Questions, So Many Questions

There are so many questions that plague the SJG, so many deep issues to ponder on a daily basis, I'm learning to separate the serious Modern Day dilemmas from the moderately troubling. Here are the top five things on my keppy today:
1. If I wear white after Labor Day, will I be shunned during Sherman Oaks Fashion Week, where I plan to debut the new SJG Fall Schlepwear Collection?
2. Will the SJG Telethon raise enough money to pay for the patio renovations?
3. Why didn't "SJG: Duets With Famous Dead People" do better on iTunes? I was in tune most of the time. Abraham Lincoln? Not so much.
4. Will I ever break my debilitating double-spacing addiction?
5. If a bagel falls in the kitchen, but nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

... A newly-pavered patio.

And a built-in barbecue.

And at some point, God willing in the near future, a done deal.  

The Visitors

The Sherlocks of Brighton:  

Jon, Irina, Alfred and Evelina

Last night at dinner, an iffy buffet of just-delivered cold pizza and salad sans dressing, I asked Jon Sherlock, the very tall visiting Brit I've known since he was six, "What's a typical day like for you?"

A brief moment of backstory, as we writer-types say:  In 1947... excuse me... 1977, I lived in England for a year, a junior abroad situation. I had the best time, wandering round the English countryside, in search of Shakespeare and beer. I found the beer. I found the Sherlocks, too. Jon's parents Lynne and Mike pretty much adopted me that year. I'd show up at their door in Hove and say, "Feed me, please," and they would. It was a smashing arrangement. Later, I'd watch the Muppets with Jon and brother Bob, six and four at the time, never knowing that one day, Jon would have a big important job doing something bio-techie.

Scotty with the adorable Sherlock kids

"It's fairly higgledy-piggledy," Jon said, in answer to my job-related question. "Excuse me? Back up a sec there, Jon. What did you just say?" "Higgledy-piggledy?" "What's that mean?" "You're not familiar with higgledy-piggledy?" "No, and I lived in England." "I remember." "I think you're making it up." "No, I'm not." "It sounds made up." "I didn't make it up." "Prove it." "Let's Google it, shall we?" At this point, Scotty went a-Googling and came up with: "Hickety-pickety, my black hen. She lays eggs for gentleman." "So, Jon, are you saying your day is like a Mother Goose rhyme? I'm so confused." "No, I'm saying my day is higgledy-piggledy." "With a D?" "Yes." "Not a K?" "No." "Maybe you're saying it wrong." "I'm not."

At this rate, I realized I would never know what higgledy-piggledy meant, and I was okay with that.  Hours later, after the Sherlocks had departed for their luxury hotel in Santa Monica, Jon sent me a link to the Oxford dictionary. "Higgledy-piggledy: in confusion or disorder. Late 16th century: rhyming jingle, probably with reference to the irregular herding together of pigs."

So the whole bio-techie thing is just a big ruse. I always suspected Jon was an irregular pig herder. Glad we cleared that up.

That's Nice

Rehearsing the first dance

Who doesn't love a good wedding? It's like saying you don't love love. Who doesn't love love? Personally, I'm a big fan of love. I'm all about the love. So when I found out this morning that a certain globe-trotting couple got hitched, I smiled. I couldn't wait to share the news with hubby.  "Guess who got married?" Without missing a beat, he said, "Jennifer Aniston?" Hubby knows I'm on Team Jennifer. I just love her. I'm more invested in her happiness than those other two. I'm happy when Jen's happy. In this way, I'm a little bit confused about boundaries and my own version of reality, but who isn't? I don't have to defend why I love Jennifer Aniston. Or why I gave a shrug when my close friends on the Today Show told me, "Brad and Angie got married over the weekend in France." Post-smile, I thought, "A big deal. If you've got money, you can travel." Well, that's not very generous, is it? But seriously, 10 years and six kids later, it's nice that they made it official. But I'm on Team Jennifer. So if and when Jennifer gets hitched to Justin, I'll be happier for them. I can't help it. I'm a little bit loyal, even to the famous folks who aren't that invested in my happiness. I'm a natural-born giver. I give and I give. It's all in the SJG Once-A-Day DNA, still awaiting FDA approval.

Not in attendance

Any Changes?

"Any changes?"
"In terms of -- ?"
"Your breasts."
"Gee, that's a little personal, don't you think?"
"Well, you are having a mammogram. "
"I know, I know. But couldn't you finesse it a bit? Work up to it, not just come right out and ask about my boobies? Like, you could say, 'What a cute top. Any changes going on under there?' And then I'd say, 'No, everything's good, kina hora... poo poo poo."
"Helpful, thanks. Any other changes?"
"In terms of --?"
"Insurance."
"Same."
"Address?"
"Same."
"Religious affiliation?"
"Are you allowed to ask that?"
"I just thought I'd throw it in there."
"Still Jewish. Very, very Jewish."
"Any other changes?"
"In terms of -- ?"
"Grandchildren?"
"No."
"Weddings?"
"No."
"Domestic upgrades?"
"Funny you should ask. My patio is currently in the middle of something."
"I'll make a note of it on your chart. Now, sit down and wait till your name is called."
"That last part needs work."
"You're invited to sit down and enjoy one of our magazines from 2010."
"Better."

The Other One

The other Mrs. Carol

"Mrs. Carol?"
"Hi, Juan."
"I called you this morning."
"You did?"
"I left you a message, I said I wasn't coming, but I found out I didn't call you. I called the other Mrs. Carol."
"Wait, what? There's another one?"
"Yes. The other Mrs. Carol called me just now and said Juan, why did you call me, and then I realized I didn't call you, I called the other Mrs. Carol."
"Oh, Juan. I'm so confused. Are you still coming today, or not?"
"No. That's why I called you before, to let you know I wasn't coming, and then I found out I called the other Mrs. Carol and --"
"I get it, Juan. You'd rather see the other Mrs. Carol today."
"No, I'm not doing any work for her."
"Ha!  A likely story. Just admit it, Juan. You like the other Mrs. Carol better."
"No, no. I called to tell you --"
"You like Mrs. Carol's patio more."
"No, I like your patio, too, Mrs. Carol."
"Forgive me, Juan.  I'm a little thrown by the call.  I was looking forward to seeing you today."
"I'm not coming today."
"I never knew you could be so cruel, Juan. My patio needs you."
"I'll stop by tomorrow."
"Don't toy with my affections.  I'm fragile."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Carol."
"Will you, Juan?  Will you, really?"
"Yes, Mrs. Carol."
"Till tomorrow then, Juan."
"Adios."
"Shalom, Juan. I'll be waiting outside for you."

Penmanship

"A good pen is hard to find."

"Don't cry because you lost your pen, smile because it's under the sofa."

"A pen, a pen, my kingdom for a pen."

"Where there is a pen there is an ink stain."

"In three words I can sum everything I've learned about pens:  they go missing."

"In the end, it's not going to matter how many pens you 'borrowed,' but how many pens you actually gave back."

Gush

CJ Jacobson, a very, very tall chef, went a little crazy when
he met me last night at Girasol, his Studio City restaurant.

"Are you who I think you are?"
"Who do you think I am?"
"The SJG."
"Guilty as charged."
"I love you, SJG."
"I love you, CJ."
"You know I'm here, right?"
"Hush, hubby. CJ and I are having a moment."
"I've read about your signature SJG kugel. I've dreamed about your SJG kugel. And now, here you are, in my humble restaurant in Studio City."
"It must be bashert."
"Excuse me?"
"Meant to be."
"I'll share my recipe for fava bean puree if you'll share your recipe for kugel."
"You first."
"Mine has fava beans."
"And a nice Chianti?"
"Hush, hubby.  Mine has cottage cheese."
"I'd kill for a slice."
"Maybe I'll drop by later with a casserole full."
"I'd like that."
"Uh, still here."
"Hush, hubby.  CJ and I are making plans for a rendezvous."

Just A Glimpse

Ben/Glo Productions, 1980

Thirty-four years ago today, my dad said this at our wedding:  "We offered them money or an overpriced extravaganza. They took the overpriced extravaganza." It got a big laugh. He was in his "Diff'rent Strokes" phase, on top of his game, as always. He was 58, still a few years away from his older writer-put-out-to-pasture prolonged phase. Thank God, he didn't know that then. He never would've believed it. My mom was 52. My whole life, she kept trying to quit smoking.  The wedding did the trick.  She quit for good. Twenty years later, the cancer got her, anyway. Thank God, she didn't know that then.  She never would've believed it.

In 1980, photographers were just starting to videotape weddings. We said no to that nonsense. Too tacky, too intrusive. What did we know? To have it all recorded for posterity?  How great that would've been. Oh, well. The memories are all there, maybe a little fuzzy now, but just as sweet. We can always pull out the wedding album for a glimpse of that magical night, 34 years ago. Today.

SJG standard bridal pose at the tender age of 22.

And so, here we are, all these years later, high school sweethearts still making each other laugh about the dumbest things.  I know, I know. I'm a lucky little Jew, that much is true. And something tells me hubby feels the same way, too.

Dog Vs. Pool

So this happens:  After the big strong men leave for the day, I'm outside, watering plants and talking to hubby on the phone at the same time. I'm that coordinated. Dusty wanders around, free to explore the dirt pit that is now his backyard. A giant sheet of plastic covers the pool, a thoughtful gesture on the part of the big strong men. Dusty hovers nearby, sniffing to his heart's content.  He takes a step and then another. And now he's at the edge of the plastic-covered pool. And he's thinking, "Doesn't smell like a pool.  What happened here?  I better investigate."  He sticks a paw on the plastic and just like that, he's in the water.  At this point I should mention that Dusty is anti-pool.  If there were an organization against pools, he'd be president. Sure, his breed is all about swimming and water, all about dog-paddling.  Not Dusty.  Dusty went in the pool once as a puppy, and that was that. Dusty goes ape-sh*t if we dare to swim in front of him.  We put him in a room and close the door when we swim. What I'm saying is Dusty and the pool are not friends.  And yet, now he's in the pool and there's plastic all around him.  I yell, "Oh, no!" and throw the phone high in the air, leaving hubby in suspense.  I jump in the pool in my shorts and powder blue tank top. I rescue Dusty and shove him out of the pool seconds before we are both swallowed in plastic. Dusty is okay. The phone, however, is another issue. Where the eff did it go?  I have no idea, but I have other issues that trump the missing phone.  Dusty is now covered in mud and running through the house.  I coax him into the shower and call hubby on my cell. I update him.  "I'm a super hero," I say.  "I'm that strong." Later I find the elusive phone perpendicular to the pot of begonias in the far corner of the backyard. All in a day's work, people. I wonder what today will bring.

Man Vs. Patio

"Hear that?  You hear that?"

"What, Mom?"

"Jackhammering, son.  Nothing else in the world sounds like that.  I love the sound of jackhammering in the morning... the shattering noise... the demolition of concrete.  The pulverizing of my sanity.  Don't you see, son?"

"See what, Mom?"

"The big strong men.  Men with heavy equipment.  Men on a mission of destruction.  A battle of Man vs. Patio.  Smell that, son?"

"What, Mom?"

"The dust, son.  The dust of ancient civilizations.  Powdery white dust covering the entire neighborhood.  Dust and dirt.  Grass and pollen.  So much pollen, son.  Pollen infiltrating the enemy that is my sinus cavity. The dust and the pollen, son. The dirt and the grass. The little that remains of what once was a simple patio.  A simple patio now in ruins... cracked and decimated beyond recognition."

"Why, Mom?  Why?"

"Why not?"

"When will it stop, Mom?"

"When they're done, son.  When they're done."

In Season

Three guys are about to be executed and are asked what they wish to have for their last meal.
The Italian requests a pepperoni pizza, which he is served and then executed.

The Frenchman requests a filet mignon, which he is served and then executed.
The Jewish man requests a plate of strawberries.
"STRAWBERRIES?" asks the executioner. "But they're out of season!"
"So," the Jewish man says, "I'll wait . "

Mrs. Goldstein goes to the post office to buy the newly issued 2014 Rosh Hashanah stamps so that she can send them out with her New Year's greetings.  
She says to the clerk at the post office, "Nu, can I have 50 Jewish New Year's stamps?"
The clerk says, "Yes, ma'am, but what denomination?"
"Oy," she says, "has it come to this?  OK.  Give me 6 Orthodox, 12 Conservative and 32 Reform."

Don't Panic

Dear Valued Hotel Guest,

Early this morning an insanely loud fire alarm was triggered for no apparent reason other than to make sure that you still had it in you to jump out of bed and follow instructions.  Some of you did better than others.  We refer you to a short Jewish guest who chose, unwisely, to take the opportunity to run into the lobby and perform a medley of songs from "Fiddler on the Roof:  The Disco Version." As part of hotel protocol the San Francisco Fire Department arrived to assess her level of hot air, ability to hold a note and overall psychological state, which is questionable at best, even on a good day.

Fortunately the SJG was silenced and the non-existent fire was deemed a false alarm.  We sincerely apologize for the disturbance.  We assure you the SJG will not perform another selection from any of her favorite musicals in our lobby today.  Thank God, she's leaving town shortly- see what we did there?

If you have any further questions and/or concerns, feel free to contact the SJG through her International Kugel Culinary Institute.  And please, help yourself to a complimentary cup of coffee in our lobby.  It's the least we can do.  Actually, we could comp you a night's stay for robbing you of much-needed sleep, but we're running a business here.

Thank you,

The nice people at the front desk

Victory!

Vell, as my grandfather would say, I didn't think I could do it, but I done it.  Victory is mine, sayeth the SJG.  Sure, I struggled.  I did some serious deep thinking.  "Do I really need that extra top?" I asked the universe.  The universe came back with, "When in doubt... more is less."  Well, thanks a bunch, universe.  That's not the guidance I was seeking.  So I turned inward.  Less is more, except, of course, when it comes to chocolate.  But I'm not bringing any chocolate with me to San Francisco.  I expect the eldest to present me with a giant bar of Ghiradelli something, by way of thanking me for being me, his only mother.  I leave today with a humble carry-on.  I may have to shop a bit to fill in the blanks.  I may have to purchase another carry-on.  But I'm leaving with that afore-mentioned carry-on.  Thank you for your support, bitches.

Carry On

This time, I'm going to do it.  As God is my witness, I'm going to find a way.  I won't give in to fear and doubt.  I won't talk myself out of it.  I won't surrender to negativity.  I will shut off the doom-and-gloom dude residing in my keppy.  I will prove the naysayers wrong.  This time, unlike all other times before, I will carry a tiny-ass piece of luggage the size of a baby's butt onto the plane.  I see people do it all the time.  And tomorrow, I will be one of those people.  I will not, repeat not, check my bag, curbside.  I will not send it off into oblivion and hope it arrives at the same airport as the SJG.  I will shove and smush.  I will widdle it down to the necessities.  I will not over pack.  I refer you to every trip I've ever taken.  I'm a what-iffer.  A what-iffer needs too much stuff, just in case.  What if it rains?  What if it's cold?  What if... well, you get the point.  But not tomorrow.  Tomorrow, hubby and I fly in a northerly direction to visit the eldest, who selfishly moved to San Francisco to follow his heart and God willing, find employment.  I'm looking at a three-day getaway.  Three days, people.  I can pack for three days and not four, can't I?  I can carry on a carry-on without all the extras I don't really need.  I can do this, right?  Yes, I can, bitches.  Yes.  I.  Can.

The Prime Minister's Cousin

"Patience was not my strong point."  -- Lauren Bacall

No wonder I love her so.

Two big losses.  Robin Williams and Lauren Bacall.  Here's a great story from The Jewish Journal about the famous tall Jewish gal with the famous first cousin.  I remember the time I saw Lauren Bacall shopping in Harrod's, circa 1978.  In typical SJG fashion, I froze.  So many things to say.  No chutzpah to say them.  And yet she seemed unapproachable, a tough broad who wouldn't take sh*t from anyone.  I always admired that about her.  What a dame.

No Longer In Kansas

Mug by Deborah Wald of Kansas City

"Landed.  We're early.  See you soon."

"Stuck in traffic."

"I'll get my baggage.  Don't worry."

"Literally not moving."

"Still on plane.  Not sure what the issue is."

"Just hellish.  This may take a while."

"Okay, luv.  Don't worry.  Still on plane."

"About to enter parking lot."

"Still on @#$%'n plane.  Seriously?"

"I'm in the baggage area."

"45 minutes and counting."

"The sign says your bag will be at No. 4."

"Good thing I'm not claustrophobic.  Ha Ha."

"Not sure about the luggage.  Might be at 1 or 2."

"Bastards!" 

"I got you water."

"We're getting off now."

"Yes!"

"See you soon."

BBQ at Q's

So much for Jack Stack's.  A last minute re-direct from one of Cathy's BBQ experts brought us to Q39 in Kansas City, where we porked out, shamelessly, with the one, the only Debbe Wald, ceramist extraordinaire/fireworks expert.  

Debbe is the gal who guided me on all things explosive while I was writing "When Sparks Fly." 

One of two ridiculously delish desserts we sampled.

The three of us had a wondrous time consuming massive amounts of caloric heaven and listening to Otto Miller, who stopped by our table and regaled us with stories about life in the restaurant trade.  He helped launch Q39's, where champion BBQ chef Rob McGee holds court.  Missouri's own Brad Pitt was "once a roommate of mine back in the day," Otto told us.  "He still owes me $32. "

The mysterious sink installation at Chez SJG

Today I return to Los Angeles, to see what's been going down in the 'hood.  Hubby mentioned something about the surprise installation of a sink.  I'm so happy that happened off-camera.  

In Pursuit of Barbecue

"Oh, no.  Oklahoma Joe's is closed."

 "What are you telling me, Cathy?
"How can Oklahoma Joe's be closed?  Sunday is barbecue day."
"Check again."
"Closed on Sunday."
"@#$%!"
"Anthony Bourdain said it's one of the top 13 places to eat before you die."
"Stop."
"USA Today, New York Times and the Denver Post said it's the best barbecue in America."
"I wonder if I can get a flight out today."
"I'd make the smoked chicken salad my execution meal."
"Who said that?"
"Me."
"I'm going upstairs to pack."
"At least you'll avoid the long line.  It's 45 minutes just to place your order."
"Oh, eff that."
"Hang on.  We could go to Jack Stack's."

"For pancakes?"
"For barbecue."
"Sell me."
"It's Number 2.  And you don't have to wait in line, which you're too intolerant to do, anyway."
"You got that right, sistah."
"You still want that ride to the airport?"
"Not till tomorrow."

Because, Because, Because...

... Because it's the 75th anniversary of "The Wizard of Oz..."

Cathy and I followed the red brick road....

.
.. to hear this gal right here sing "Over the Rainbow."

Along the way, we bumped into another SJG:  Alice Lieberman, Dallas-born and spunky as hell.  The two SJGs spoke a bissel Yiddish, we kvetched a bit, and Alice taught me some fab new expressions, courtesy of the Lone Star State:  "Shoot it, bag it, dress it, eat it."
And my personal favorite:  "... Since dirt was new and God was in shorts."  We also did a height comparison.  At 5'1" and change, I tower over her.  It's so nice to be the tall one.

Unhitch Those Trailers!

The SJG steps into Foxtrot, owned by the lovely
and persuasive Caroline, who encourages me to buy
two pairs of sassy summer shoes.  

I'm learning so many things during my trip to Lawrence, Kansas.  Such as?  "Unhitch those trailers!" comes courtesy of Cathy's daughter Emily, who says it in the car, apropos of nada.  What the what does it mean?  Pretty much "get a move on."  Well, I love it so much I add my own SJG signature. "Unhitch those trailers, bitches!" just sounds better, don't you think?

Unmasking the essence of T-h-e-a-t-e-r at Theatre Lawrence

At Merchants Pub & Plate: Dan of the Amazing Handlebar Moustache, 

the friendliest waiter in the known universe.

Sometimes the SJG mixes up food names.  Sinatra stands in for
cilantro.  And last night, Fried Oprah subs for Fried Okra.  

My first, and hopefully last visit to a sports bar, where 18 different athletic events compete on giant flat screens.  "Get me out of here," I scream.  "I don't belong here."  Cathy's husband Rex escorts me out of the building and tells me to wait in the car. 

What Goes Around, Comes Around

Storm-watching with Cathy and Lucy 

After a nice uneventful flight, I arrive in Lawrence, Kansas.  Cathy greets me with a big hug and ongoing storm updates.  She even shows me a map that predicts exactly when the torrential rain will hit.  "You're scaring me," I say, and focus on the Baggage Carousel, one of my favorite places to experience humanity and all its quirks in close proximity.

Up first:  The little boy standing next to me plops his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpack onto the carousel, just to watch it go round and round.  His mother tries to contain her fury, after he asks for the 18th time when his backpack will come back.  It's tempting to tell him, "Never," but I don't want to add to his mother's overall loss of control. Plus, I'm a little worried about the backpack now.  What if the universe decides at that moment to teach that boy a valuable, Joni M lesson?  As in, "Don't it always seems to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone?"

The universe shows mercy.  The backpack comes back, much like the Teenage Mutant Turtles, popular when the eldest was the youngest, enjoying his status as only child.  Well, that didn't last long, did it? The first time he met his little brother, all he could think of was what I had been telling him -- for nine months of pregnancy -- that the baby would have a gift for him.  Good thing at nearly four years old, he didn't question the logic of such a miracle.  Upon viewing his brand new baby brudda, he got down to basics.  "You said something about a gift?" he asked, channeling my Russian grandmother.  Magically, I produced the gift his new rival had managed to procure, in-utero:  A teenage mutant ninja turtle toy.  What goes around comes around, be it backpack or big-time nostalgia.

Welcome To SJG International

Wrong name, right airport

Well, I'll be "D," as my daddy used to say.  Check out the following heartfelt announcement I heard blasting on the loud speakers, as I stepped foot in the airport:  "Welcome, Short Jewish Gal. We are so excited you've chosen our airport from which to depart. We're sorry we were unable to change the name to SJG International on such short notice.  During your stay with us at LAX, we'll do our best to keep things quiet, peaceful, pretty and above all, not that annoying. We'll instruct anyone within earshot of you to keep it down and not to invade your personal space. Here at LAX, we understand that you, the SJG, are a person of very low tolerance and that just about everything and anything bugs the sh*t out of you.  Let's face it, you are person unsuited to travel, and yet here you are, again, which means we at LAX are stuck with you for the duration.  Where are you going again?  It must be in our vast computer system.  Oh, right.  Kansas. Knowing you, you're probably going to Kansas just so you can finally say, 'I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore,' the second your return flight takes off. Knowing you, you've probably waited your entire life to say it, legitimately. In any event, please feel free to roam about the airport at your leisure, and spend lots of money at our wonderful novelty shops. A newspaper will cost you $150, but who cares? You're worth it. Welcome to LAX.  Now leave."

Where You Goin'?

Say what?  You heard me.  I'm goin' to Kansas.  Lawrence, Kansas.  At last, I'm going to the hometown of the one, the only Cathy Hamilton, the original Boomer Girl, my co-conspirator in silliness.  As I've noted a few hundred times before, Cathy just gets me to do stuff.  She shleps me out of my comfy zone.  "Wanna write a play together?" I think about it for all of two seconds.  Even though I've never written a play, I don't hesitate.  "Hell, yes."  "Wanna meet me in Santa Fe?"  Again, I react, accordingly.  "Well, why the eff not?"  This explains why I'm heading to Lawrence, Kansas, where, God willing, our play, "It's All About the Hair," will debut... at some point in the near future, kina hora, poo poo poo.  We wanted to call it "Hair," but that title's taken.  My logic here is simple:  My dad had a play performed in Kansas once.  Why shouldn't I follow suit?  Of course, what we've cooked up isn't a traditional play. We've done vignettes, monologues and whatnot about women and hair, and all the hilarity and pain of maintaining a decent 'do.  And so, I'm going to Kansas.  Lawrence, Kansas.  I'm going to Kansas City, too.  I'm going wherever Cathy wants me to go.  She's the captain of this trip. I'm just the co-playwright.

Under The Chuppah

This summer, it's been slim pickings, TV-wise, am I right?  Still, there's one show I'm completely obsessed with, and once you read about it, maybe you'll start watching it, too, so we'll have something to discuss next time I bump into you at Gelson's or CVS or at my next probation hearing.  Here's everything you need to know about "Under the Chuppah," a sci-fi, Stephen Kingstein spin on life beneath a huge invisible canopy of guilt and shame and angst like you wouldn't believe.

When this ominous cloak of "Oy Veysmere, You've Got to be Kidding" descends out of nowhere, it's clear to the people of Kugelsberg that God is very, very angry.  The trapped townsfolk don't know whether to dance the hora, sing "Sunrise, Sunset" and yell "L'chaim!" till they drop, or run for their lives.  They decide to run, they aren't dummies, but all that running doesn't get them too far, thanks to the afore-mentioned Scary-Ass Chuppah. Bam! They smack into an invisible barrier and the results are less than encouraging.  There's a lot of groaning and damaged keppies from all that bumping into bupkis.