, really good friends would've stopped me before the first perm.) My ridiculous poof-fest is just all kinds of wrong. What's worse, there appear to be flowers crowning my mop top of shame.  Isn't the SJG brave to share this with you?  It's my way of saying, "See, I make mistakes, too." Big ones. Huge.  Notice how the other gals look like they've got it going on, style-wise, whereas I look like I've been abducted by Barbra Streisand's former hairdresser/boyfriend Jon Peters. Oh, and check out my clothes. The red, the white and the blue of it. Clearly, I'm going through a patriotic stage.  I'm all about "my country tis of thee." But why? Why? WHY? My friends should've laid down the law, don't you think?  I mean, if they truly loved me, they would've taken me shopping, but noooo, look at them, just smiling away, relishing my bad fashion choices. So please, go ahead and laugh.  Be my guest.  But I doubt you'll laugh any louder than my eldest, who's still doubled over in hysterics, and can't stop saying, "Mom! WTF!" WTF, indeed.
(11/22/10)

Almost Paradise

When the universe, or whatever force your prefer, throws a few curve balls your way; when life smacks you in the tush and wreaks havoc with your pipes, your walls and your floors, and I'm not just speaking metaphorically; when everything swiftly turns to ka-ka before your eyes and you're left asking, "What the eff up with that?" the SJG has discovered a miracle cure to lift you out of your funk. Actually, if I'm being honest, which I try my best to be, it was the eldest's lovely girlfriend who hand-delivered the solution via remote control. "Let's watch 'Bachelor in Paradise,' " she said. As a family unit, we protested, loudly, for just under 30 seconds and then said, "We're in." We couldn't decide which was more shocking: the giddy horror of attractive, liquored-up young men and sobbing, drunken women in scanty bathing suits, humiliating themselves on national TV, or the fact that the eldest recognized many of the cast members from previous seasons of "The Bachelor"and "The Bachelorette." What sort of mother am I that I didn't know he'd become an expert on the oeuvre? In any case, this may be the best of the worst TV I've encountered in a while, and for that, I'm so grateful. I'm not sure I have the stomach to watch any more crap episodes of this terrible show, not that I judge, but two hours served as a fabulous escape from reality.

For The Maritally Inclined

Isaac is on his deathbed with beloved wife Esther sitting with him.

He says: “Esther, when I was twenty and I failed my driving test, you were by my side."

Esther: “Yes, my love."
Isaac: “And ten years later, when our house burned down, you were there by my side."

Esther: “Yes, my love."
Isaac: “And then when our shop went bust, you were still there, by my side."

Esther: “Yes, my love.”
Isaac: “And when I slipped on the sidewalk and broke my leg last year, you were there, by my side."

Esther: “Yes, my love."

Isaac: “And now here I am on my deathbed and you’re still here, by my side.”
Esther “Yes, my love.”

Isaac: “Esther?”

Esther "Yes, my love."

Isaac: "You're a jinx." 

(courtesy of jewishjokes.org.)

Sometimes

 Billy, Jonny and Scotty on a warm summer day

"I'll be at Jonny's" was the constant refrain. "Can I sleep over at Jonny's?" "Can Jonny sleep over?" Swimming. Skateboarding. Camp. Roller hockey. Baseball. Basketball. Paintball. Bike rides. Gameboy. X-Box. Henry's Tacos. In-N-Out. The best kind of childhood memories, filled with crazy laughter and water balloon fights and endless amounts of fun. Sometimes you luck out. You move to the right block with the right people. We hit the jackpot when we met the Roses. 

Jonny and Billy

"I have terrible news," Billy said the other night. He was fighting tears. We both got on the phone, took a breath, braced ourselves. What he said next made no sense and probably never will. Young men don't die in their sleep. That's not supposed to happen. But sometimes it does. So today we'll do the unimaginable. We'll attend the memorial for Jonny Rose, a wonderful young man we loved like a son. Because he felt like one.