Something Exciting

Look at this nice bunch of people. Are you looking? In this group, at our table, we have the SJG and longtime hubby Howie toward the back, and next to me, my wonderful brother John, devoted and delightful; next to John, Andy's sister Amy, gourmet cook extraordinaire, and then, front and center, we have my fabulous cuzzie Andy; his glamorous wife Allison, one table over toward the back, and at our table, their children, Levi the actor, Willa, the singer/songwriter, and Lucas, the future doctor, who, après turkey, told us about the upcoming workshop he's taking, a memorable moment whereby med students get up close and personal peeks at peeps who get paid to show their... well, I'm too refined to tell you, but I'll drop a hint: their nether regions. Or, if you prefer a more nautical term, Down Below. 

I'm fairly certain Lucas regrets telling us about this hands-on workshop, but listen, he opened the door and we walked in. Of course, we had many great suggestions, far too raunchy to mention here, and a few of us wondered how this modeling assignment passed us by. One of us may have said, "Why didn't my agent send me out for this job?" Not to be a prick or a total putz, but I'll leave the rest of the discussion to your imagination. Now then, also in this photo: at our table, my Aunt Elly, Andy's mom, and behind Allison at the other table, her mom Bonnie, her brother Jeff and (next to Lucas at our table) his wife Bonnie -- who came up with this seating arrangement? Then, back to the other table, Owen, Jeff's son, and Owen's two adorable sons, and by now, aren't you impressed that I even remember any of this? And, finally, toward the front, we have the children I birthed, Billy and Scotty, and Scotty's lovely girlfriend Meghan, and of course, my gorgeous daughter-in-law Chloé. 

Now look closer. Closer. Zoom right in on the French gal and her happy hubby. Something big is going on. Something exciting. Something that takes a while to hatch. More to come in May, kina hora. Specifically, a baby girl. Yep, your SJG is going to be a Grammala, the role I was born to play. I know, I know, I saved the best for last.

Happiness On Thanksgiving, You Should Have

Today, the SJG wants you should fress to your heart's delight without gaining so much as an ounce.

Today, the SJG wants you should remember all the things you're grateful for, and keep the things you're ungrateful for to yourself, because we're tired of your negativity.

Today, the SJG wants you should hug your people and never let go, unless they claim near-suffocation, in which case, release your grip a bissel.

What I'm trying to say is this: Happy Thanksgiving to all my bitches...

... and all my boychicks, too.

It's That Time of Year

Dear Short Jewish Gal,

The entire staff of Bring Your Own Booty (BYOB) looks forward to welcoming you for your upcoming procedure. Think of it as more of a spa treatment than an invasive butt probe. After completing your registration and agreeing not to sue us, you'll relax in the comfort of our aesthetically soothing, somewhat funereal waiting room. Soon Zelda The Psychic Nurse will escort you to the Zen Zone, where you'll change into a gossamer gown and share the name of someone you'd like Zelda to contact on the Other Side, in case you should plotz, God forbid, during your "cleanse." Not to worry. Once Zelda zetzes you with a nice intravenous sedative, your fears will drift away like leaves on a stream. 

Buh-bye fears

A friendly reminder: No noshing or drinking anything after 9 p.m. the night before. Make sure there's bupkis in your belly. Leave your fancy jewelry at home. At this point, nothing impresses us. Bring cash, lots of it, a check or a credit card to satisfy your financial obligations. You didn't think insurance covers all of this, did you? Most importantly, we encourage you to brush your teeth and shower/bathe before you arrive. We're very sensitive to unpleasant auras, especially Zelda. 

Kindly,

Your Friends at BYOB

Down Dog

So, here's the evidence, all the proof I need that a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage insists on participating in my physical therapy exercises. I don't remember requesting a furry workout buddy. I wonder if my insurance covers that. Probably not. My daily routine goes like this: I lie down, he hovers over me and starts in with the lickies and the kisses. And sometimes, well, his breath isn't, how you say, minty fresh. No matter how many times I command him in my most authoritative voice, "Stop, Mommy loves you, move over, Cookie Bear, get up, Sweet Patootie," doe he listen? Let me think about that. No. He does not. This lack of cooperation also explains why my cheap yoga mat smells very-very doggy. He picks up his special scent and it's Down Dog for days. I know, I know. There's no winning this particular battle. Just between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Turkey Etiquette

Dear SJG,
My office is throwing a Thanksgiving costume party on Wednesday. I'm thinking of going as my lame-ass boss, the biggest turkey on the planet. Thoughts?
Thank you,
Mable in accounting

Dear Mable,
Great idea. I say go for it. Maybe he's so dumb, he won't realize you're rudely ridiculing him. Or maybe he's smarter than you think. Play it safe and put together a box of your personal belongings in case they escort you out of the building.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
This year, I'm schlepping from Reseda to Riverside for Thanksgiving. According to my traffic app, I should pack an overnight bag and leave now. But that's not even the main issue. The invite says "Sing For Your Supper." I can't sing for ka-ka and don't want to embarrass myself in front of my snooty-patootie second cousins, the Warbling Yentas. Any thoughts on how I can save face?
Thanks,
Gratitude Challenged

Dear Challenged,
Here's what you do. Make a duplicate of the invite, but reverse the 'n' and the 'g' and bring it with you, along with your legal representative. When your host complains about the extra guest, just say, "This is Morty Epstein, my attorney. The invite clearly states Sign For Your Supper. See? Morty brought along all the necessary documents. Oh, and he doesn't mind sitting at the kids' table."
You're Welcome,
The SJG

My Latest Challenge

Generally speaking, as opposed to phonetically speaking, I'm an honest gal most of the time, except for those rare moments when I fudge a bit. Let's say I'm in the market, and a Friendly Food Sample Demonstrator asks me, "Would you like to try a Hot Cheetos-Encrusted Vegan Chicken Nugget?" "That sounds revolting," sounds too cruel. "That sounds interesting, maybe I'll circle back later," sounds better, even though I'd rather eat dirt. Sometimes it's easier not to give a straight answer.

A gal who isn't me. 

And speaking of straight, sometimes it's not so easy to stand up in a vertical direction, am I right? My back's gone out twice in the last three weeks, of course I'm right. Plus, it's a nice segue. The exciting discovery that I have two bulging discs in my lower back means I'm in physical therapy. Yay! It's going well. I'm now free to move about the palatial estate without screaming in agony. The only problem -- my physical therapist can't stop ma'aming me. "You're a mess, but don't worry, ma'am, I'm going to fix you." "Okay, ma'am, lie down on the heating pad, I'll be back in five." "Time for a deep tissue massage, ma'am." "Do 20 pelvic tilts and we're done for today, ma'am."

In all honesty, I haven't decided whether to mention the "ma'am" thing, even though it bugs the bejeezus outta your SJG. Other options I'm considering: "Sir" him till he gets the hint? "Yes, Sir, no, Sir, what do I do, Sir?" "Seinfeld" him till he gets the hint? "Oh yeah, Carol's ready. Check Carol out. Carol's got some new moves." "Idina Menzel" the situation?

But when have I ever been able to be so Zen? The more you tell me to let it go, the more I'll hang on for dear life. So for now, I think I've made my decision. Would you like to know what it is?

A Visit From Dino

Brace yourself. Last night, I forgot to turn off my cell phone. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I don't know why. What I do know is this. When the ting-a-ling-a-ling woke up longtime hubby, Sir Blakey and me around 4 a.m., Dean Martin popped into my crowded keppy and before I knew it, I was changing the lyrics to "That's Amore." Apologies to Harry Warren, Jack Brooks, and of course, Dino.

When the ding on your phone wakes you up with its tone,
That's annoying
When the guy on your right tends to snore every night,
That's annoying
Phones will ring, ting-a-ling-a --

"Can you not sing right now?"
"Was I singing?"
"Uh, yeah."
"I thought I was think-singing."
"You were singing-singing."
"How'd I sound?"

And now this: