Halloween: The Sequel

Today I'll dress up as the SJG and try not to scare too many people.  Today I'll try to resist the lure of the fun size candy that haunts me, hourly.  Can I walk by a bowl of M&Ms and Snickers, Three Muskateers and Reeses and not dive in?  Doubtful.  Look what I wrote two years ago.  The odds aren't in my favor:

Step away from the chocolate, SJG.  So what if it's sitting there, all pretty, in a big seductive bowl by the front door, whispering naughty things, taunting you:  "SJG... SJG...  Unwrap me...  Take a bite... I dare ya."  Gobble too many M&M's, peanut or plain, what's the diff, and you know the results, girlfriend.  Scarf down another Reeses Peanut Butter anything, and Monday morning, the city council will have to approve an expansion plan in the region of your tush.  Don't do it.  Fight it.  Be strong.  (But it's so delish.)  You don't need that candy.  (But I do.)  You're better than that Kit Kat Bar.  (No, I'm not.)  You're Good n' Plenty without a Hershey's Kiss. (Oh, shut it.)  This Halloween will be different.  This Halloween is a new beginning.  Step away from the chocolate.  Step your ass far away.  The next town over ought to do it.  The next county.  The next universe.  Candy is evil.  Remember that.  Say it with me now, people.  Candy is... oh never mind.  You heard me the first time.

The Committee of Two

"This yard looks like absolute kaka."  "I couldn't agree more."

On our daily dog walkies, Cheryl and the SJG like to inspect the neighborhood for proper landscaping etiquette and pass judgment accordingly.  When we see something askew, something unappealing, garden-wise, we like to issue an anonymous citation:

Dear Neighbor,
The front of your house looks like total crap. We are embarrassed on your behalf. Surely, you must be aware of the tour buses that drive by, hourly, and mock your sad excuse for a garden.  Here are a few helpful suggestions to correct this hideous eyesore that is ruining the value of our neighborhood. Perhaps you could fix your sprinkler system so that water may actually touch your grass and therefore revive it from its current weedy state.  We've seen you out front, tinkering with the sprinklers.  How about hiring a professional?  Many people would be happy to take your money and make this problem go away.  Once you've restored water to your lawn, perhaps you could plant some of our favorite flowers to brighten up our day when we're forced to walk by your dilapidated house.  We're particularly fond of roses, but any flower will do at this point, before we declare your front yard an epic fail.
Thank you,
The Committee of Two

Get Me To The Church On Time

It was a night full of memories.  Hubby and I had just been to a big church wedding, which was absolutely nothing like our own wedding many decades ago, but still, it was a joyous event, and joyous events make the SJG a tad nostalgic.  I prefer a joyous event over a crappy sad one, but maybe that's just me.  The late afternoon nuptials didn't include a nosh-o-rama, so the SJG and hubby high-tailed it out of the church and headed south toward a little town called Encino.  We can no longer remember names of restaurants, so it was challenging.  "Let's go to that fish place," hubby said. "Which one?"  "Del... something."  "I love that place."  "Where is it?"  "Somewhere on Ventura." So we drove a while, in our usual carefree style.  "Stop!" I yelled.  "You just passed it."  It's true, I'm a gifted navigator, just like my daddy, who guided airplanes in WWII. 

We hadn't been to Delmonico's in decades.  "Why haven't we been here in 20 years?" I asked hubby, before the alcohol kicked in.  "I have no idea," he said.  Hubby isn't big on the details.  Why would he remember such a thing, unless we had an incident at the fish restaurant and were told never to return.  That, he would've remembered.  Of course, there had been an incident at Delmonico's, one involving me.  "See that big table in the corner?" I said, pointing rudely at a large group of diners.  "We sat there with our friends.  Some are still married."  Hubby nodded.  The evening was coming back to him.  "I was wearing this pretty turtleneck sweater... it was sea foam... and I loved it so much.  I'd just bought it at the temple Hanukkah bazaar."  Hubby stared me.  "How do you even remember that?"  "I'm a little stuck in the past.  Plus, I spilled red wine all over it."  (The afore-mentioned incident.)  The SJG is a spiller.  Have I ever afore-mentioned that?  Well, I am.  I spill sometimes.  "I was so upset that I'd ruined my pretty sea-foam sweater, but somehow I got it out."  "You Shouted it out," he said.  "Or I used a little Woolite.  Woolite is a miracle worker."  "Tell me about it." When you've been married as long as we have, these are the things you talk about.  Stain removal options. 

Later on, a young couple arrived with two young troublemakers and sat across from us.  They hadn't even put their napkins on their laps when the the older son, a spunky three-year-old, took off running.  It was adorable.  Hubby and I smiled at each other.  We have so many wonderful memories of chasing our sons through restaurants, markets, stores, malls, amusement parks, airports, stadiums.  Oh, the list goes on and on.  Our eldest son, till he reached puberty, preferred to dine under the table in restaurants.  That was a fun, prolonged stage.

When we got up to leave Delmonico's, we went over to talk to the young couple, who seemed a little stressed, parentally.  "We have two sons," hubby said.  "They're 20 and 24 now," I chimed in, to reassure the young couple that our boys had survived toddlerhood, more or less in tact, and so had we.  "Does it get any easier?" the husband asked.  "No," I said.  "It doesn't."  Perhaps not the hoped-for answer.  The poor guy started to weep, uncontrollably.  I looked at the wife.  "Get them busy with sports as early as possible.  You have to run them like dogs.  Do anything to get the energy out of their systems."  She smiled at me, gratefully.  The husband wiped his tears on the tablecloth.  "Thanks."

In the car, I said, "It's fun to help others."  Hubby agreed.  "They have no idea what they're in for."  Although, we may have given them a slight preview. 

The Dog Stays In The Picture

Brother John at your service

Friday, my brother John stopped by, dressed exactly like this, in a formal tuxedo that once belonged to our grandpa.  "You're a little overdressed for a quick lunch in my kitchen before I kick you out," I said, in my sweet sisterly way.  "I just had an audition," he said, explaining his dapper attire.  Then he shoved his camera in my hand and commanded me to take some photos for his portfolio.  Actors!   "Say cheese," I said.  "Not yet.  I'm not ready."  He quickly got into character, channeling Fred Astaire.  Dusty wandered into the photo, which I thought added a touch of class.  Click.  "Now take one without the dog."  "You'll hurt his feelings."  "Too bad."  Hmph!  Dusty didn't like being booted from the photo, and later got back at John by stealing half his sandwich.  So there.  Remember this, my friends.  In the home of the SJG, it's wise not to piss off the canine.  You could lose your sandwich, your top hat and your tails.   Once you go there, you can't tap dance your way back into his heart.  You're persona non grata.  "Here's your hat, what's your hurry?" I said, booting my brother out the door.  "I'm sorry if I offended you, Dusty," John said, right before the door slammed shut.  Next time, the dog stays in the picture.

Win, Lose, Whatever

Only a few more shopping days left till November 7, and the SJG is still looking for the perfect outfit, something appropriately snazzy for my solo parade down Ventura Boulevard.  Whatever I wear needs to match the glittery banner I plan to unfurl as I strut past Art's Deli.  And what, pray tell, will my glittery banner declare?  I'm so glad you asked.  How thoughtful of you.  My glittery banner will declare this heartfelt, non-partisan sentiment: 

Thank God It's Over!

Two Gals Video Chatting

Sometimes, a gal wants to see her close friend up front.  But when that close friend, in this case, the one, the only Cathy Hamilton, of BoomerGirl Diary, lives in the state of Kansas, a gal must make a technological leap.  The SJG hasn't attempted such a techno move since the eldest lived in Copenhagen.  "Do you Skype?" Cathy asks in an email.  "I think so," I reply.  Doesn't sound too promising, until the eldest, who no longer lives in Copenhagen, thank God, tells me we can Skype on Facebook.  "How?" I ask.  "How, how?"  "Oh, the Momma," he says, "It's so easy."  He demonstrates, in his usual fashion: rapid fire.  "You just go here and do this and then you're Skyping."  Well, how hard can that be?  Turns out, very.  First Cathy and the SJG have to search around and do some serious clicking and downloading and of course, on her end, it goes well.  How do I know?  We're on the phone at the time.  "Got it, ready, I'm going to Skype you."  "No, wait, I'm not ready."  "Why not?"  "I don't know.  The thingy isn't downloading."  "Why not?"  "Oh, wait, it's working!"  Now her face appears, and my face appears in the corner, a tiny box of SJG.  Immediately we start laughing and gawking, as if this is a historical event.  "I can't hear you," she says.  We're still on the phone.  Lame, I know.  "I can hear you."  "Hang up the phone."  I hang up.  "Can you hear me?" I ask.  "I can't hear you," she says.  "I can hear you."  She calls me.  "I can't hear you.  There must be something wrong on your end."  "Why on my end?"  "Because you can hear me but I can't hear you."  "Oh, so... it's my... oh wait.  I have to click on the little microphone."  I click.  "Can you hear me now?"  "I can!"  Another miracle.  "Hang up," Cathy says.  I hang up and we can still hear each other, and see each other.  We're both completely out of sync, however.  It's like watching a weird foreign movie.  All we can do is laugh and apologize for how we look in the morning.  "Thank God we still have phones," I say.  "Can you imagine only video chatting?"  "It would be awful," she says.  "Let's hang up and call each other back," I say.  "Great idea."

Reunited And It Feels So Good

Hello, Luva! In this prize-winning shot, a certain dog reunites with a certain slipper he hasn't stolen in many months.  Could the seasons finally be changing?  In Sherman Oaks, it's hard to tell.  A certain dog can only tell by the shoes the humans leave on the ground.  Will they ever learn?

Reincarnation Desk

Why all the talk about reincarnation?  There's a movie coming out called "Cloud Atlas," about souls returning and overlapping and whatnot.  And the stars of "Cloud Atlas" keep revealing in interviews what they want to come back as in the next life.  Tom Hanks wants to be...

... one of the Wright Brothers.

Halle Berry wants to be...

... a kitty cat.

Susan Sarandon wants to be...

... a great singer

The SJG doesn't really buy into the whole reincarnation thing, but if given the opportunity, I'd like to come back as...

... a long-legged gal

... with thick lustrous manageable hair

That's my reincarnation dream.  What's yours?

You Might Be The SJG If...

... You ever made the tragic mistake of getting a big 'ol '80s perm and thought it looked cool.

You might be the SJG if...

... You ever positioned a box of crackers on your head, so you could say you were, in fact, Puttin' On The Ritz.

Can I Get A Yum?

Shad roe, pineapple foam, cucumber sauce, 
coriander bubbles.  Can I get a yum?

Dear SJG,
Can we talk? What is up with foam that looks like saliva? Gourmet entrees that are priced at $103 for three bites of unrecognizable wild life, basking beautifully on a bed of pureed foam in many colors? I, as a deputy foodie, am offended. Two years ago, the concept of farm to table got me soo excited.  The visual of yuppies running from local farms with organic produce, meats and poultry was more than I ever imagined. I felt like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm eating the most gastronomically pleasing food combos at urban restaurants! Yuppie foodie farmers feeding yuppie foodie urbanites. A perfect partnership no? Well, how did foodie fabulous get to foodie foam in such a short time? Tell me. I must know!!!!
Anti-Foam,
Anne

Dear Anne,
Once again you've enlightened me with yet another trend I don't understand.  I'm devoid of an explanation, girlfriend, other than, people will eat the weirdest sh*t just cuz it's cool.  The only foam I want to know from is the kind that blankets my cappuccino, comme sa:

I'm not interested in strange soapy foam comme sa:

No thankie

Molecular whosie-whatsit be damned!  The SJG doesn't get it.  Don't froth on your beliefs, Anne.  Stay strong.  Refuse foodie foam on principle.  Start an Anti-Foam Movement.  Foam-wise, just say nyet.  I'm no foodie, like yourself.  I'm just a simple, kugel-cookin', blintz casserole-makin' kinda gal.  In my humble opinion, this current craze lacks substance.  It's a big dollop of bupkis. Resist it at all costs.  There's no there there.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Ring Ring

Ring ring!

The SJG was out to lunch the other day... no, I wasn't out of it, how dare you, I was actually out to lunch with friends, silly, and every two minutes, I heard my cell phone ringing.  At least, I thought it was my phone.  It wasn't my phone.  It wasn't my friend's phone.  It was the guy at another table's phone.  These days, everywhere I go, the market, the gym, even the non-profit charitable foundation I started in my own office -- "Yep!  I'm still working for free," the recurring theme -- there it is again, the same iPhone ring.  The old fashioned ring ring of my childhood and your childhood, the old fashioned ring ring we heard in the glory days, pre-answer machines, pre-call waiting.  Of course, there are many other rings on the menu, many other fun options on the iPhone,  crazy alerts and buzzes and beep beeps, sounds to drive you meschuga, not to mention downloadable music for the more advanced, but, no, we all want a few bars of nostalgia.  We want the old fashioned ring ring of our youth.  Sure, it may get confusing at times, annoying and unnerving, but I have no plans to change my ring ring, and clearly, neither do you.

The Infamous Schnoz Shot

Daddy-Daughter Infamous "Schnoz" Shot from my wedding

Happy 91st to my dad, my mentor, my advisor, my biggest fan, my... oh, you get the idea. Without him, where would I be? My whole life, he's made me laugh till my sides hurt, he's guided me, he's cheered me on. Today I'll bring him his favorite salad, the Santa Barbara cobb, I'll sing to him, I'll kvell over him yet again. Let's face it.  I'm one lucky SJG.

Part 2: Ben The Elder

Sing!  Sing!  Sing!

Look at you!  You came back for the rest of Ben Starr's tips on how to reach 91 and still be a mensch.  Why keep you in suspense?  Here they are:
5.  Sing, sing, sing.  I sing all the time even though I have a terrible voice.
6.  Strive to know what is going on in the world every minute you are awake.  Knowledge, even when misquoted, is better than being uniformed.
7.  Best way to get to 91 is to have great kids who love you and whom you love.
8.  Having a few bucks in the bank doesn't hurt. 
- Ben The Elder

Tips From Ben The Elder

This week, my dad, Mr. Ben Starr, turns 91.  How did he do it?  How?!  How?!  I called him up and demanded some answers.  "Tell me!  Give me a few hints!  I am your daughter!"  "Okay, okay, calm down," he said.  So here are a few of his tips.  The rest, you'll get tomorrow. You want to reach 91?  You have to be patient.
1.  Get to 90 first.
2.  Never go to a doctor.  That will mean you are sick.  Ergo, avoiding doctors keeps you well.
3.  Never mention Tip #2 in front of intelligent people.
4.  Laugh, laugh, laugh.
-- Ben The Elder

Short Jewish Skydiver

"That was fun," said the SJG

In a giant leap from more than 24 miles up, a short Jewish skydiver shattered the sound barrier Sunday while making the highest jump ever – a tumbling, death-defying plunge from a balloon to a safe landing into her own Sherman Oaks backyard. The Short Jewish Gal became the first person to reach supersonic speed without traveling in a jet or a spacecraft. Landing on grass that had once again been ripped apart by "that eff'n squirrel," the blogger lifted her arms in victory to the cheers of jubilant friends and spectators who followed her backyard descent. "I got a little nervous," the SJG admitted, post-leap.  "I wasn't thinking about breaking records, or what I'd serve for Thanksgiving.  It's at my house this year.  Please, don't get me started.  The only thing I wanted was to come back alive so I could keep nagging the people I love." The pressurized spacesuit "wasn't terribly flattering or thinning," she told reporters later, "but I did my best to get past it.  Sometimes you have to sacrifice fashion to make an impact."  The SJG's descent lasted just over nine minutes and at one point, it looked like she was spinning out of control.  "I'll admit, it made me super dizzy and I thought oy vey, this it it, I'll never meet my grandchildren.  If I plotz now, it'll be a big letdown." Luckily, she survived.  Traveling faster than sound is "fun," she said, "but I wouldn't want to do it again. Enough is enough."

Waiting For John Hurt

Beckett and Hurt:  Is it me, or do  these two dudes look alike?

 

Last night, as we waited for "Krapp's Last Tape" to begin, and more on that in a minute, Maura reviewed the list of previous shows in the program.  Naturally, she had a favorite.  "We loved 'Elephant Room,'" she said. Here hubby leaned in, and whispered, "Elephants."  Our code word, our wink wink.  Yes, the SJG dragged him into my elephant fixation.  Turns out, he's not a big fan of the elephants these days.  In fact, he'll do anything to avoid them.  Just now, he turned off the TV to avoid watching another elephant guard his tusk.

But let's go back to the play, shall we?  Right before the theater went dark, Maura, a gal I met on a street corner, walking home from junior high, turned to me and said, "You can lead the discussion about the play when we go to coffee."  "What if I don't want to?"  Just then, the lights went out and it was pitch black at the Kirk Douglas.  We sat there in darkness for quite a while.  Disturbing?  Very.  I think that was the point.  Get us good and weirded out before the play even starts.  Or maybe it had started?  Remember, this play is by Samuel Becket, who brought us "Waiting For Godot."

So we waited and waited in the dark.  And then a dim spotlight revealed John Hurt, aka the Elephant Man, on stage, sitting at a desk.  Just sitting.  Sitting and saying nothing for quite a while.  Disturbing?  Very.  I think that was the point.  John Hurt, aka the guy called Krapp, just sat and sat and sat and said nothing.  The theater was silent, except for all the breathing and coughing and sniffling.  It was all a big WTF, a big artistic question mark.  Is this it?  Is he just going to sit there and say bupkis for 55 minutes, and let the audience completely lose our collective sh*t?   I sat there and read hubby's thoughts.  "I left Sherman Oaks for this?  I could be home, watching the Formula One Race."  Another minute went by, and then another, and finally, John Hurt, aka the guy in "Alien" who has a horrifying creature jut out of his stomach, and wreak havoc on the spaceship -- I hate when that happens -- started talking.  Hurray!  He ate a banana.  He ate another banana.  He listened to the tape his younger Krapp self had made at 39.  He stopped and started the tape.  He played the part about sex, rewound, played it again.  He liked that part a lot.  He got up, left the stage, came back, listened to the tape, threw stuff on the floor, and made a a new tape.

It was sad and what's the word I'm looking for?  Disturbing?  Very.  I think that was the point.  And then it was over.  The end.  Standing O for John Hurt.  Hurray!  He'd done a lot with very little.  Afterwards, we walked across the street, the four of us, to have coffee.  I attempted to lead a discussion, but  honestly, there wasn't much to to talk about.  Maura let me slide.

Coinky Dink?

John Hurt in "Krapp's Last Tape"

John Hurt in "The Elephant Man"

I know, I know.  I promised I was done with the elephants, but they're stalking me. Tonight, hubby and I will attend the theater with our far-more cultured friends Maura and Mark.  I hope we don't embarrass them, but I can't make any promises.  You know how rowdy hubby gets at the theater.  "What's the play about?" I asked.  "I have no idea," Maura said.  "Who's in it?" "Um..."  "Sounds great.  We're in."  We said goodbye and panic set in.  What had I done?  I went a-Googling.   Oh, okay.  This is good.  We're seeing a Samuel Becket play called "Krapp's Last Tape."  A one-man show starring... John Hurt, aka "The Elephant Man."  A ha!  See what I mean?  The elephants are stalking me.  I'm powerless to stop them. 

Tall Jewish Giraffes

Tall Jewish Giraffe tries to shove elephant out of blog

The people have spoken. They're tired of elephants. They want giraffes. Tall Jewish Giraffes, to be specific.  So here are the top five TJG jokes you've been craving:
1.  Why wasn't the TJG invited to the party?
He was a pain in the neck!
2.  What do you get when two TJGs collide?
A giraffic jam!
3.  Why did the TJG graduate early?
He was head and shoulders above the rest of the class.
4.  What did Dracula say when he saw a TJG for the first time?
I'd like to get to gnaw you!
5.  Why are TJGs so slow to apologize?
It takes them a long time to swallow their pride!

You're welcome!
(for the Kateness)

Apply Within

Friendly Editor Needed

Every day I sit my tush down at the computer, coffee by my side, and ponder, in an accent I borrow from Kerry, my clever British friend, "Whatever shall I blog about today?"  It's so much classier than my normal way of speaking, which sounds something like this:  "Oh @#$%!  What the @#$% should I write about?"  After posing my question, Britishly, I wait for divine intervention.  I'm still waiting.  Usually, I just pick the first random silly thing that pops into my crowded brain.  This can be good and not so good.  I may repeat a topic without even realizing it.  This is what happens when you don't have an editor to point out your typos and logic gaps and offer helpful, constructive criticism that keeps you up at night and makes you question your existence.  I can only  imagine the sort of editorial spanky-spank that would land in my in-box this week:  "Uh, SJG, really? On Saturday, you referenced 'The Elephant Man,' and on Tuesday, you wrote about elephant tchotchkes.  How about finding another animal?  Giraffes maybe.  Write a blog about giraffes, or zebras.  Or maybe some human who's pissing you off.  Enough with the elephants.  Best, Your Imaginary Editor."

Where Are The Elephants?

Endangered Tchotchke!

There are many joyous events in life, many reasons to shout woo-hoo.  Getting my teeth cleaned doesn't fall in the woo-hoo category.  The mouth of the SJG is so tender these days, so sensitive, like the rest of me.  Getting my teeth cleaned calls for a gentle touch and the art of dental distraction.  I count on visual aids. Carrying on a conversation with the lovely hygienist while she pokes around my gums with an instrument of torture is difficult.  Yesterday, I stepped foot in the designated dental room and knew something was amiss: "Is this a different room?" "No, it's the same room." "Where are the elephants?" "They wanted to go home."  "I don't understand."  "I packed them up and brought them home."  "But I love the elephants.  I love to look at them lined up on the ledge.  I count on those elephants."  "They're very happy at home."  My reporter skills kicked in.  I knew something was wrong here.  Those elephants have hung out on the ledge for years.  This room is their home.  "Okay, what's really going on?" "What do you mean?"  "What's the real reason those elephants have left the building?"  The lovely hygienist sighed.  "It's a new policy."  "An elephant ban?" "The doctors don't want anything cluttering the window.  They think it's unprofessional."  "So all of a sudden, they issued an anti-tchotcke warning?  No knickknacks in the window, no adorable, soothing figurines, or violators will be prosecuted?"  "It wasn't that harsh."  "You should protest."  "I like my job."  "I like the elephants."  "Me, too."

What Day Is It?

"What time is it?" asked the SJG.
"6:15," yawned hubby.
"What day is it?" asked the SJG.
"Monday," sighed hubby.
"Why can't we go back to Sunday?" asked the SJG.

Sheriff John: RIP

This morning, an email from my brother John:  "Put another candle on the birthday cake... I was lucky to talk by phone to John Rovick several times 30 years ago while working on a 'Local Kids TV Hosts' segment for 'Bloopers & Practical Jokes.'  It was a thrill and he was super nice and fun."  It's a sad day for anyone who grew up in L.A. during the '60s and ate lunch with Sheriff John Monday through Friday.  I was just four and watching his show when they broke in to say JFK had been shot.  I went running into the kitchen to tell my mom.  My family still sings "Put another candle on the birthday cake, you're another year old today" at every birthday celebration.  So bye bye, Sheriff John. You made a lot of little kids who grew up to be big kids happy. 

I'm Not An Elephant...

I am a Hu-Mom being!

Dear SJG,
Whatever is a Hu-Mom?  Have you written about this one yet? Oy vey...do we qualify? Meet the pre-reqs? Are there crash courses in becoming a Hu-Mom?  Do we want to be one? I am so confused, can you research it , blog, and make it go away. Sounds epidemic to me!
Thanks,
Anne

Dear Anne,
I have no freaking idea what you're talking about.  I've never seen this newfangled hybrid.  Why are you bothering me with this?  Don't you know how busy I am?  Fine.  Let me check it out and get back to you.  I'm back.  Here's the dealio.  Apparently, a HuMom is how social media-inclined dogs with their own Twitter accounts refer to their female pet owners. "I'm out with my HuMom.  She could use a bath. LOL." How deeply disturbing is this?  Very!  Is Dusty twittering about me, his HuMom, when I'm out?  As in, "Where' my HuMom?  That bitch owes me a treat and a walk." So, in answer to your question, I'm afraid I may be a HuMom in training.  True, Dusty doesn't have his own Facebook page, but I suppose he could learn how to Twitter with his paws, if I had the patience to teach him, which I don't.  Plus, the fact that I repeatedly say things to him all day, like, "Come to Mommy," and, "Mommy's going to take you for a walk now," would indicate that I'm part of this bizarre species of humans who adore their animals just a little bit more than their children.  Something tells me you may also fall into this category.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Team Mariah

Nicki vs. Mariah

The news this morning:  Mariah has hired body guards to protect her from crazy-ass Nicki Minaj, after Nicki threatened her with physical harm.  Oy vey, that's some nasty sh*t right there.  Can you blame me for obsessing over this lunacy?  I can't help it.  I'm making bold statements in the kitchen, statements the menfolk aren't taking seriously enough.  "Nicki Minaj is ruining 'American Idol' for me," I said last night.   "I'm not watching it anymore."  "You'll watch it.  You love it," said the youngest.  "You live for 'American Idol," said the eldest.  Hubby said nothing.  He was too busy making a love connection with his new iPhone.  But I'm telling you, bleeps, if this Idol mishegas continues, this little loyal bitch is out!

And now, for your enjoyment, because the SJG is a giver, here's the transcript of their notorious diva-off, courtesy of my close friends at TMZ.  Personally, I think Mariah showed enormous restraint.  

Nicki: Think I'm playin? Think this sh*t is a f*cking joke? Think it’s a joke? Think it’s a joke? Think it’s a joke? Say one more disrespectful thing to me, if you say one more disrespectful thing to me -- off with your head!
Mariah: I am not being disrespectful.
Nicki: Off with your head, off with your head... Don’t tell me I'm insecure, don’t tell me I'm inadequate ... you gonna get sent [inaudible] just fall back; don’t ... you don’t know [inaudible] I don’t feel inadequate. You’re the insecure one sittin' up there running down her resume every five minutes...Every time you take a shot at me I'ma take it back, and if you gotta f*cking problem then handle it. I told them, I'm not f*cking putting up with your f*cking highness over there ... figure it the f*ck out. Figure it out.
Mariah: whyyyy, whhyyyyy ...
Nicki: Figure it out
Mariah: ... do I have a 3-year-old sitting around me???
Nicki: I’m not sitting here for 20 minutes and having you run down your resume everyday, No! Goodbye!
Mariah: Listen ... I can’t see my kids because you decided to make ... to have ... to have a little baby fit and going all around the stage.
Nicki: Good, well then go see them now, go see them now ... you’re boring as f*ck, you’re boring as f*ck.

Take A Shot

"Sit down, and the nurse will be with you shortly."
"Where's the chair?"
"Next to the blood pressure machine."
So I sat down next to the blood pressure machine and across from the imported cheese, and just to the right of the flowers.  Tucked into this tiny spot, I waited like a good girl, hoping no one ran into me with a cart.  Of all the wonderful advances since the SJG arrived on this wacky planet, the ability to get a flu shot at Ralphs is something I never would've foreseen.  I'm used to getting stuck with the bill here, not a needle. Ba-dump-bump!
"Try to relax," the nurse said, "it might sting."
I looked away, and contemplated the lovely selection of Brie and Jarlsberg.  I took a deep breath and felt a little pinch.
"All done."
"Do I get a lollypop?"
"No," the nurse said, "but we're have a sale today on fresh strawberries.  Here's a coupon."

Zing!

Zingers vs. Vanilla Wafers  

According to semi-reliable news sources, the SJG plans to serve Zingers at tonight's debate in Sherman Oaks, when she faces off against the Tall Shiksa Goddess.  Asked if she's trying to influence the outcome by offering delicious chocolatey treats, the SJG said, "Oh, hell yes!"  Speculation that the TSG will counter with a platter of vanilla wafers could not be confirmed nor denied, so obviously, it's true.

Welcome To Blursville

On most days, the SJG walks around in a total blur.  Yesterday was no different, except the blur was more optical than mental.  A couple  drops in the left eye, a couple drops in the right, and welcome to Blursville, USA.  My retina guy needed a good look at my retina, as opposed to other members of the SJG Medical Team, in charge of other parts of my anatomy.  "'The left retina isn't going anywhere,"  he announced.  Well, this is good news, indeed.  Last September, my left retina launched some sort of uprising.  "I'm outta here," my retina said.  Oh, but the SJG caught it just in time.  Ha ha! "You're not going anywhere, bitch."  Still, this attempted coup had consequences, forcing me to have my eyeballs checked and dilated on a regular basis.  Hence, Blursville.  Have you ever tried to drive in a state of Blursville?  I don't recommend it.  Everything is bright and fuzzy and otherworldly.  "Home, Charles," I told my car.  "Try not to run up on the curb on the way."  Don't worry, I made it back to the manse, thank God, and stayed there for rest of the day.  I couldn't read.  Too blurry.  I couldn't think.  They'd dilated my keppy, too, it seemed.  So, another lost day.  A day spent in Blursville.  Today, I can see everything.  I expect great things of myself today.  I expect total clarity.  I won't get it, of course, but if it passes me by, yet again, at least I'll recognize it.

That's Debatable

The Short Jewish Gal and The Tall Shiksa Goddess are spending the next few days cramming for their upcoming national debate.  The two universally-adored bloggers are scheduled to meet in Sherman Oaks on Oct. 3 for the first of three debates.  The winner gets to keep blogging.  The loser must hang up her crown and admit defeat.

Wednesday’s debate will focus on skin care, hair care and why-should-I-care.  The SJG and the TSG will face off on "Kvetching vs. Whining:  What's the diff?"  and "High Heels vs. Flats" in debates scheduled for Oct. 16 and Oct. 22. The SJG has been practicing with the man she calls hubby, a national debate champion in college, something he likes to remind her of on a regular basis.  "I expect the Tall Shiksa Goddess to get personal with the attacks," said hubby, in an interview with Reuters.  "I promise you, what my wife lacks in height, she makes up for with a verbal skills.  Trust me, she knows how to argue."

The TSG has been practicing with  Bitsy Von Buren, president of T & G Inc., who shared a few of her debate tips with Town and Country.  "As head of Tall & Gorgeous, an empire I built with my very own well-manicured hands, I know how to win anyone over with a bright smile and a well-timed hair toss.  I feel confident that with my guidance, the Tall Shiksa Goddess will nail these debates with glam and poise, something, I fear, the Short Jewish Gal... how to put this nicely... seriously lacks."

According to Shlomo O'Brien, moderator of the SJG/TSG debates, "If you take a look at the history of debates, it's not really about specifics, it's not really about facts.  It's more about what are the cues that indicate the kind of person or personality, or how the Short Jewish Gal and the Tall Shiksa Goddess are going to behave, their mannerisms, their facial ticks and whether their makeup melts in the spotlight.”