You Can Go Home Again

My childhood home

Whether or not you're a fan of her blogs or her tv movies ("Spring Fling!" anyone? "When Sparks Fly"?), her mishpocha, or her royal rescue pup, it can't have been a shock to learn that the Short Jewish Gal's childhood home has just opened as a museum in West Los Angeles. The grand unveiling came as the SJG turned 60 and a half. The home is in the quaint village of Westwood, near the city of Kvetch, and contains her childhood bed, a five-speed bike (why her parents wouldn't get her a 10-speed, no one knows), and the wicker chair where she used to sit and write bad poetry in the style of Sylvia Plath. "I'm especially proud of my old bed, which I fell out of at the age of three and broke my collarbone," said the self-appointed director of the SJG Museum. Admission is free.  Donations welcome. Viewings: by appointment only. Please don't disturb the current homeowners.

I Scream, You Scream

In terms of screaming, quite honestly, it takes a lot to get an end-of-the-world geshrei out of the SJG. Strap me into a giant roller coaster or some other vehicle of torture. Make it dip and dive and spin, catastrophically, God forbid. Let my life flash before my eyes and then, sure, I'll scream like nobody's business. Otherwise, scream in public like a banshee? Puh-Lease. I'm just too much of a classy broad. I'm a lady, I am. Most days, I conduct myself as though meeting the Queen. I've been known to curtsy, spontaneously. I wear white gloves and a pillbox hat and take dainty steps and -- okay, fine, you're not buying it. I don't blame you.

Anyway, on Wednesday, I was subjected to the worst sort of scream, a wail of unbridled despair from which I may never recover. There I was in Studio City, at Joan's On Third, which isn't on Third, FYI, waiting for my take-out order, when a gal inches away, young and pretty and seemingly sane, let out a blood-curdling, ear-busting, padded cell scream. This was a "call 911" scream. This was five-alarm, wake-the-dead, send-your-adrenalin-through-the-roof, high-alert scream. Every head swiveled in her direction. Whatever caused this fetching millennial to shriek, operatically, must've been huge and life-changing and worthy of putting an entire restaurant, customers and staff included, on edge, right?

Well, no. It was just a guy surprising a gal with a sudden appearance and hug from behind. Post-scream, she was all, "Oh my gawwwd! Oh. My. Gawwwwwd! Hi!!!!!! How are you?!!!!"

Personally, I wanted to throttle her. I wanted to lecture and shame her. I wasn't the only one. There were universal looks of agitation and "What the eff is her problem?" But no one did anything, including me. Now I'm filled with regret. Next time, I'll take action. Or have someone with a little more authority do it for me.

Dress Up A Broom

Occasionally, the SJG stumbles upon some Jewish proverbs I've never heard before, and when this happens, I do a short interpretative dance. Unless I'm a little tired. A certain royal rescue pup woke me up way too early this morning with his melodic barking. I share these wise words with you now, free of charge, mainly because I'm exhausted and can't be held responsible for whatever pours out of my keppy. 

Ask about your neighbors, then buy the house.
Don't live in a town where there are no doctors.
If the rich could hire the poor to die for them, the poor would make a very nice living. 
He has more in his head than in his pocket.
Rejoice not at thine enemy's fall - but don't rush to pick him up either.
Worries go down better with soup than without.

You can't sit on two horses with one behind.
They are both in love: he with himself and she with herself.
With horses you check the teeth; with a human you check the brains.

The hat is fine but the head is too small.
He's meditating on whether a flea has a belly-button.
All is not butter that comes from a cow.
If he were twice as smart, he'd be an idiot.
If a girl can't dance, she says the musicians can't play.
Even a bear can be taught to dance.

The Foundation For Unloved Furniture

Listen, sometimes things we once loved wind up by the side of the road. It happens. Take a walk in the SJG 'hood and you'll see abandoned upholstery everywhere. Chairs, desks, mattresses, and of course, sofas. Oh, the cruelty of it all. I've seen love seats heartbroken on the curb. I've seen sectionals weeping from disrepair. I've seen some things I can't unsee. Well, the madness stops today, my friends. Today, the SJG Foundation for Unloved Furniture launches its first official Mitzvah Project with an adoption that defines good karma. We can already feel the universe nodding its approval. Today we're giving the newlyweds' first sofa a second home upstairs in the Reinvention Room. Every house needs one room for wayward stuff. This is ours. Where there once was a bed and a drum set, then only a drum set, has become a depository for the married son's giant armoire -- purchased during his brief stint in San Francisco, a transitional time in his life when he slept in his closet and had nowhere to hang his clothes... and a narrow entry table from his West Hollywood apartment of yore.

And as of today, the Reinvention Room will offer refuge to the sofa he and his darling wife had high hopes for in the beginning... until they spent time on it and realized that this West Elm purchase, while pretty in a mid-century way, was... alas... truly and deeply uncomfy. This statement piece made a statement all right. And the statement was this: "I belong in a room where you can look and admire, but not sit for too long or your back will hurt. I'm set decoration. I'm window dressing. I'm not the sofa of your dreams." Such a wordy couch. That should've been the first red flag. So today, longtime hubby and I will acquire yet another piece of furniture that once spent quality time with the eldest. The Rescue Sofa will join the college dresser and the college desk and the aforementioned San Francisco armoire.

"We will treat your sofa as our own until you reclaim it," I told my daughter-in-law, in between texts re: "The Bachelorette Finale." "We know it will be in good hands," she texted back. "Does the sofa have any special needs or issues we should know about? " "The sofa likes to listen to Edith Piaf before going to sleep. Very loud." "Now you tell me." "I realize I should have mentioned it before." "That's what a considerate daughter-in-law would've done." "Does this mean the adoption is off?" "Well..." "But if you don't take it, what will become of it? It has nowhere else to go, as of tomorrow, when the truly comfy couch arrives." "Look, we'll foster the sofa and see how it goes." "Thank you." "Is it a well-behaved sofa?" "Most of the time." "Wonderful."

Facts of Real Life

Mrs. Garrett, beloved housekeeper 

Last week was all about "Facts of Life." First came the news that the show might get a TV reboot, inspiring a flurry of texts from family and close friends. Why the commotion? I'm so glad you asked. My sweet daddy created the role of Mrs. Garrett on "Diff'rent Strokes," and as a result, gets a "developed by" credit on its spin-off "Facts of Life."

Mrs. Garrett, beloved housemother 

And then came yesterday's news that Charlotte Rae had passed away at the age of 92. I'm not sure if my dad ever talked about where he got the inspiration for the funny, no-nonsense, tough yet tender character, but over in a little town called Westwood, we knew she was based on his old friend, writer-producer Lila Garrett.

Lila Garrett, funny, no-nonsense writer-producer 

I don't remember meeting Charlotte Rae. When longtime hubby and I took Grandma Shorty to see a taping of "Diff'rent Strokes" in the early '80s, to meet her idol Gary Coleman, Mrs. Garrett had already left for "Facts of Life." But I clearly remember Lila Garrett. She danced at our wedding and I interviewed her at Nat n' Als for EMMY magazine. We'd just moved to the Valley and I hadn't allowed enough time to schlep over the hill. I arrived about 15 minutes late. "I'm so sorry," I said, at least twice. "Stop apologizing," she said, "and order something." So today, I'm thinking of my daddy and the part he played in all of this sitcom trivia, and Charlotte Rae, a strong-willed, gifted actress who sometimes drove him crazy, may she rest in peace. And Lila Garrett, still kicking butt at 92 as a progressive radio host of "Connect The Dots" on KPFK. 

Laundry Day

New Washing Machine Cycles Under Consideration at Maytag:
1. Obsessive Cycle
2. Shame Cycle
3. Abnormal Cycle
4. Positive Spin Cycle
5. Delicate Psyche Cycle
6.  Low Expectation Cycle
7.  Brainwash Cycle
8.  Heavy Resentment Cycle
9.  High Maintenance Cycle
10. Internal Turmoil Cycle
(8-12)

Happy National Nutcase Day

According to the SJG Calendar, which, you may or may not be surprised to learn operates independently of other calendars, and why shouldn't it, today is National Nutcase Day, in honor of all the crazy and foolish peeps ...

... hanging on by a very thin thread.

In this day and age where logic and sanity are on permanent vacay and bupkis makes sense, 

I'm here to tell you it's okay to feel more than a little meshugganah. In fact, if you don't feel a bisel off-kilter, not to scare you, but there might be something seriously wrong with you. 

So, how to observe National Nutcase Day? Hang out with other nuts. Misery loves company.

Who isn't?