Save Me A Slice

Groom's cake courtesy of McVities

The wedding was lovely, even without the chuppah.  The happy couple.  The crazy hats.  The double kiss.  The ride in the Austin Powers car.  Fabulous.  The SJG watched the highlights.  Mainly, I scanned the church for Jews.  I didn't see any, but my mother-in-law tells me there was a diplomat on the list named Sussman.  So, one Jew at the Royal Wedding.  It's a start.  I'm sure they koshered the menu on his behalf.  Personally, I just wanted the groom's cake.  It's all I thought about.  I'm crazy about McVities.  A devotee since my days in England.  The SJG studied there.  Oh yes I did.  Education Abroad.  1978. The year I  fell madly in love with McVities.  The chocolate ones.  It was a mutual attraction.  Those digestive bikkies clung to my tush and would not let go.  I spent my early 20s working them off.  I love them to this day.  I blush just thinking about them.  I dream of them at night.  Haven't eaten one since 1979.  Better keep it that way.

My Work Here Is Done

Hmmm.  The yarmulke seems to have fallen off.  Oh, well.  The SJG tried, but the hora scared them off, not to mention the adult briss.  L'chaim, anyway, and remember, when you're in love, the whole world is Jewish. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Inside The Brain of the SJG

The brain of the SJG is a very hectic address, with trucks unloading obsessive thoughts all freakin' day.  It's a kitchen of what-iffing, a powder room of kvetching, a stairway to oy vey.  The brain of the SJG needs a closet organizer, a visit from Goodwill, a thorough spring-cleaning.  A sampling from today:
1. He should live on-campus next year.
2. He wants to live off-campus. 
3. Let him find his own place.
4. He'll never find his own place.
5. I should fly up there and help.
6. I should let go.
7. Why can't I let go?
8. I would if I could.
9. So do it.
10. You first.

No Regrets

RIP Phoebe

Phoebe Snow, a shy Jewish gal (born Phoebe Ann Laub) often mistaken for black (the massive curls, the soulful voice) passed away on Tuesday.  The first time I heard her sing "Poetry Man" on a local jazz radio station (KKGO), it was 1974 and I fell hard. That voice!  I wanted everyone to know about her and finagled a free copy of her first album, wrote a review for the Warrior, the Uni High newspaper, and scored comp tickets to see her perform at the Roxie. (I brought future hubby).  Just the SJG getting things done.  Here is my all-time favorite, "No Regrets," recorded right off an actual album, complete with authentic crackles and everything.  Sends me right back to Lindbrook Drive... there I am, lying on the floor in my bedroom, listening to one of the greatest singers of all time. 

The New Punim of Sherman Oaks

"... as long as I can use my own Beauty Team."

The Short Jewish Gal has yet another new job. The cookbook user, Glee watcher, afternoon napper and Broadway stage-crasher has signed on to be the Punim of Sherman Oaks. “I grew up in Westwood and I’ve always thought my face was more West L.A. than Valley," she says. "I’ll never forget getting my shots as we headed over the hill. I swore I'd never live here. I'm a Bruin.  I walked to UCLA.  But I've been in the Valley since '86, and you know what, it's not that bad.  My face looks the same on either side of Ventura Boulevard." The TV writer, who often talks about the glory days of employment and residual checks, will be photographed by Annie Leibovitz for the campaign.  The print, digital and outdoor ads will run in select markets in Encino, Tarzana and Woodland Hills, Asia and Europe, including, France, Spain, the U.K., Portugal and China.  "I couldn't be more excited," says the SJG.  "That's not true.  If this were a paying gig, I'd be doing freakin' cartwheels down the block.  Still, it's a big honor."

Monday Morning Sandwich Rant

Nicely done, Turkey Wrangler

 

This morning, I found the budget-conscious eldest son foraging through the fridge.  I let him off with a warning.  "Save some for us."  First, he stole an unleavened croissant for breakfast, then proceeded to make himself lunch.  Better him than me.  Two boys.  Over a quarter century of brown-bagging. I'd like to think I'm done.  And yet, the hard work of sandwich-making set him off.  Mondays are so challenging for him.  "You'd think the people who package turkey for a living would actually make a good @#$%'n package!"  "They do it just to annoy you," I said.  "They've succeeded."  Hang in there, Billy.  Only four more sandwiches to go before the weekend. 

The Four Questions of Easter

1. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we order an egg white scramble, but on this Sunday, we get a pink one, instead?
2. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we eat Ghiradelli squares, but on this Sunday, they're shaped like bunnies?
3. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we shvitz at the gym, but on this Sunday, we find a sign that says Closed?
4. Why is it that on all other Sundays, we eat over the sink, but on this Sunday, we nosh on the Avenue, 5th Avenue?

Al Jolson sings an Easter song by Irving Berlin. Who says Jews don't know from Easter?

A Coat of Many Colors

We'll take one of each

My old friend Mickey, a nice boy who grew up in a little town called Westwood, has been losing sleep over our paint situation. Today he came up with a genius solution:  "Your story reminded me of an episode back in the late 60's or so.  A house around the corner from us in Westwood was selected for a Sherwin Williams TV spot.  Perhaps you can take a page from their script:  The entire house was painted in vertical multi-color stripes.  The point was to demonstrate the paints' ability to cover all with a single coat of white paint.  But the multi-stripe thing....kind  of Biblical with the coat of many colors.  Seriously, give it some thought.  The neighbors will really love you."  This man is a doctor.  He knows his sh*t. 

Funny Lady

A nod to Madelyn Pugh Davis, the trailblazing "girl writer" of "I Love Lucy" and many other wonderful comedies.  I had the pleasure of knowing her.  She was the mother of my dear friend Ned Davis.  Ned and I go way, way back to Warner Avenue.  During the "Alice" years, Madelyn threw a lavish party every Christmas, filled with celebrities like Lucille Ball.  Thanks to Ned, we were part of a select few who got to hang out in the corner, eat delicious food and gawk.  It was always the highlight of the year, an event that made me feel very sophisticated, very grown up.  Madelyn was soft-spoken and low-key, the opposite of most comedy writers.  I'll always treasure the time I interviewed Madelyn and her long-time collaborator, Bob Carroll, in Madelyn's living room.  I was doing a piece on ageism for EMMY magazine, and Madelyn and Bob had been relatively unscathed, still working well beyond the standard expiration date for Hollywood writers.  It was an honor to know Madelyn.  A class act, a gifted lady.  RIP.

Madelyn and Lucy at work

Send In The Thrones

Rehearsal Dinner:  Kate and William

"And then the two of you are hoisted on chairs above the crowd." 
"Chairs?" asks Kate.
"I meant thrones."
She looks at me, concerned.  "What if they drop us?"
"If they do, we'll sue."
"Who does the hoisting?" asks William.
"Your father, Kate's father, Harry, a few other dudes."
William makes a face.  "Crikey!  What if our conversion to Judaism displeases them and they refuse?"
"Screw 'em.  We  call in a few Buckingham Palace guards to do the hoisting."
"Smashing idea,"says William.
"Shall we dance the hora again, SJG?" asks Kate.
"Yes.  Let's!" I say.
And off we go, circling the palace grounds, singing "Hava Nagila," picking up speed along the way. William gets a little carried away and throws in an extra hop.  Plop goes the future king, right on his tuchas. "Oh bullocks," he says, "I'm such a klutz."
Kate retrieves his yarmulke and puts it back on his head.  "I told you to practice," she says.  "God forbid you should listen to me for once."
I beam with pride.  "You're getting better with the guilt, Kate."
"I've learned from the best, haven't I?" she says.
"You got that right, sistah!" With great effort, I shove William into an upright position.  "You better cool it with the macaroons, mister.  You'll never fit into your morning coat."

Hello, I Must Be Going

The college boy's glasses:  retrieved.  His flight back to Santa Cruz:  taken.  His dorm bed:  occupied.  His mother: weepy.  People come and go so quickly here. 

Pass The Yoch

We're not this together

At last night's premature seder, Elijah was a no-show, no doubt because he'd heard about our shameful, highly-truncated rendering of the Haggadah. Those who favor authenticity do better elsewhere.  Take the religious gal, briefly married to someone at the table who shall remain nameless (my brother-in-law).  Years ago, she had the misfortune of attending one of our seders.  "I'm never coming back here again," she said, and ran screaming from the house. We haven't seen her since. Despite the loose Evelyn Wood interpretation, the food is beyond delish, and the best part is, you're so full, you don't have to eat again till next Passover.  Another benefit is the lively conversation, which ping pongs back and forth, covering a wide variety of topics.  Last night, we touched on gefilte fish yoch (what is it?), we made a big tsimmis over the tsimmis, sang the "All in the Family" theme song and the SJG performed "The Dance of the Macaroons."  All in all, a typical Passover.  This morning, the college boy wandered home from Coachella, dirty and sunburned.  "Where are your glasses?" I asked.  The youngest tends to lose expensive items.  "Oh sh*t," he said.  A flurry of text messages commenced.  The glasses will be retrieved later, supposedly.  As for the SJG's sense of calm and well-being:  lurking beneath the yoch till further notice.

Two Questions for Jerry

How does your Judaism influence your work?
"I think it's more the heritage of being Jewish; you tend to make fun of things. I don't know why Jewish people do that, but they seem to do a lot of it. And I think what's affected my work the most is somehow when you grow up in a Jewish family, there's a lot of joke making."

Is there anything about being Jewish you don't like?

"The relatives can be annoying sometimes."

Over Here, Elijah

Monday night is the first night of Passover, the night when Jews congregate, hide the afikomen in ridiculous places, fumfer through the four questions in Bar Mitzvah Hebrew, all while reclining, drinking and over-noshing on gefilte fish and macaroons.  I mention Monday for a reason, not just to show that the SJG is fully up on the important holidays.  I mention Monday because my mishpoche (I won't name names, but it was my mother-in-law's idea) decided to futz with the Jewish calendar, tweak it slightly for convenience (shanda!) and move Passover to Sunday night.  I'm sure this isn't kosher.  I'm sure we'll suffer.  I'm sure we'll be stoned at some later date.  I'm sure Moses wouldn't approve.  I'm sure Elijah won't get the text in time and will bypass the house altogether.  He won't be the only one.  Rather than break matzoh with his loved ones, the college boy prefers to wander the desert of Coachella in a total haze.  His Passover punishment came early, though.  He got a nice biblical slap on the wrist when he missed his flight to Burbank, had to wait hours in San Jose and fly into LAX -- a locale change he casually mentioned in the nick o' time.  It was hard to work up the correct amount of sympathy for this particular eff up, considering he was sitting right there in the terminal while they boarded his flight.  His excuse: "I was reading this really interesting article on The Daily Beast."  At least he's up on his current events.  In the meantime, if the SJG looks a little bloated on Monday morning, it's my mother-in-law's fault.  Happy Early Passover. If you see Elijah, pass it along. 

Last Stop, Pine Valley

The SJG has logged plenty time in Pine Valley with Erica Kane and the gang.  I started watching "All My Children" in junior high.  Back then, I only got to see it when I was home sick, or during school breaks.  There wasn't one thing about these goyim I related to, on any level, and yet, I adored the elaborate plot twists and love triangles; the non-stop tsouris.  Most of all, I marveled how no one ever used the phone. Characters just stopped by, uninvited, to make trouble.  Historically, Jews call first, which explains the lack of Hebrew and Yiddish, let alone a rabbi or a Bar Mitzvah, in Pine Valley, at least not when I watched it, religiously. I'll never forget the time I met Ruth Warrick, the great actress who played Phoebe Wallingford,  at the Century Plaza Hotel.  It was the early '80s and I was there to interview some business mucky-muck.  The SJG was the business editor of the illustrious Century City News.  Why they hired me to write about business is anyone's guess.  Maybe because they were about to go bankrupt and weren't too picky.  Back to Phoebe.  I stepped into the elevator as she was stepping out.  I went all giggly.  I was uncool.  I blurted out, "I love you."  She smiled and said, "Thank you," and kept walking.  My favorite star-sighting of all time.  And now, ABC has gone and cancelled "All My Children" and "One Life To Live."  In the words of my grandfather, "Bastards!"

Celebrity Paint Consultant

Dr. Drew:  Good with color

The SJG must take a mo' to thank my bleeps (blog-reading peeps) for their wonderfully heartfelt paint color suggestions, including Mauve, Denim and Lilac.  (Yeah, that's not happening.)  The adamant warnings to stay away from anything resembling Baby Sh*t?  Duly noted!  Before Dr. Drew showed up for a little one-on-one celebrity rehab, I went looking for a fix at Dunn Edwards, just a few samples, man, just a hit to get me through the day.  It's all Paintner #2's fault.  The buttoned-up dude (he wore a buttoned up painter jacket thing), pointed me in a new and baffling direction that would send my neighbor Mike back to Canada if we dared to walk this way on the color chart.  Paintner #2 said go toward the taupe, the gray, the darker shades for contrast and drama.  This weekend, the college boy goes to Coachella.  And plans to camp!  That's enough drama, thanks.  Last night, the eldest stopped by for dinner, took one look at the patchwork quilt on the side of the house, and said, "These colors are hideous. Why would you want to destroy the look of the house?" This from the boy who thinks we should paint the house in hues of Jack Daniels. Everybody's an expert.  Dr. Drew suggested we stay with "your warm Mediterranean earth tones.  I like a little paint lab on Van Nuys: Catalina. They sell Benjamin Moore.  Ask for Rico. Tell him Double D sent you.  He'll set you up."

Paint Intervention

Last night, our neighbors stepped in for a little intervention.  They were tired of hearing us yakety yak about paint colors over the fence.  "Too band-aidy?"  "Too peach?"  "Too muddy?" It got to them and they took action, as good neighbors often do.  A godlike voice came to us as we discussed the beigeness of it all.  "Can we come over and see?"  "God, yes," the SJG pleaded.  "Come tell us what to do."  And so, the lovely Denise, the handsome, strapping Mike and the adorable toddler Bradley entered through the side gate and started sharing their thoughts.  Denise liked the one that went a little peach.  Mike gave her a tender look of, "You're wrong.  Beautiful, but wrong."  Bradley liked the rocks on the side of the house.  Mike pointed to Terracotta Sand and with great authority, said, "That's the one," as though it were a fait accompli.  He told us why Terracotta Sand worked and why the others failed.  It had to do with lighting and contrast and roof tiles.  "Terracotta Sand," we said.  "Terracotta Sand," he said.  That's the one, alright.  Till we change our minds again.

Smart Women, Foolish Paint

Finding the Right Colors, Avoiding the Wrong Ones

Carol is in her early 50s, or so she likes to tell people, married, an unemployed, award-winning TV writer, but then, isn't everyone in this town?  She finds most paint attractive, until she buys a sample quart and brings it home.  The lid comes off, and immediately, she feels let down.  "WTF?" she's been known to say, ad nauseum. The actual paint color looks nothing at all like it did in the freakin' picture.  Once again, the disconnect leaves her unfulfilled.  Once again, the SJG has made foolish choices in paint.  "I always seem to end up with the wrong eff'n paint," she kvetches.  "If there's a loser in a paint store full of lotto winners, trust me, I'll find it and bring it home, cook it a nice hot meal, and wind up disappointed."  The more intelligent and sophisticated the woman, the more self-defeating and lame-ass her choices and patterns of selecting paint, especially when it comes to flat exteriors.  The SJG needs a little self-help, a little mazel, a paint color that matches her high expectations.  Good luck with that, SJG.  Let us know how that goes.

The Jewman Group

My cuzzy Andy, the world traveler, is such a mensch, he sent me this parody of Cee-Lo's "Forget You" when he was between airports.  It is hilarious, trust me, and filled with all sorts of Bar Mitzvah references, some I get, some I don't.  This comes with being Reformed.  Very, very Reformed.  Enjoy!  Double click if you're so inclined.

The Paintners

Baked Potato or Stonish Beige.  Colorado Trail or Graham Cracker.  Butte Rock or Yosemite Sand.  My head is spinning.  If the SJG were a paint color, what would I be?  Neurotically Inclined.  Gifted Worrier. Impatiently Yours.  I'm obsessed with paint colors.  Why?  The paintners are coming!  The paintners are coming!  When?  You'll be the first to know.  We haven't hired anybody yet. Yesterday, a paintner came, a nice Israeli.  But these paintners always seem nice, don't they, until they start the job.  They get weirder and weirder as the fumes take hold.  Who hasn't had issues with paintners?  Screamed a lot?  Threatened to call the Better Business Bureau?  Color me Already Aggravated.  The seemingly nice one, the Israeli, walked around the exterior, making notes and nodding like a doctor on hospital rounds.  He had a studied look of concern as he listened for a pulse, examined the cracks, assessed the general well-being of our humble abode.  We're awaiting his surgical estimate.  I just know it's going to be high.  We're taking bets, rounding it off to the nearest million.  Recovery time:  two weeks, maybe less.  It all depends on what, he wouldn't say.  The next paintner was a no-show.  The appointment time came and went.  By 3:00 we said eff it and went back to the paint store for more crazy-making samples.  Baked Potato or Stonish Beige?  I'm leaning toward Deeply Cranky with a chaser of Java Jew.

I Blame Gwen

The nation of Idolers is up in arms over Thursday night's dumping of Pia, the lovely and talented gal who "sings like a bird" in the words of Mr. Steven Tyler.  Tom Hanks is threatening to stop watching.  Oy vey.  Not Tom Hanks!  That's bad, people.  We need the dudes, famous and non, to vote, otherwise, teenage girls will continue to call the shots, Idol-wise.  And they're voting for the boys.  Year after year, it's about the boys.  I can't even remember last year's winning boychick.  That's I lie, of course I can.  The SJG remembers all.  (Lee Something.)  Mainly, I blame Gwen Stefani for this shanda.  That's right, you heard me.  Gwen Stefani.  I have no doubt she meant well, (see what I did there?), but seriously, what was she thinking, telling Pia she looked great in that one-piece thigh-enhancer?  Pia deserved slinky. She deserved glam.  What she got was an outfit that was just plain fugly, a "look" few gals in the universe could pull off, other than Gwen Stefani.  That said, Pia will be fine.  She's already getting calls.  Word on the street is SJG Records wants to sign her.  It's all good.

Interfaith Humor

Yesterday, my dad told me this joke he heard:  Two friends, a Jewish lady and a Catholic lady, have known each other for years.  One day they're having lunch and a few drinks and the Jewish lady says, "We've been friends for so many years and I'd like to ask you a couple questions and I hope you don't mind because it's about religion." Her friend says, "No problem."  The Jewish lady says, "Do you really believe that Jesus walked on water?" The Catholic lady says, "Well, he actually could've been walking on the tops of rocks that were just under the water and you couldn't see the rocks, so everyone thought he was walking on water."  The Jewish lady then says, "And what about turning water into wine?  You think that really happened?" And the Catholic lady says, "Well, probably at the Last Supper they were drinking wine and Jesus thought his glass was empty and he put some water in and the little red wine that was left turned the water red.  So everyone thought he'd turned water into wine."  And the Catholic lady continues, "Let's talk about the Red Sea.  Moses parted the Red Sea and the Jews walked across the dry land without getting wet?" And the Jewish lady answers with pride, 'Wasn't that something?"

Moses On Facebook

Thanks to my good friend Sandy Russell for sharing this wonderful, modern-day take on Passover. Who knew Moses was on Facebook? Not the SJG, I'll tell ya that much. 

The Flower Threatener

Lady G:  Get it together, you.  Or else.

In between my many high-paying gigs -- royal wedding consultant, general manager of WSJG, cruise ship performer, Broadway stage-crasher, dog walker, to name a few -- I've discovered a new talent guaranteed to reap in the dollars and set me up for early retirement.  I'm now a certified Floral Life Coach, qualified to bring your flowers back to life with the magic of my voice.  The other morning, I stepped into my garden -- oh, the vastness of it all, the flora, flora, flora -- and to my hora, discovered a lone Gerbera down for the count.  I walked over to the sad attention-seeker, which had stood tall and proud, if not just a tad boastful, in that "look at me" way that only pretty flowers can pull off, only the day before, and asked, "What up?"  Lady Gerbera drooped further into her pot, all moody, feeling kinda schva, as my sweet mom used to say.  My first move, maternally-inspired, of course, was to spoil her rotten with water.  "Have a little drink, Lady G," I said. "Have a little more."  Lady G sipped and sipped and got so farshikkert, I had to intervene.  "That's enough," I said, and spewed out a testy Cher-like command:  "Snap out of it!"  This proved too harsh.  My next move:  reverse psychology.  "I guess you're missing all the other flowers nobody wanted back at OSH.  I understand.  Grab your sweater, Lady G, and I'll take you back to your people."  Suddenly, Lady G perked right up.  She got her sh*t together and hasn't gone droopy since.  This near-religious experience has inspired me to write a new book, a combo parenting-gardening manual:  "A Gentle Threat Was All It Took."  Place your orders.  This one's going to be huge.

Giada, Giada

Don't forget to zest!

Giada, Giada, how I luv ya, how I luv ya.  I make your recipes all the time.  I give you credit, too.  I never say, "Oh, it's a little something I came up with."  When hungry guests arrive at my door, often uninvited, and want to know, "What's for dinner?" I tell them, "Giada."  Then, for security reasons, I ask to see their I.D. You can't be too careful these days.  Oh, Giada, Giada, thanks to you, I'm all about the lemon zest.  Before you came along, Giada, the SJG never zested.  Now, I'm always zesting.  Last night, I taught the eldest son how to zest, and now, he's a zester, too.  Giada, you tell me to always have lemons in the house, and I follow your command.  You tell me to cook wheat pasta, for its nutty flavor.  So I make wheat pasta, and then I remember.  Oy vey, Giada.  Wheat pasta, even with the zesting, the ricotta, the fresh tomatoes and green beans, the garlic and the olive oil, the pinch of salt, the freshly-ground pepper, Giada, wheat pasta and I don't get along.  I haven't made it in years.  The kvetchy digestive tract that belongs to the SJG says, "Go away, wheat pasta, and never come back."  So, Giada, Giada, I forgive you this one error, and thank you for all the zest you've brought to my humble life.  But Giada, if you ever tell me to cook wheat pasta again, we're done.  Capiche?

Take Me With You

The SJG: Cruise Ship Performer

My very close, personal friend/blog mentor extraordinaire Cathy Hamilton, known worldwide as BoomerGirl, leaves in two weeks on a fancy-schmancy Italian cruise, with her dashing husband.  Since she first announced her European voyage, the SJG has begged, repeatedly, and without shame, "Take me with you!"  When it comes to escaping reality, my motto is, sign me up.  Generous gal that she is, not to mention powerful international goddess, Cathy has come up with a slew of  options -- one of which involves stuffing the SJG into her BG-monogrammed luggage.  Alas, I have a slight issue with claustrophobia, so I had to pass on that one. Cathy's follow-up idea:  get me hired as one of the dancers in the "Viva Italia" nightly extravaganza. Color me excited.  I've always dreamed of being a cruise ship performer!  But then, who hasn't?  I have my costume.  I'm still waiting to audition. Fingers crossed.

Gardening The SJG Way

Gardening tips:
1. Start kvetching about your sore back, in advance, as in, "Oh, I'm not sure how I'm going to do this," while unloading the just-purchased flowers and heavy bags of soil.
2. Offer eloquent doctor advisory:  "My allergist said if I ever garden again, I'll be banned from his office."
3. Lure hubby into the backyard.  "Help! I'm having a spasm!"
4. Offer hubby a big reward if he plants the flowers for you.
5. Reward him with silver Maserati Quattroporte.

Thanks, hubby

Friday!

Stephen Colbert sings the worst song ever, "Friday" by Rebecca Black, as part of a bet, with Jimmy Fallon. Big thankie to my bro' John for this!  Skip to 40 seconds in to watch video. 

Bada Bing, Bada Badkhn

(Berkeley) by Sue Fishkoff, Jewish Telegraphic Agency: "We're funny because of the badkhn," says Mel Gordon, a professor of theater arts at the University of California, Berkeley. "Everyone says that Jews are funny because they suffered so much," he said. "That's ridiculous. You think the rest of the world hasn't suffered?" Nor are Jews funny because they've "always been funny," another common falsehood, says Gordon. It's only in the past 100 years, with the rise of Hollywood and nightclub society, that Jewish humor has become a staple of U.S. popular culture. "At the turn of the 20th century, the Jews were commonly perceived to be a humorless, itinerant nation," he wrote in Funnyman, a 2010 book co-authored with Thomas Andrae about the short-lived Jewish comic-book superhero. So it's not genetic, and it's not because of suffering or social marginalization, that led to this thing we call Jewish humor -- it's the badkhn.