Ode To Fall

Oh, fall!  Oh, autumn!  Oh, MG!
Pray tell, when will you come to be?
Will the temp at last turn chilly?
Or am I just being silly?
One hundred five, I can't survive.
One hundred four, can't take much more.
Enough with the heat, hit delete.
Enough with the heat, I repeat.
Give me a sweater to put on.
Give me long sleeves and pants to don.
You heard me fall, now do your thing!
My summer wear, I long to fling!
I'm tired of shorts, I'm tired of 'flops.
I'm tired of T-shirts and tank tops.
I want to feel the crisp night air.
Deny me this?  It isn't fair!
Oh, fall!  Oh, autumn!  Oh, MG!
Pray tell, when will you come to be?

Woof

Eric Braeden, soap star/joke teller

Yesterday I'm  flipping through Variety, catching up on Hollyweird, as I like to do now and then, and I come upon a big splashy spread celebrating the 10,000th episode of "The Young and the Restless," a soap opera I've never watched, not even once.  So why am I bringing it up, you ask, a bit testily.  Just hang on, I'm getting to it.  Sheesh, aren't we impatient this morning?  The college boy sits beside me, slurping his cereal and bemoaning his collegiate existence.  "See that guy?" I point to a photo of Eric Braeden, aka Victor Newman on "Y & R" since 1980. "Uh huh," says the rapper known as Scott D.  "Whenever I see his face, I think of the joke he told me, way back in 1995."  Scott D perks up.  "I'm listening." "I'm standing outside the Beverly Hilton, or maybe it's the Beverly Wilshire.  It's one of those Beverly Hills hotels.  I'm with my friend and we're waiting for my car.  It's right after the DGA Awards."  "Cool," he says, getting up to leave.  "That's not the story."  "Oh."  He sits back down.  "Eric Braeden is waiting for his car, too.  Suddenly, he turns to us, and in this British-German accent, says, 'What did the dyslexic woman say during sex?'  Already, I'm giggling. 'What?'  Eric Braeden leans in and says, 'Oh, DOG!'  We start laughing and he just walks away."  I know, I know.  It's not nice to make fun of dyslexia, but that joke still gets a laugh, even from Scott D.

There's No Place Like Home

... unless you're a complete idiot and venture outside during Carmageddon II.  This is a sequel you don't want to mess with.  Don't be stupid, be a smarty.  Stay in, host a private party.  Listen to Glinda, my fellow Angelenos.  Click your heels three times.  Stay home.

How To Atone In Style

The green dress from "Atonement" seemed wrong for temple

The road to atonement is filled with a few fashion potholes, and you can quote me on that.  The SJG likes to look nice at temple.  I'm fascinated by the style choices of my fellow congregants.  Not that I judge, but I don't wish to be singled out by the Big Gal for "what were you thinking?" I want to make it into the Book of Life, not the Book of Fashion Missteps.  So yesterday, as I stood before my mirror, vainly admiring the pretty top I'd selected for the morning service, I glanced at the right sleeve and noticed a tiny hole. My first instinct was to ignore it.  Would anyone but the SJG detect this flaw in the fabric?  They'd need really great vision to see it.  I decided the microscopic tear was an important reminder on this holiest of days.  I should accept my imperfections.  I should lighten up.  I felt strongly about this for exactly two seconds.  Off came the top, and a layer of carefully-applied makeup with it.  I know myself so well.  I'd be distracted by the hole.  I'd sit there and obsess on the hole instead of focusing on a litany of other issues worthy of atonement. But changing tops presented more challenges.  I started flinging blouses off hangers.  Will this work?  What about this?  How dumb will this one look?  Should I wear that dress instead?  I was exhausted, and I hadn't even left the house.  Finally, I yanked a shade of gray that brings out the angst in my eyes, and put it on.  It looked okay with the black skirt, but not great.  I belted it.  Better.  Then I searched for a scarf.  I knew exactly the one that would look fetching and "dress" up this boring ensemble.  But I couldn't find it.  So I gave up.  A final glance in the mirror.  "Understated.  Maybe a little safe," I said.  It wasn't till I parked and stepped into the sunlight that I noticed the tiny olive oil stain on the left sleeve.  Atonement is hard.

Guilt, Schmilt

"All religions are the same: religion is basically guilt, with different holidays." - Cathy Ladman

Call You Maybe

"Hi.  You've reached the Short Jewish Gal.  I'm out, atoning for my sins.  Please, I'm begging you, leave a nice message and I'll call you back.  But if I forget, don't take it too personally.  Just call me again and guilt me.  I hear you're very good at it." 

That's Me In The Front Row

"What's wrong with her?"  "She thinks she's at the Emmys."

"Why are you clapping?" the college boy asks.
"I always clap for the one I want to win," I say.
"Why?"
"Because it's more fun."
"More fun than what?"
"Not clapping."
"What difference does it make?"
"It makes a difference to me."
"Why?"
"Because it's rude not to clap."
"Even when you're not there?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You're not at the Emmys, Mom."
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not."
"Am too."
"You're scaring me."
"Why?"
"Because you're not at at the Emmys."
"Yes, I am."
"You're not, Mom. Trust me."
"I like to pretend I'm at the Emmys."
"Why?"
"Because it's more fun."
"Even when you're not there?"
"I am there.  See me?  I'm right there in the front row, between Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban."
"You're freaking me out."
"Why?"
"Because you're not at the Emmys."
"Go to your room."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."

G-L-O-R-I-A

A little girl named Gloria

Thirteen years.  How can it be?  Weren't we just planning my wedding together, picking out table cloths and flowers and debating which cake to serve?  Weren't we were just marveling at the size of my belly and guessing if the baby would be on time, or arrive early?  Weren't we just having lunch together, chatting more like girlfriends, than mother and daughter?  Thirteen years.  How can it be? Beats me.  But if you figure it out, let me know.  Some things, I'll never understand.

What I Did For Chekhov

Oh, Anton!

Last night, the SJG traveled to parts unknown for a taste of culture.  "This is so much like going to the theater in New York," I said to Carrie.  She played along with me because she's a very nice person, and she was grateful I'd agreed to come.  As she'd pointed out in an email, her husband would rather "stick pins in his eyes" than accompany her on this particular outing.  So naturally, she called on me, a theater-loving ho'.  We stood before the Park n' Pay machine, baffled.  "They've eliminated humans," I said, starting to cry.  "It's so sad."  "Pull yourself together," Carrie said. "We have some decisions to make."  Indeed, we did. The machine gave us several intriguing choices.  We could pay $3 for two hours or $11 for all day.  "No offense, Carrie, but I hadn't planned on spending the night here."  "I have an 8 a.m. appointment with a new dentist," she said.  "In Woodland Hills.  I need to be out of here before then."  We went with the all-day fee, which made no sense, but something told us we'd be here longer than two hours.  Even though Carrie had promised me that the lengthy Chekhovian four-act play we were about to see had been condensed to 100 minutes, I'm not sure either one of us believed it.  "Hey, this place looks familiar," I told her, as we walked toward the James Bridges Theater on campus.  "I wonder why."  At first I drew a blank, but then it came to me.  "Got it!  I went to UCLA!"  We took our seats and settled in for a reading of "The Seagull."  Out came some very attractive actors, including Calista Flockhart, a personal fav, and T.R. Knight of "Grey's Anatomy," (he played George, who got run over by a bus) and many other fine-looking thespians.  There are a lot of characters in "The Seagull," a lot of talking, too.  The actors sat on stools, stood up and said lines, and sat down again.  It was all being recorded for the radio.  A ha! No wonder there were no sets!  Throughout the evening, I whispered to Carrie, "I have no idea what's going on, but I love it."

To Pee Or Not To Pee

"How'd it go?"
"It's not easy with this little pischer."
"Did you get some?"
"Yeah, but it took three tries.  I had to chase him around the yard.  I kept saying, no, that's not enough, I need more."
"I'm so proud of you." 
"I put the container in the fridge, like you told me to."
"Thank you, honey.  What would I do without you?"
"You'd have to catch Dusty's pee all by yourself."

Cerebral Flatulence

In the past few days, the brain of the SJG has needed a big dose of Beano.  While preparing three dishes at once  for the Rosh Hashanah din din, I reached for the cute little can of Diet Coke on the counter and took a big gulp.  It was not as refreshing as anticipated.  It tasted weird.  It tasted like Olive Oil.  Why?  Because I'd grabbed a giant bottle of olive oil instead of my dainty Diet Coke.  "Yech!" I said.  "Icky poo!"  What's that?  You don't believe that's what I said?  How dare you.  Okay, fine.  You're right.  I actually said, "Oh sh*t!"  "@#$% me, that's disgusting."  I chocked it up to a big multitasking fail on my part.  On Sunday, I had another brush with embarrassing cerebral flatulence, and this time, I went public.  My peeps were gathered in the kitchen, yakking and snacking, blocking cupboards and drawers and anything I needed immediate access to, as I attempted to heat and hover over my kugel, my brisket, my chicken.  It's hard to hover when you have to keep shoving immediate family out of the way so you can open the oven door.  Over the years, I've found there's no nice way to accomplish this, other than to say, "Move!"  Even then, they ignore me.  It was time for a new command and I delivered it with gusto, loud and clear.  My father looked at me and started to laugh.  "What's so funny, Dad?"  "Did you hear what you just said?" "I said, I'm opening the oven."  "No, you didn't."  "I didn't?" "You said, 'I'm opening the garage.'" "I meant to say that," I told him, cruel reality closing in on me.  There I was, in my own kitchen, surrounded by major altacockers, two in their 90s, two in their 80s, and I was the one having a senior moment.  It made me miss the days when I could blame these lapses on PMS.

On Rosh Hashanah It Is Written...

... that the SJG will save a seat for my friend Candy, wonder why she didn't show up, then look over and see her across the synagogue.
... that the SJG will gesture to Candy, in a loving way, "I saved you a seat, silly," and she'll gesture back, "I saved you a seat, silly," and then, as she did yesterday, she'll stick her tongue out at me, prompting me to stick my tongue out at her, which is very untemple-like of both of us. 
... that at some point during the lengthy service, the SJG will desperately need to go to the ladies room.
... that the SJG will spend ten minutes debating when to climb over congregation members to get to the aisle.
... that the SJG will wait another ten minutes until my bladder threatens to burst, and then make my hasty retreat, stepping on toes as I go, whispering, "Sorry, my bad," and "Oopsie."
... that at some point during the lengthy service, after the SJG has already gone to the ladies room and inconvenienced my entire row, I will start to cough.
... that the SJG will spend ten minutes stifling the cough and debating whether to get up and get water and inconvenience my entire row again.
... that the SJG's cough will magically go away before I have to incur the wrath of my entire row.
... that at some point during the lengthy service, the SJG will turn around and glare at the people directly behind me, a subtle way of telling them to shush.

"Everybody rise!"

 ... that at some point during the lengthy service, when the rabbi signals us to rise, lifting her arms up, grandly, the SJG will think of "Evita."
... that at some point during the lengthy service, my "Temple High Holiday husband" Philip, who's married to Elena, will be mistaken for my real hubby, who's married to me, thereby creating confusion and mass hysteria.

The Rabbi and The Howling Doggy

L'shana Tova to you and yours!

I Can Bring Home The Brisket

... cook it up on the car. 

Brisket Made Easy:
1. Place brisket in foil.
2. Douse with ketchup, Lipton's Onion Soup Mix and Manischewitz.

3. Wrap it up tightly, gals! 

4. Decide it's too eff'n warm to turn oven on.

5. Place brisket on smokin' hot hood of car.
6. Run back inside before car owner sees you.
7. Check brisket in five hours -- all done!
8. If caught, tell angry neighbor, "I made this brisket for you."
9. Buy brisket-to-go at nearby deli. 
10. Blush when family says, "OMG!  Best brisket you ever made." 

A Wish For You

May you enjoy your apples and honey

May you know when to surrender, and do so with grace

May you remember that some people's lives 
are parched dry... and be grateful for the abundance in yours

May you find it easy to give and receive

May you find beauty in unexpected places.

May you carry your load with ease amid sweetness

May your home be filled with fresh air and light

May you take exquisite care of yourself

May you move with with as much joy and ease as you can

And may everything that hurts you also be a little funny

Have a wonderful 5773!  Shana Tova! 

Shout out to Sandy Russell, who sends me these amazing Happy New Year photos every year and this time I said, I'm using them!

Better Early Than Late

This morning, the eldest son enters the home of the SJG, in search of a decent bagel.  "Have the high holidays started?"  "Why do you ask?" "You've set the table." 

Come Kvetch With Me

A Jewish mani for the High Holidays

My favorite part of the High Holidays is when the rabbi tells us, "You may now Kvetch in Silence."  I do enough kvetching out loud.  Lately, it's Kvetch Central over here. So much to kvetch about, so little time.  So the opportunity to sit in shul like a good SJG and kvetch silently warms my heart.  Will it get me in the Book of Life for another year?  Of course.  The Big Gal understands kvetching. Who do you think invented it?  Check your old testament.  "And on seventh day, we kvetch."  Back then, they spent a lot of time running from wild beasts.  They only got one day off to kvetch.  I doubt I'm going to get marked down for kvetching.  If anything, I'll get extra points.  So come kvetch with me, bleeps.  Let's atone together.  It's more fun, don't you think?  I'll save you an aisle seat. Who's with me?

Shofar, So Good

Every year, the SJG makes the same Rosh Hashana Resolutions, all variations on a theme:
1. Teach Dusty to blow the shofar.
2. Train Dusty to behave like a mensch when company is over.
3. Make a nice kugel.
4. Eat less kugel even though it's so good.
5. Make a tender brisket that slices like butter.
6. Set table early.  Like today. 
7. Make everyone at the table recite their personal SJG Gratitude List. 
8. Serve a honey cake that doesn't taste like spackle.  
9. Pretend I came up with time-honored motto: "Shofar, So Good."
10. Win "Shana Tova" Drinking Game:  Every time someone says, "Shana Tova," we take a shot of Mogen David.  Last one standing gets to ridicule wasted Rosh Hashaners forced to clean up the kitchen.  Ha ha, losers!

It Came From Beneath The Sea!

It was the stink smelled 'round the Valley, and parts of L.A., Ventura County and Riverside, an icky-dead-fishy-what-the-#$%!!  kind of odor.  The SJG picked it up on my highly-trained stinkomator.  Did you get a whiff?  At first, I assumed it was a sewer situation.  But it's worse than than, bleeps.  Much worse!  It just might come from the sea.  The Salton Sea.  (Where is that, btw?)  It's far, that much I do know. Like 160 miles from SJG headquarters.  In the morning, the stench was strong.  By mid-day, it lifted.  By late afternoon, I was eyeing the dog.  "Really, Dusty?  Gas-X, dude?  Sheesh!"  But the mystery of the bad smell remains unsolved.  The air quality folks aren't really sure what's causing the stinkification, but if it does come from the sea, can a giant monster of the deadly variety be far behind?  My advice to y'all, just in case:  Start running!  And don't look back.  This thing could get biblical. 

Funny Men!

Showbiz veterans Matty Simmons, back row from left, Bud Friedman, Gary Owens, John Rappaport and Ben Starr, and, front from left, Arthur Hiller, Sid Caesar, Rocky Kalish and Monty Hall gather for lunch at Factors Famous Deli.

The long-awaited article on my dad and his "Lunch" buddies in today's L.A. Times:   By Susan King The guys around the table call Sid Caesar "The King." They're seated in a back room of Factor's Famous Deli on Pico Boulevard, a boisterous group of longtime Hollywood funnymen, enjoying their lunch, which is somewhere between a meal and a ritual. The legendary Caesar still has a place of honor even though he's frail and rarely speaks. As his friend and lunch pal Monty Hall — of "Let's Make a Deal" fame — notes, the 90-year-old Caesar wouldn't miss these lunches. "You know when he walks in we say, 'The King is here,'" said Hall, 91. "He loves that." The lunches began about 40 years ago at a French restaurant in the San Fernando Valley, then moved to the Friars Club in Beverly Hills until it closed four years ago. So the group found a new home at Factor's on the Westside. The locations may have changed, as well as the cuisine, but this gathering of longtime Hollywood funnymen goes on. The group meets every other Wednesday afternoon in a back room of the restaurant, as the guys kibitz, kvetch, eat pastrami sandwiches, trade gags and grieve when one of their members dies. The food is fine but it's the talk that keeps bringing them back.  They know one another's eating habits. When the food arrives on a recent luncheon, Oscar-nominated director Arthur Hiller ("Love Story"), 88, quietly tells the waitress, "Cheeseburger over here."  "Except for three days in the last 52 years, Arthur has only eaten cheeseburgers for lunch," noted his friend, Austin "Rocky" Kalish, 91, who wrote for such shows as "All in the Family," "The Bob Newhart Show" and "My Three Sons." And during the lunch, Hiller, who was voted the nicest guy of his group by his cronies, sneaks some French fries to Kalish.  "We talk about all subjects," Hall said. "The common theme is we are all in show business and everybody has a story." Despite the fact that four of the guys are over 90, two are in wheelchairs and several sport hearing aids, they are a chatty bunch around the rectangular wooden table. There are often multiple conversations going on at once — it's as if you have stepped into a scene in a Robert Altman movie with overlapping dialogue. Among the topic of conversations this afternoon are the Three Stooges. "I sponsored the star for the Three Stooges," proclaimed Gary Owens, 76, the radio announcer and voice-over actor who came to fame as the announcer on NBC's "Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In" in the late 1960s. He is currently the voice for the nostalgia channel Antenna TV.  Dealing with the television censors years ago also sparks a dialogue. "CBS said you could have one 'hell' and two 'damns' at 8 p.m.," Kalish said. "You could have two 'hells' and two 'damns' at 8:30 p.m. CBS wouldn't let me put a boy and a girl sitting on a bed."

While the group is rooted in comedy's past, they also have strong feelings about the state of the art today. And they're not shy about expressing them. "Just about any of the half-hour comedies today, all they do is gather six people in their 20s — three girls and three guys," piped up Ben Starr, 90, who has written for many TV series including "Mr. Ed," "All in the Family," "The Brady Bunch" and movies, among them the 1966 Bond spoof "Our Man Flint" with James Coburn.

World Kugel Day

In preparation for the Jewish New Year, this morning, the SJG did a little Internet kugeling.  A "CBS  Sunday Morning" segment on Jello got me thinking, always a dangerous activity.  If Jello gets a museum, why not  Kugel?  For a moment, I even thought about opening the SJG Kugel Museum & Cafe right here in Sherman Oaks, but there are so many different kinds of kugel, so many recipes, so many varying weights (light, semi-light, heavy, semi-heavy and brick) that I got a headache contemplating such a huge undertaking.  During my brief phase of inspiration, however, I did find the following item, and now I'm filled with regret that I didn't know about this event last month.  I've never been to Denver, and the first annual World Kugel Day Festival at the Mizel Museum, would've been worth the trip.

"The Jews have been seeking comfort for thousands of years. Many stopped seeking when they found kugel. It’s a taste of childhood, whether enjoyed as a weekly Sabbath treat or an annual holiday side dish. Some mystics ascribe kugel special powers, while many fine chefs and Jewish mothers consider kugel creation an art. Staff at the Mizel Museum believes that this homey casserole is well worth celebrating, so the first annual World Kugel Day Festival will be held Sunday, August 19, 2012, 2:00 to 5:00 PM. The event will include a Kugel Cook Off & Tasting featuring well-known community members as chefs and judges. Live music by Rocky Mountain Jewgrass will kick off the festival, and there will be a community art project and noodle art and games for kids. Festival goers will walk away with kugel recipes and an inexplicable sense of calm brought on by this tasty traditional treat."

Oh well, maybe next year. 

Bow To The Kateness

The other night, Kelly, my writing partner, sent me this email:  "So we’re putting Kate to bed tonight, lights are out, she’s quiet, almost asleep and then she blurts out, 'Ride in Carol’s car?  Where are you Carol?  You comin’ back Carol?  I play with Carol all day long.' I think somebody misses you."  Kate is only two, but clearly, she knows how to identify the fun people.  "I'll come over on Friday," I wrote back.  How could I resist?  When you're summoned by the Kateness, as her royal followers tend to call her, you show up at the appointed time.  Yesterday, I arrived at the palatial estate where this take-charge toddler holds court.  "Look who's here!" Kelly said.  Whereupon Kate proceeded to say my name, over and over, and dance through the house.  "Carol! Carol!  I play with Carol all day long."  I don't know about you, but the only one that greets me like this at my own house is my dog, and he's still having trouble pronouncing my name.  All I get from him is, "Treat?  Treat?  Treat?"  It was a wonderful visit, during which Kelly and I got no work done, none whatso, but then, that's to be expected when Kate's in the house.  Closed doors don't deter her.  Pretty much, nothing does.  One day, the Kateness will be president of something grand, and if I remain in her favor, I hope to be there, to fetch her coffee or her favorite blankie.

Math Challenged

Hubby and the SJG have passed along many wonderful traits to our sons: our gift for impatience, our love of music and food, our twisted sense of humor, our warped view of the universe.  Our family motto:  "That's eff'd up!"  The one thing our sons didn't inherit: our fondness for math, mainly because it's non-existent.  All they got was the elementary school basics. The boys have battled the Math Gods many times.  Why take Algebra once when you can take it again?  The rapper known as Scott D is facing his math demons as we speak.  He's just started a new college, a local one surrounded by freeways and movie studios, not redwood trees and cow patches.  The first week, the head of the Math Department showed up to sub for the designated professor, who was "still in Iran."  Uh-oh.  On Tuesday, the class was cancelled, via email, no explanation.  On Thursday, the students learned the teacher is trapped in Iran.  That's a big oy vey right there.  So now the math class will be taught by the head of the department once a week.  As for the professor in Iran?  Here's hoping he gets out soon.  No one should ever be trapped anywhere.  And yet, for whatever reason, the Math Gods are looking down on Scott D and offering up a reduction.  Who needs two days of college math when you can have one?  It's not exactly a free pass, but, hey, he'll take it.  The department head assured the class he wouldn't cram two days of math into one, and let's hope he means it, otherwise, that's eff'd up!

Better You Should Call

A conversation with my mother-in-law:
"So, how's it going with the computer?"
"It's better.  But that stupid Netflix keeps popping up."
"Did you do what I told you?"
"I clicked.  I pressed."
"And?"
"It went away."
"Yay."
"And then it came back again."
"Oh, no."
"I'm having the computer guy come again next week."
"What are you going to work on?"
"Email."
"What's the problem?  Maybe I can help you."
"I write hello, and then I can't write anything else."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't write the email after hello."
"That's weird.  Do you hit return?"
"I hit.  I press.  Nothing happens."
"Are you getting emails?"
"I'm getting jokes.  Why do people send jokes?"
"To make you laugh."
"If they want me to laugh, they should call me up and tell me a joke."

Street Envy: The Return

It's been at least six months since the SJG dealt with some serious street envy issues.  My dear friend/fellow dog walker Cheryl just wouldn't stop bragging about the pretty facelift her street received.  "It's as smooth as a baby's butt," she said, on more than one occasion.  "I'm happy for you," I lied.  "It must be nice to have a street that looks so youthful.  Use it in the best of health."  In public, I brought my YAY game.  I projected as much glee as I could muster.  Cheryl finally landed on Easy Street.  What kind of friend would crap all over her dream?  Not the SJG.  In private, it was another story.  A condensed version of my nightly rant:  "It's not fair that Cheryl's street got paved!  Our street is in worse shape!  I'm so envious, I could scream!  I can't even bring myself to go near her street now.  It's too painful." Eventually, I shut down my epic case of street envy.  I realized it was unhealthy to kvetch this much about blacktop, when there were far worthier things to kvetch about, like that state of the carpet in the hallway.  All that kvetching paid off.  The carpet?  It's gone, replaced by nice smooth bamboo, so pretty, so sustainable.  Fast forward to today.   My street envy is back, and it's worse than ever.  Why?  Because every eff'n street but ours is getting repaved!  For months, the city has been ripping up the roads, putting in new pipes, making neighborhood navigation impossible.  Have I complained?  You know me.  Of course!  But I thought there was a pop o' gold at the end of this journey.  I thought we were getting a nice smooth street.  But noooooooooooo!  We're not.  Our street is so messed up, so beyond repair, we're a special case.  We can't just be paved over.  We need complete renovation.  Who doesn't?  So once again, I have to reduce my envy, I have to downsize my resentment, I have to deal with this disappointment like a grownup person.  But I don't want to be a grownup.  I want to run back and forth across my street, I want to frolic and skip like a kiddy, without falling into an asphalt crater.  Ba-bye, SJG.  Nice knowing you.  Hmmph!  Too much to ask?  Apparently.  Good thing the High Holidays are coming up.  Maybe in temple, I can atone for this selfishness, this abject misery and move on.  Maybe.  When it comes to my street, I've lost my way.

A Word About Curves

Nice that the clothing industry has finally acknowledged the booty.  Now there are variations of curvy jeans:  demi curve and bold curve.  Yet it's still a little too polite for my liking, all these pseudo ways to ask: How big is your ass, gals?  I spent two days trying on so many curvy jeans I nearly lost my sh*t in Macy's.  If the jean makers really want to make my jean shopping less agonizing, they need to break it down beyond demi and bold.  Give me:  Big Booty Jeans for Short Jewish Gals with Sway Backs.  Give me:  Jeans That Don't Make Your Booty Look Even Bigger Than It Is.  Don't give me:  Curvy Skinny Jeans.  Does this body type even exist?  Just call it like it is, folks.  Attach a note:  "Listen, booty gals, we know you want to look hip, and you've got the hips to prove it, so we've come up with a misleading category to make you feel good about your giant tush.   Just between us, you're going to look silly in these jeans, so don't waste your time.  Go back to Boot Cut, where you booty gals belong.  Leave the skinny jeans for the skinny gals who can pull this off without shaming their families."  Well, I feel better now that I got that off my butt. 

An Ode To Unemployment

To all the jobs I've had before
Whose bosses kicked me out the door
I'm sad they came along
I dedicate this song
To all the jobs I've had before

To all the jobs I did dismiss
And asses I refused to kiss
For this lil' working ho'
It was time to go
To all the jobs I've had before

To all the jobs that robbed my life
Of sanity and brought me strife
I'm sad they came along
I dedicate this song
To all the jobs I've had before

To all the jobs that doubted me
That filled my nights with misery
They cluttered up my heart
I'll always be a part
Of all the jobs I've had before

(apologies to Hal David... RIP)

Do You Speak Chair?

I came downstairs this morning to find this chaise a chaise in progress, the kitchen chairs engaged in intimate conversation.  I can't say what they were discussing, I don't speak Chair, but I can only speculate that the issues under review were deep-seated and, most likely, politically-tinged.  The kitchen chairs must endure daily front row exposure to many heated rants about this, that and the other.  And then, the newspaper sits there, inches away on the counter, tempting them with crazed national headlines and disturbing local details.  These chairs are up to something, and whatever it is, can't be good.  The SJG can only assume they're about to launch some sort of nasty rebellion.  What to do?  Chain them down?  Suppress them?  Set them free?  Let them organize other restless chairs in the neighborhood?  Or sit them down and discuss things, SJG to chair?  Does anyone have an English-Stoolish dictionary I can borrow?  Must I hire an interpreter who speaks their strange, wooden language?  Quite frankly, I'm at a loss.  It's just too weighty for one SJG to decide.  I need help with this one.  I may have to bring in an aging cowboy more familiar with the vernacular, but something tells me, he won't take my call.