Buh-Bye 2011

Two-Zero-One-One
At midnight, you're done.
Take the money, run.
One percent had fun.
Two-Zero-One-One
And so it goes, hon.
Look what you've begun.
You misbehaved, son.
Two-Zero-One-One
Who lost and who won?
Too many reruns.
Please send in the sun.

Dusty's New Year's Resolutions

1.  Marry longtime girlfriend.
2.  Learn Hebrew.
3.  Steal more socks.
4.  Steal more shoes.
5.  Steal more towels.
6.  Take that cruise.
7.  Launch mayoral campaign.
8.  Record greatest hits.
9.  Become YouTube sensation.
10. Finish novel.

SJG Cancels Friday

Friday has been cancelled

The Short Jewish Gal, the last one on the block to see the sun go down every day, has decided to change her personal dateline and will now be the first to see the sun rise, on account of her highly competitive nature.  The SJG is getting ready to skip a day and shift her internal time zone forward by 24 hours for completely selfish reasons. "I never know what day it is, anyway, so this made perfect sense to me," she said in an exclusive interview. The SJG dateline, which runs through the middle of her backyard, and currently passes to the west of the nice granite island in her kitchen, means that the SJG is 11 hours behind everyone else's Mean Time. "I'm tired of being so nice.  It's time to get mean and stay mean.  Where has nice ever gotten me?"  As the clock strikes midnight on Thursday, the SJG goes straight into Saturday. "Let's face it, this hasn't exactly been the greatest year.  Why?  Don't get me started.  So I'm anxious to get it over with.  Enough already.  Plus, cancelling Friday means one less day of people annoying me, cutting me off in traffic, and worrying me sick by coming home late.  Losing a day is good for my mental health." After the change, the SJG will be one hour ahead of her immediate family, and three hours ahead of her casual acquaintances.  "I'm feeling very proactive.  I'm taking charge in ways I never thought possible.  I've also decided to switch driving on the right side of the road to the left side, so I can feel more British."

Best Looks of 2011

The Halloween surprise

The fascinator that failed

No autographs please

Teaching the goyim a few moves

 Pretty fetching in my balloon crown

It's hard to pick my favorite look of the year.  In terms of fashion, I do believe I stepped outside the box.  I went for the wow factor.  I dared to be different.  I listened to my beauty team, which may have been a mistake.  In 2012, I may have to rethink a few things. 

Last Year's Resolutions

Let's all take a moment out of our busy lives to review the SJG's resolutions for 2011, and see how many I actually accomplished.  
1. Take up neurosurgery. (Didn't do this)
2. Circumnavigate globe in newly-purchased tugboat. (Really meant to do this)
3. Audition for "Spider-Man" lead aerialist. (Called back twice; didn't get it)
4. Curtsy more. (Did this!)
5. Open "SJG:  Hora! Hora!  Hora!" in Vegas. (Opened show.  Closed show same day)
6. Stop mooning pedestrians.  (A work in progress)
7. Earn extra cash driving big rig. (Application denied)
8. Remind people they're SJG-adjacent. (Permit for neon sign on roof denied)
9. Develop miracle anti-kvetching drug. (FDA approval pending)
10. Take Thomas The Talking Torah public. (Investors needed to make this dream come true)

A Christmas Pumpkin

Those sandwiches look delish.

On Christmas morn, Santa left a pumpkin on the fireplace, a good sign that my day was off to a bad start. Normally, Santa leaves bupkis. A leftover Halloween squash? Santa's got a mean streak.  Who knew?  On Christmas Day, I missed a major noshing opp: brunch at Elena's, an annual tradition for four gals who went to Emerson, Uni and UCLA together. Elena kept hoping for a Hanukkah miracle, that my voice would return, but my voice couldn't catch a flight back in time. On Christmas night, I missed another noshing opp:  dinner at my in-laws.  My mother in-law told me to stay home and rest and keep my germs to myself.  So while everyone gorged in Brentwood, the SJG threw my own festive pity party in Sherman Oaks.

Can I Interest You In Hanukkah?

 

A classic.  Jon Stewart explains the Festival of Lights to Stephen Colbert.  Enjoy.

Kvetching In Silence

Me, too!

Awfully quiet around here.  No incoherent rambling.  No inappropriate laughter.  No uninterrupted whining.  No sudden outbursts of Broadway show tunes.  Not that anyone is complaining.  Is it my imagination, or do the menfolk look a little bit elated?  They're managing just fine without all the daily verbal instruction, the gentle reprimands, the unsolicited advice.  Even Dusty doesn't miss the clever banter, the endless rhymes, the idle chit-chat.  Yes, for the past few days, the SJG has gone more or less mute, thanks to laryngitis.  "Don't talk," my family keeps telling me.  "Don't whisper," they add.  "That makes it worse."

My Gift To You

This holiday season, I wanted to give you, my blog-reading peeps, my faithful bleeps, a special gift of thanks.  And so, for the remainder of Hanukkah, I've arranged for all parking meters throughout the land to accept chocolate coins.  That's just the kind of power the SJG wields at City Hall.  I walked in, filled out a form, and told the clerk, "Make this happen." "Sure, lady, whatever.  Next!"  Oh, please.  You don't have to thank me.  It was nothing.  The reward for doing a mitzah is to do another mitzvah. This is me, being thoughtful, spreading the love, making your life a little easier.  So go out there, drive safely, and park to your heart's content.  And don't forget the gelt.  God forbid you should get a ticket. 

Now accepting chocolate gelt

Hanukkah In Santa Monica

Provided by eldest bro' Peter.  This is my favorite Hanukkah video.  Ever.  Enjoy.

Best Post-Latke Bod

Not good for the figure

The SJG Fitness Channel, along with Manichewitz Homestyle Potato Latke Mix, is sponsoring "The Search for the Best Post-Latke Bod."  If you can eat latkes, many latkes, not just one, without them landing straight on your tush, and have the "before and after" Hanukkah photos to prove it, I will personally schlep to your house and deliver the prize:  My newest exercise DVD, "The Hora of It All," plus the chance to Hora! Hora!  Hora! with me on the SJG Fitness Channel. Trust me, dancing the hora with me will burn more calories than any silly spinning class some skinny gal pressures you into taking so you can look like her.  You can't, so don't bother.  To enter, just submit your "before and after" Hanukkah photos -- don't even think of spelling it Chanukah,which my friend Elizabeth, the rabbi's daughter, insists is the correct way -- or you'll be immediately disqualified.  Good luck, eat up and may the best tush win.

Oh, Hanukkah

Oh, Hanukkah!  You start tonight?!

Oh, Hanukkah, I thought you started tomorrow night, but according to the Internet, a reliable source on all things Jewish, you start tonight.  This is the kind of Jewish math that drives the SJG more than a little meshuggah.  My calendar tells me Hanukkah starts tomorrow, which means you really start tonight.  Can you blame me for being confused?  This glitch says so much about you, Hanukkah.  You still feel like the little holiday that could, chugging up the mountain to bring eight toys of diminishing importance to the Jewish children of the world.  And let's face it, Hanukkah, you pretty much leave out the adults.  The last Hanukkah gift I got was... who can remember?  After the Easy Bake Oven, it was all downhill for me, gift-wise.  I seem to recall a sweater one year, maybe a nice Hanukkah check, but somewhere in my 20s, those stopped, too.  The only way I'm getting a Hanukkah gift is if I go out and buy one myself, bring it home and wrap it.  "Happy Hanukkah, SJG.  You rock.  Love, the SJG."  But listen, it's okay, Hanukkah.  I know you're busy, trying to compete with Christmas.  It's a big time of year for you, Hanukkah.  I get it.  But next year, could you at least send me a "Save The Date" card, so I know when you start?  If Trader Joe's has sold out of the frozen latkes I pass off as homemade, be forewarned, Hanukkah.  You can expect a call from my attorney.

Everybody Say Yeah, Yeah!

Completely unposed:  Tim and John at First and Hope

On Sunday, I arrived at my brother's house at 10 a.m., which seemed a little early for our outing downtown, but now and then, I like to do what I'm told, so I stood there at the door, waiting, obediently.  Finally John  appeared, in his robe and slippers.  "Come in, don't let the dog out, I'm not ready."  "I like what you're wearing."  "Funny."  Off he went, presumably, to put clothes on for the long day ahead.  And I do mean long.  But I'll get to that in a second.  Then Tim came out and gave me a hug.  "The Timmy!" I said.  I can't remember when I started calling him The Timmy, but they've been together 10.5 years now, so I think he deserves an official title; he is the miracle that walked in and made John's life 150 percent better (and vice versa, John would want me to add).  A moment later, John reappeared.  "Okay, I'm ready, let's go."  I turned around and there he was, still in his robe and slippers.  "Kidding," he said, and disappeared again.

I Hope This Comes In My Size

Stop smiling, you two.

Leave it to my friend Kiki Hoffman, a non-Jew who knows how to throw a swinging bar mitzvah, to find this matching set of dumb menorah pullovers.  Something knitted, with a Maccabee running around, would've brought tears of joy to my eyes, but these ugly schmattas are a good start.  I sure hope Kiki ordered me a small.  She knows how I hate to look bulky.  By the way, do the people in this photo know the true spelling of my favorite Christmas-adjacent festival?  It's Hanukkah, people.  Not Chanukah.  Why there are two spellings, I can't tell you, but I believe, with all my heart, that if we could come together on this matter, if we could all just spell it the same way, it would be a bigger miracle than the oil lasting eight nights.  There's only one way to spell Christmas. Why must we have so many variations?  Why must we complicate everything?  Sure, it's fun to disagree now and then, to argue for no reason, to stir things up for the sake of lively discussion.  Did I mention I married a national debate champion?  We have podiums set up in the living room in case an issue should arise.  But please, just this once,  let's agree.  Let's all spell Hanukkah the SJG way, and that includes the tacky sweatshirts.  

Ugly Christmas Sweater, Aisle Three

"Dude, I'm wearing the ugly Xmas sweater.  Swoop me in five."

Last night, the rapper known as Scott D. joined his brother Bill S. for an ugly Christmas sweater party.  Apparently, wearing an ugly Christmas sweater is all the rage this season.  Iguana, a vintage store on Ventura Boulevard, is so hip to this situation, that when you walk in, they take one look at you and say, "Ugly Christmas sweater?  Aisle Three."  For the SJG to even consider a Christmas sweater, let alone pass it off as a birthday present, may be the ultimate shanda, but cheap, it wasn't.  Iguana is cleaning up with these ugly sweaters.  But the ugly one Scott D. picked out, illustrating the 12 Days of Xmas, a lady's sweater, I might add, complete with the turtle doves, the French hens, the what-have-you's, cost 28 bucks plus tax.  I held it up to him, and said, "Happy Birthday."  He's 20 today, which means, 20 years ago, I screamed, "Get this thing out of me!" while birthing him.  And last night, there he was, fully grown, my boychick, in an ugly Christmas sweater.  The whole thing made me wonder if there are any ugly Hanukkah sweaters out there.  I certainly didn't see any at Iguana.  Not one sweater with a Star of David, not one vest with a glittery menorah.  Come next year, I plan to give birth to a new event, complete with gelt, dreidels and a crazy brew of Manischewitz Punch.  The Hideous Hanukkah Sweater Party.  I better get busy with the knitting.  I may need some help.  Any volunteers?

Fo Shezzy

Nothing gives a mother more joy than to watch the mensch she gave birth to 20 years ago tomorrow,  do something sensational.  It was kvell-worthy.  It was, how the young people say, off tha hizzy fo shezzy.  Many times, I've listened to the college boy do his rap thing, but I've never seen him do it in an actual recording studio, tucked into a very questionable part of Van Nuys, that, I admit, made me a little nervous.  "We're early.  Let's wait in the car," he said.  I viewed the dark alley behind us, and said, "Let's not."  So in we went, and for the next 45 minutes, I sat there on a sofa, watching the engineer fiddle with high-tech equipment, while Scott D stood behind the glass and took charge of the mic, rapping to, what else, the Rugrats theme, hip-hop style.  He rapped about social injustice and the debt ceiling.  He referenced Roberto Clemente and Harry Potter.  He spit divine rhymes.  He committed "no lyrical crimes."  Sophisticated stuff.  Way over my head.  I loved every minute. 

Proof That I'm Old

I used to know stuff, but now I know less and less with each passing day.  Yesterday, I stared at the locked toilet seat at my friend's house and thought, okay, I may not have an engineering degree, but I can figure this out on my own.  Many moons ago, I lived in a baby-proofed home.  I dealt with latches.  I put strollers together.  But the locked toilet seat wasn't a latch situation.  It was M.I.T. complicated.  It had a thing you were supposed to push and slide and a lever and a secret government code to enter.  No baby, let alone grown up, was getting that toilet seat upright without some serious mental effort and a Ph.D. I tried several approaches, all of which failed.  I started to feel like that gal on the commercial, who's always, "Going and going and going..."  Another minute and I would be going on the floor. I gave up. and opened the bathroom door.  "Uh, I need a little help in here."  Soon I had more help than I needed.  Kelly, my writing partner, came in, followed by the babysitter and the babysitter's daughter, a recent law school grad.  What followed was a ten-minute discussion about baby proofing and how did we survive without it.  "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm going to have an accident," I said.  Finally, they joined together and liberated the toilet seat for usage.  "Okay, gang, thanks so much, I'll take it from here," I said, shoving them out the door.  Next time, I'm bringing a port-o-potty.

Get In Line

A conversation with Mr. Ben Starr.  "Hi, Daddy, how are you?"  "I just got back from the market."  "How'd it go?" "I'm sick of the market."  "Me, too."  "I go, I look around, I stare at everything, I stand in line.  I'm sick of standing in line with all those people."  "I don't blame you.  You're 90 years old, and it's enough already with the marketing." "I'm sick of it." "So, stop going.  I'll shop for you."  "No.  I'd rather do it myself."  "But you're sick of the market."  "I still need to eat." 

The Butt Dial

It's happened to all of us.  You get a phone call and all you hear is weird ambient noise, a faraway voice from another dimension, possibly ordering a sandwich, or a mob hit.  It's very hard to tell.  "Wah-wah--tomatoes."  "Wah-wah-take-out-Tony."  This phenomenon, according to my sons, is called the Butt Dial.  The thought of someone's butt dialing me is disturbing on many levels.  My sons assure me the Butt Dial is unintentional, and now, with the advent of the uber-sensitive iPhone keypad, it happens more often.  I should know.  Yesterday, my brother John tushy-dialed me.  "Hello?"  "Wah-wah-wah."  "John?"  "Wah-wah-wah tomatoes."  "What?"  "Wah-wah."  "Oh @#$%, I'm hanging up."  I called him, immediately, using my fingers and my best accusatory tone.  "John?  Did you call me a second ago?"  "No."  "Don't deny it.  My phone rang and your number came up." "But I didn't call you."  "Oh, yes you did."  "I didn't."  "Then your butt did."  "How dare you."  "You heard me, you butt dialed me, your sister.  How could you do that to me?"  "I didn't mean to."  "But you did and I'm traumatized.  Trauma.  Tized!!! "  "I apologize, profusely, from the bottom of my bottom."  "You don't sound terribly sincere."  He started singing, "You gotta be sincere."  "Don't you Bye Bye Birdie me.  You butt dialed me.  I'm telling Mom."  "You do that."  "Good day, sir."  Click.

SJG Nixes Trade

"I was all ready to live in Sherman Oaks.
I had my bags packed and everything."

After all he's done for us, the eldest son was relieved to learn late Sunday night that he wasn't being traded to another family.  "We're not the Lakers," I reassured him.  "Even though you're getting older and your game isn't what it used to be, we still appreciate all the joy you've brought us, the nonstop nachas, so we've decided to keep you."  Naturally, the college son wondered where he stood in the highly-contentious negotiations. "Well, honey, in all honesty, we were thinking of swapping you for Chris Paul," I told him, "but then we thought maybe you'd be a little hurt, so we nixed the trade.  Looks like you're stuck with us, too." 

The Year We Bought Stuff

Maybe the toaster will be next

2011 has been a year of buying stuff we didn't want to buy, but then, what else is new?  First the washing machine and dryer broke.  We replaced them with nice new machines that hum a few bars when you turn them on.  "Da da da da da da" sings the washing machine when I open it.  "Da da da da da da" sings the dryer.  I love to sing along with them.   It makes doing laundry so very festive.  Next thing we replaced: the fridge.  The nice new one doesn't sing, but it does make beep beep sounds like a truck backing up if you keep the door open longer than ten seconds.  It is so very annoying.  One day, I will figure out how to make it stop before I lose my mind and must be committed to The Institute for the Very Very Nervous.  We had a few months off from consumer spending, and then, the other night, the TV in the bedroom sang its swan song, too.  Actually, it was more like a pesky fly.  Buzz, buzz, buzz went the TV.  Off went hubby to Best Buy.  Ba-bye, hubby.  Bring back something pretty.  He did.  A nice new  flat screen that does all sorts of things, depending on the channel.  It sings and dances, talks and dramatizes, animates and shows me that everyone is getting older, even Jon Stewart.  I am deeply in love with my new TV.  It is my favorite TV ever.  It knows exactly what I want.  Three days in, and I'm already way too attached, but then, what else is new?  I will be so sad when my favorite TV ever breaks in a few years. Till then, I'll treat it with respect.  I'll enjoy our time together.  I'll relish every moment.  I'll take cute photos of us running on the beach, or just nesting at home.  As 2011 winds down, I've learned such a valuable lesson:  Appliances come and go so quickly here.  You just never know which one will go next, so be kind to them all, every single day, and maybe, just maybe, they'll be kind to you.  Until they break and the damage is irreparable and out you go, into the cold, unforgiving consumer world, to spend again.

Time Freeze

We're in flashback mode over here.  One son asleep, the other showering because there's no hot water in his apartment.  Permission to freeze this moment, please. 

It's Her!

It's her!  It's the SJG!

Representatives for the Short Jewish Gal  vehemently rejected published reports that residents of Sherman Oaks were paid to cheer and act excited for the cameras when the famed blogger arrived at Gelsons to do her weekly marketing. "The Short Jewish Gal is a massive star in the blogosphere, and attracts huge throngs of fans as she travels the Valley and Westside promoting herself," a spokesperson said in a statement.  "The only people paid were performers who danced down the aisles at Gelsons while the Short Jewish Gal selected delicious, low-calorie, heart-healthy items. The idea that fans were paid to cheer is completely ludicrous and entirely false." A report in Who's Who In Sherman Oaks claimed that 200 or more alleged fans of the SJG were each given 150 chocolate coins and a free brunch at Solley's to mimic enthusiasm for her arrival.  A source close to the SJG told W.W.S.O. that confusion over payments made to dancers who performed alongside the SJG may have led to the false reports. The source called the charge of fan-planting "ludicrous" and "insulting" to the blogger's devotees, who beg her for photos and hugs wherever she goes.

Storey Telling

Every struggle I've ever encountered, according to my dad, has been character building.  By now, my character is a major highrise.  In the past ten weeks, I've tried this concept out on the college boy, at least 132 times. As fall quarter winds down today,  he's added a few storeys to his own construction site.  He's lived alone.  He's helped a roommate move in.  He's attempted to cook his own cuisine, which explains all the Domino's Pizza charges.  He's attempted to learn Italian, which explains all the tutor charges.  He's pondered and re-pondered what the hell he should major in, and in his noble quest, came up with a non-existent gem:  Hip Hop. If only he could major in Hip Hop, he would be so happy.  But he can't.  Who said life is fair?  Tomorrow, he comes home to his mother.  He needs a break from all that character building.  Winter quarter, I'm sure he'll be adding another floor to the site.  I hope the permits come through.

The Nite Before Chanukah

'Twas the night before Chanukah
and all over the place
There was noise, there was kvetching
Soch ah disgrace!
 
The Kinderlach, sleeping,
uneasily felt
The chocolate rush
from the Chanukah gelt

And me in the easyboy,
so stuffed with latkes,
I stretched the elastic
which held up my gatchkes.

When up on the roof
(and it has a steep pitch)
A fat alte kakker
was making a kvitsch.

I jumped up real quick
and I ran to the door,
Was it a bandeet,
or only a schnorrer?

He wasn't alone;
he had eight ferdelach,
And called them by name
as he gave a gebrach:

"On Moishe, on Yankel, on Itzik, on Sam,
On Mendel, on Shmendrik, on Feivush, on Ham;
My kidneys are kvelling;
do you give a damn?"

He had a white beard
and payyes to boot,
And to keep out the cold,
he had such a nice suit!

A second from Peerless,
I could tell at a glance,
But the cut was okay,
and so were the pants.

He was triple XL,
a real groisser goof,
So I yelled out,
"Meshuggener! Get off from Mein roof!"

He jumped down and said
as he shook hands with me,
"Max Klaus is the name.
You have maybe some tea?"

So I gave him a gleisel,
while he shook his white mop,
Mutt'ring, "Always the same thing,
They're dreying my kopp!"

From Vancouver to Glacer Bay,
Outremont to Reginek,
Every shmo in the world
hakks meir a cheinik!

They're screaming for presents,
and challah with schmaltz,
And from Brooklyn alone,
the back pain, gevaltz!"

So we sat and yentehed,
and we spun the old dreydels,
(He took all of my money,
and one of my kanidels)

He said, "Business is not bad,
a living I make,
But I'm getting too old
for this Chanukah fake;

And the cell phones, you see
how my pacemaker dings?
For two cents I'd quit,
and move to Palm Springs?"

And he gave a geshrei
as he fled mit a lacht,
"Gut Yontiff to All,
Vey is Mir, Such a Nacht!"

--   courtesy of Jokes About Chanukah

Competitive Gift Wrapping

What color ribbon would you like?

I might as well confess.  So many years have gone by, I have nothing to be ashamed of, not really.  It was something I did, something I was good at.  Gifted, in fact.  Back in college, every Christmas break, I was a gift-wrapper for the goyim.  Not a sheet of Hanukkah wrap ever made it out the door.  I wrapped gifts in a tiny cubicle in the basement of a bookstore in Westwood, and it was hellish.  Why did I do it?  Why did I subject myself to such manual labor?  I wanted my job back.  In high school, I was a cashier at College Bookstore.  Other friends started waitressing or working in dress shops.  Not the SJG.  A spiller from way back, I knew, instinctively, that I would be the worst waitress ever.  I knew I would spill hot coffee, I would drop, I would break.  And working in a dress shop, which I did once, proved somewhat disastrous.  I was too honest with the customers.  "I wouldn't buy that, it's not flattering."  All I wanted to do was sell books, to soak up literature, to bath in the glory of words.  I'd only been there a few weeks when the owner came in and saw me at the register.  "How old are you?" he asked.  "I'm 16 and a half," I said, trying to sound mature.  The next day, I was fired for looking too young.  "The owner thought you looked about 14," they told me.  "We're so sorry."  I'm pretty sure it was illegal, but in 1974, I couldn't afford Gloria Allred.  So every Christmas, I'd audition to get my job back, to show how responsible I was, and it worked.  I always got hired back in the summer.  Hours of wrapping books during the holidays taught me a harsh lesson about people.  Sometimes, they're not so nice.  "I'm sorry, we can't wrap those for you," I told the a-hole standing there with a huge bag of toys. "Why not?"  "For starters, you didn't buy them here."  "So?"  "Store policy."  "Place is probably run by a bunch of cheap Jews," he said, storming off.  Gift wrapping brings out the anti-Semitic nasty in some folks.  Who knew?  Now I just gift wrap for fun, not profit.  I'm still good at it, too. Thanks to those hellish cubicle days at College Bookstore, the SJG  knows how to work the ribbon and the scotch tape, and most importantly, how to stick it to the putzes of the world.

This Idea

This idea came to me in the middle of the night and I thought it was genius.  This idea will make the SJG rich, rich, rich.  I could hear Dan Aykroyd pitching it on SNL.  "New, from Ronco..." In the harsh morning light, however, I see that implementing this idea may be a little difficult.  This idea may require tiny electrodes embedded in my keppie.  This idea may require backing from a giant Japanese electronics company.  This idea may not be ready for prime time, not quite, anyway, but I'm inclined to share it with you, in case you'd like to jump on the bandwagon as an early investor. Nothing irks the SJG more than Dream Interruption (trademark pending).  Dream Interruption happens when I flip over in bed and wake up, mid-dream.  Dream Interruption happens when someone I'm married to wanders in, past midnight, because he's fallen asleep on the sofa (nightly occurrence).  Dream Interruption happens when my bladder directs me toward the bathroom.  No matter the cause, I love my dreamworld, in which I'm the star, the hero, the gal in charge.  In dreams, I can fly and sing well and perform miraculous feats and visit with loved ones no longer in the here and now.  Sometimes my mother pops in to say hello, or my grandparents, or one of the wonderful close friends who checked out far too early from this overcrowded hotel.  I'm a huge fan of R.E.M.  Last night, my dream took me to a hip, happening party.  I was all dressed up, I was looking fine, I was... oh hell, right when the party was kicking into gear, I turned over and woke up.  What happened at the party?  Did I meet George Clooney?  I'll never know.  The not knowing is the worst.  A great party like the one in my dream only comes along once a decade.  But then this idea came to me: What if I could invent a special remote control to pause my dreams when necessary?  What if I could turn over, reposition myself, tap the remote and I'd be right back in nocturnal bliss with (insert celebrity name here)?  Wouldn't that be fantastic?  Granted, it's a little derivative, a little like that Adam Sandler movie "Click," were he gets a universal remote and can rewind or fast-forward his life.  But I don't want any of that sci-fi nonsense.  I just want to pause my dreams so I can get right back in there and see how they end.  I want closure.  Is that too much to ask?  I plan to spend every waking moment making the Dream Remote (patent pending) a reality.  Call me a dreamer, but I think I'm onto something.

Bad Hair Year

On Friday I called an emergency meeting of the SJG Beauty Team.  "Some people have a bad hair day.  I've had a bad hair year.  What do you have to say for yourselves?"  Renee, CEO of the SJG Coiffski, and Lenny, President of the SJG Hair Color Wheel, stared at me, bitterly.  "Well?  Speak up." Renee cleared her throat.  "Listen, SJG, you can't blame us for your baby fine ka-ka hair.  It's impossible to work with, but year after year, we wave our magic wands.  Once you leave the salon, you're on your own."  "Point taken, Renee."  I turned to Lenny, who was busy doing a crossword puzzle.  "Do you have anything to add?"  "What's a five letter word for female canine?  Oh, wait, I've got it.  Bitch."  "How dare you." "Here's the dealio, SJG.  I do what I can with that wispy mess you call hair.  I work the chemical process, I highlight, I get out the gray.  I do my best to help volumize that choppy mop of I don't know what.   Once you leave the salon, you're on your own."  "So what you're both saying is this is on me?  On my DNA?"  "Yes," Renee said.  Lenny looked at me.  "What's a four letter word for are we finished?  I need to get back to my real customers."  "We're done. I don't know what got into me. The truth is, I'd be nowhere without my Beauty Team," I said, handing them each a fancy gift-wrapped bottle of wine.  "Group hug?"  "What's a two letter word for I don't think so?" Lenny asked.  "No," Renee said.  "Guys, come back here, I was just kidding.  I love you.  I'd be lost without you." Meeting adjourned.

High Anxiety

The cover of this week's Time Magazine is a headscratcher.  Anxiety's good for you?  This is big news to me. My personal theme song, courtesy of Mel Brooks:  High anxiety, whenever you’re near/ High anxiety, it’s you that I fear... Anxiety entered my life at birth, if not sooner. I was born in a car in the hospital parking lot. The whole thing made me pretty jumpy out the gate and set the tone for a lifetime of inspired what-iffing and riffing on various imaginative personal catastrophes. Growing up, anxiety hid behind the door, biding its time.  In my early, post-college twenties, it pounced at me and said "boo." So I ran like hell, all the way to a grandfatherly, Freudian shrink with white hair, a white beard and a thick German accent, straight out of Central Casting.  "What's wrong with me?" I asked.  "You're a little nervous," he said.  I went to another shrink, a smart lady with short brown hair.  "What's wrong with me?" I asked.  "You're very nervous," she said.  I went to a support group full of very very nervous women. Very nervous didn't seem so bad, compared to very very.  I started to calm down a little.  Each decade brought a new therapist or two, a fresh look at anxiety.  Eventually, with a little chemical help, I found a way to kick anxiety in the ass. I got a little tougher. I turned my what-if's into so-eff'n-what's. It finally occurred to me that I can't control much of anything, anyway.  What a revelation.  Maybe someone could have told me this sooner?  Even so, no matter how fancy Time Magazine gets with it, how cerebral, how "this study said this, this study said that," anxiety has no "likes" on its fan page.  Anxiety is a bad road trip and some of us just get stuck in the back seat, till the car pulls over and lets us out, to pick up a new passenger.