Lost in the Cloud

Dear Tech Support,
Like a dummy, I got a little distracted and forgot to backup my perspective and now I've lost it in the Cloud. Without this file, I tend to dwell in a dark place. It's Doom & Gloomsville. It's Why Don't They Choose Someone Else for a Change? Without this file, there's no silver lining. Everything just looks nebulous. Please help me retrieve my lost perspective. There's a nice kugel in it for you.
Thanks,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
You haven't lost your perspective. It's just stuck in the Cloud. Getting it back is easy-peasy. Simply click Backup Settings and select the Tab called File Selection. Then select "Manual Selection." Up pops a window to your soul, where you'll be able to see what files have already been selected, with or without your permission. All those names you can't remember? They're in there. All those brain cells you took for granted? You can get those back, too. Simply click Retrieve, followed by OK, followed by Pretty Please. Then simply go back to the Backup App and see if your Perspective File has magically reappeared. If it hasn't, simply click I Give Up and create a new file we can lose for you at a later date.
Good luck,
Tech Support

Sock It To Me?

When the college son's socks go missing, as his socks often do, choosing to hide inside pant legs or shoes, under the bed or in the DMZ of his closet, he raids his father's sock drawer. This has been going on for a while now, at least a decade, but who's counting? Normally, the raid takes place in broad daylight. In terms of a stealth mission, it lacks the necessary stealthiness. It's not quite up to CIA standards. Unless it happens at 5 a.m., as it did this morning. Then it's less a raid and more of a rude awakening that elicits the following SJG response:
"Wha-the-@#$%-huh?"
"Sorry, sorry. I need socks."
The mention of socks lessens the SJG's early morning disorientation.
"Oh, hi honey, I love you, make a good movie."
Then I go back to sleep, sort of.  Hubby is now wide awake, already putting his jeans on, ready to help in any way, and asking the pertinent questions.
"What time do you want me to bring lunch?"
You see, hubby is the caterer on the college son's senior project, a 10-minute short he must film in three days, each one beginning around, you guessed that right, 5 a.m. Hubby performs other tasks, as well, including, but not limited to, prop master, go-fer and continuity expert. The SJG supervises the whole mess, excuse me, process, from afar, issuing supportive texts from the comfort of my palatial estate, such mini-pep talks as "Yay!" and "Woo-hoo!" I've already done my job, as Highly Qualified Script Adviser, with such helpful notes as, "That comma should go there," and "Make sure your main character wears his own socks. That's important to his arc."

Who's Stalking Me Now?

Snap, snap, snap, everywhere I go. It's such a nuisance, you have no idea. I can’t even leave my house without someone taking my photo. I go about my day, I hear that sound embedded in my brain. Click, click. I look around, I know they’re there, somewhere, hiding in the bushes, lurking behind shopping carts, balancing from telephone polls, hoping to steal a shameful shot of me, maybe make a few million bucks in exchange.

To A Doctor...

You're no doctor. But you're cute, so who cares?

Dear SJG,
I'm thinking about getting the flu shot today, but I'm afraid I might get the flu from the shot. I'm torn and bewildered and not all that well-informed. I heard you've got a medical degree from a little-known boutique med school in Sherman Oaks. What are your thoughts?

Thanks,
Already Feeling Achy

Polly wants a flu shot

Dear Achy,
My medical degree from the prestigious SJG School of Hypochondria qualifies me to answer any and all health-related questions and act like I know what I'm talking about, even though I get most of my info from WebMD. But then, doesn't everybody?

The world is divided into two categories. Those who get the flu shot and those who don't. I get the shot because it's written in the Torah that I must, and I do what the Torah tells me to do. I'm that kind of Jew.

God forbid the flu shot doesn't kick in the second you get it, and you're exposed to the virus as you leave CVS. You wind up with the flu. I have it on good authority (my own) that this rarely happens, but leave it to you, Achy, to be the one person it happens to, and then, knowing you, you'll tell everyone, "I got the flu shot and got the flu,"and now, thanks to you, no one gets the shot and everyone gets sick and guess whose fault it is? Yours.

What kind of person are you, anyway?

My advice: Get the shot. Just get it. Why are we even having this conversation? And as an added precaution, never leave your house. That way you'll never get the flu. You might be lonely, but you'll have your health, and that's everything.

You're welcome,
The SJG

I'm Late, I'm Late

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
All the Valley Jews are ready to congregate.
They've been searching for parking since quarter past eight.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
Should I save him a seat, or leave it up to fate?
He can't get in without me, so he'll have to wait.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
I lost my Star of David in the sidewalk grate.
On Rosh Hashanah morning, I'm in such a state.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
I might just get there faster if I roller skate.
The wheels would make me taller, wouldn't that be great?

I'm off to the synagogue! 

Just In Time For Rosh Hashanah

In the SJG's vast email receptacle, came this cryptic message:

May you & yours be inscribed in The Book of Life for another year of health & happiness.
Love,
Not the Rabbi's  Son

Well, if that isn't apples-dipped-in-honey sweet, what is? Not sure of the sender, I immediately wrote back, for I was raised properly:

Thank you so much.  I wish you the same, whoever you are.
Love,
Not the Rabbi's Daughter

Then I started to think, a sometimes dangerous endeavor, about what a wonderful new line of clothing this would make. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Jeans. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Shabbat Shalom Sweater Set. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's High Holiday Dress. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Yoga Pants.

Is this the greatest idea ever? Am I onto something, or what? So much subtler than Not Your Daughter's Jeans, don't you think? I mean, for those of us who don't have daughters, who live in a manly zone of testosterone, why would I want to wear those kind of jeans, even if they make me look "noticeably slimmer"? But then, Not Your Son's Jeans wouldn't be a big selling point, either.

Before I got too carried away with this awesome get-rich scheme, I decided to track down the sender of the mysterious Rosh Hashanah message. Aha! It came from the Comedy Writer's Son, kinder than kugel, sweeter than Manichewitz wine. My brother John, of course. I wish you the same, hon. I wish you all the same.

Happy Jewish New Year, Bitches! Wait, that didn't come out right. Happy Jewish New Year! (Better?)

Apropos of Nothing

Just before heading upstairs to get ready for beddy, I said this, apropos of nothing: "Boutros Boutros-Ghali!" "Where did that come from?" hubby asked. "I have no idea. I will investigate and get back to you." Junior detective that I am, I went in search of an answer. These days, it's so nice when you can find one. Answers can be so elusive, don't you think? Of course you do. I'm so glad we agree. Hubby, a student of the world, reminded me that B.B.G. once served as Secretary-General of the U.N. (He just knows stuff.) But the SJG, a student of People Magazine and HGTV, suspected this exclusive info had little to do with B.B.G.'s sudden appearance in my keppy. Unless, pre-Atonement, some force from above decided to float a random reminder my way: Strive for diplomacy each and every day. Hmmm. Your thoughts? Exactly. No connection whatso. And then it hit me. The other night, I'd watched "Seinfeld," as I do many nights. The episode in question takes place in the Hamptons. When Jerry, Kramer and Elaine see a half-naked woman on the beach, Jerry says, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali." (Jerry pronounces Ghali "golly.") So there you have it. For the next few days, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali" will be my go-to expression... until I get to temple and start atoning for my lack of diplomacy, among other things.

The Early Bird Rosh Hashanah Dinner

"The Early Bird catches the chopped liver."

The SJG family, a tight knit group of enthusiasts and rule-breakers, likes to move the Jewish calendar around when it doesn't suit our schedule. Why wait till the real Rosh Hashanah eve to consume too much food? Why not shift such a celebration to a more convenient night? Take last night. Early Bird Rosh Hashanah dinner at my mother-in-law's involved chopped liver and chicken soup that turned out to be turkey soup with a matzoh ball. "I'm re-writing the rules," my M.I.L. announced, and it wouldn't be the first time. She likes to do that when it comes to cooking. "There are ginger snaps in the stuffed cabbage," she told us moments later. "Ginger?" her youngest son asked.  "No, ginger snaps." "You mean ginger snap cookies?" I asked, getting a little worried. "Yes. I saw it a recipe." Well, why not? Turned out to be delish. Just between us, I couldn't detect any ginger snaps in the stuffed cabbage, which may have been a good thing, but it was fun knowing they were in there. Then came the tzimmes-inspired non-tzimmes. "Don't make a tzimmes," my brother John said, and it wouldn't be the first time. "It's not tzimmes," my M.I.L said. Sure, there were carrots, but not the rest of the dish. It was tzimmes-adjacent, much like the evening itself. In a nearby neighborhood of Rosh Hashanah, but not quite the same zip code. Early Bird or perfectly in sync with the calendar, a sweet way to bring in a new year that with a nice helping of mazel, will go a little better than the one before... God willing.

Better You Than Me

If you’ve ever been in a crowded waiting room full of fat, unhappy women, and by fat and unhappy I mean nine-months pregnant, you know how vicious it can get. There’s never been a more miserable, or competitive group in history. Pregnant women compare belly size, varicose veins, weight gain, intestinal gas and due dates.

How To Give A Good Hug

The manliest of hugs

The SJG is a big hugger from way back. I hug hello. I hug goodbye. I'm a certified hugger. This hugging thing is usually well-received. But it's great to have a handy instructional video courtesy of Buzzfeed, as a refresher course. God forbid I'm hugging the wrong way. The ultimate shanda! Double click for full hug.

Short Circuit: Sherman Oaks

I've looked better

Yesterday: 106 and the a/c goes out.  Seriously? And now I'm outside, melting like the Wicked Witch. Cursing the world and the circuit box I'm staring at, while hubby tells me over the phone what to do.
"Switch the circuits to the right and then switch them to the left."
"I did that already."
"Try again."
"Okay, I'll call you back."
I do-wacka-do, go inside, attempt to turn on the a/c. Nada.
"Hi, honey. It's me."
"Did that work?"
"No."
"Are you at the circuit box?"
"No... oh God, do I have to go outside again?"
"It would help."
"I'm here. Ouch. The cover just hit my nose. That's gonna leave a mark."
"It should stay open."
"It doesn't. What now?"
"Switch just the a/c circuits to the right and then the left."
"Which ones are those?"
"The big ones. They should be numbered."
"Nothing says a/c."
"It has to."
"Oh, wait. It says 18 and 19 are for a/c. But there's no 18 or 19 marked."
"You have to count each one."
"Oh, dear God. It's so eff'n hot."
"I'll come home."
"No, I can do this. I'll call you back."
I count, I switch, I shvitz, I go back inside, I try to turn on the a/c. Nada.
"Me again. I got bupkis."
"I'm coming home."
"No, don't. I can survive a few hours of Death Valley heat. Stay put."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
Fifteen minutes later, I hear the garage door open. Hubby to the rescue. He goes outside, works his magic, and the a/c is back on.
"Why didn't it work for me?"
"I don't know."
"Should I take it personally?"
"I wouldn't."
"I know you wouldn't. That's why it worked for you and not for me."

Ten Things I Won't Be Doing Today

"According to my crystal ball, it will cool down at some point."

1. Wearing a sweater.
2. Shopping for an electric blanket.
3. Parading around the house in thick flannel jammies.
4. Chopping wood for the fire.
5. Saying, "Brrrrr, it's so chillster."
6. Donning my faux fur apparel.
7. Searching for my lost pair of Uggs.
8. Accepting the Chicken Soup Challenge.
9. Slipping hand warmers into my gloves.
10. Insulating myself against the elements.

Season Finale!

Tonight on the season finale of "The Shvitzer," a case of free-floating agitation results when a short Jewish gal signs herself out of the Sherman Oaks Kvetch Ward in search of a working air conditioner. Now Shanda and the Priority Pickers, a successful klezmer group that dabbles in detective work, must find the short Jewish gal, last seen wandering the frozen foods aisle at Gelson's, and convince her the heat wave will end before the High Holidays hit in a week.

As Shanda sorts through the complicated details surrounding the short Jewish gal's hormonal imbalance and iffy internal temperature gage, out of whack since her mid-40s, she discovers that a member of her own klezmer group may have tampered with her prized accordion. But Shanda may have bigger problems when she suddenly faints from heat exhaustion and must be resuscitated by an extraordinarily hot paramedic, who turns out to be Herschel, her third cousin twice removed. So much for love at first sight.

Help Yourself

"By any chance, did you just spend $500 at Victoria Secret?"

"Are you kidding?"
"$400 at Sephora?"
"That's a lot of makeup."
"What about Hot Dog on a Stick?"
"You know I don't eat hot dogs."
"Were you just at the mall?"
"I was just on the sofa. I'm still on the sofa."
"So you didn't leave your American Express card somewhere?"
"Uh, no. What's going on?"
"I got a text alert. Some a-hole went apesh*t with your account."
"What the eff?! But how?"
"Who knows."
"So someone went on a crazy-ass shopping spree with my card? Even though it's still in my wallet?"
"Apparently."
"What is wrong with people?"
"So much."
"Be honest, honey. Are you a little disappointed it wasn't me dropping dollars at Victoria Secret?"
"There's still time. The mall's open till 9."
"But I'm so comfy on the sofa."

Both Sides Now

That thrilling moment when you discover that the shorts hubby bought with the college son (while you were chilling elsewhere) are actually reversible -- does it get any better than that? The last time the term "reversible" entered my consciousness arrived courtesy of Robert Wagner, extolling the virtues of reversible mortgages on TV. I didn't understand it then. I don't understand it now. But reversible shorts, I totally get. Two shorts for the price of one? That's cause for celebration.

It's the little things in life that make the SJG happy. And the fact that neither hubby nor the college son knew the shorts were reversible? Even better. Something else to lord over them? I'll take it. It all came out in the pre-wash. I turned the shorts inside out, like any good Jewish laundress should, and went a little bit loopy with glee. "Oh, dear God in heaven! These shorts are reversible!" I said. "Can you eff'n believe these shorts are reversible?" "That's great, Ma," the shorts owner said. "How many more times you gonna say it?" "I think I'm done." Then I said it a few more times. I think it's out of my system now. Maybe.

The First Time

It makes me blush just to think about it, the first time I plugged it in, turned it on, stroked its keys and stared longingly into its dreamy green screen. Sigh. What a magical moment. Life-changing, if you must know. I didn't know what to expect, of course. In the early '80s, no one knew. But I was ready. I was so ready. I'd spent college with something that disappointed me, nightly. My first typewriter, electric, no less. A Smith-Corona with the side-loading, snap-in cartridge. Fancy-schmancy. The endless hours I spent, banging away on that thing. The rookie mistakes I made. I was young. I relied too heavily on the correctable cartridge with the white ribbon. It failed me often. Left white blotches on the paper. Didn't cover up the typos. It's hard to romanticize such an unsatisfactory experience.

After college, I'd had it, but my Smith Corona hadn't. It refused to leave.  No matter how many times I moved, it tagged along. So I kept using it. My first newspaper job, I still used it. I wrote my first freelance articles on it, too. I can still hear myself swearing into the night. And then, word got around. Writer-types were talking about the Kaypro. The Kaypro II. Well, I started to get jealous. I wanted a Kaypro. A Kaypro II.  So I got one. My very first computer. A gift from God. A mysterious thing, otherworldly and glowing. I loved my Kaypro. My Kaypro II. But then, like all good things, I started to take it for granted. I expected a little too much from it. I expected perfection. On my part, a misstep. One day, a day I was on deadline with a magazine article, it just crashed. Suddenly, the screen went all squiggly and funky hieroglyphics appeared. But the message was clear: You Are Screwed. It was D.O.A. Done. Toast. Finito. My Kaypro II was kaput.

Heartbroken, I went on to get another computer. I had no choice, but I can't for the life of me remember which one. It certainly wasn't a Kaypro III. The company went bankrupt before the '80s ended. But the founder Andrew Kay, he lived on and on. And on. He died yesterday at the age of 95. So thank you, Mr. Kay, thank you for giving me my first computer. I loved it then. I love it now. Without my Kaypro, my Kayrpo II, where would I be? I shudder to think about it. Your guess is as good as mine.

A Short Jewish Gal Walks Into...

A short Jewish gal walks into a bar.  "Ouch!" she says. "That's gonna leave a bruise."

An onion bagel and a slice of lox walk into a bar.  The bartender says, "Sorry, we don't serve food here."

A short Jewish gal walks in a bar after a long day of worrying over nothing and orders a drink. After her first sip, she hears a high-pitched voice.

"Hey, lady! Nice pants!"

The SJG looks around, doesn't see anyone, and shrugs it off.  After a little bit, she takes another sip and hears the voice again.

"Hey, lady! Sweet shoes!"

Again, she looks around, sees no one but the bartender helping other customers.  She shakes her head and sips once more.

"Hey, lady!  Cool shirt!"

She puts her drink down and signals to Moishe the bartender, who comes over.

"Nu?" Moishe says.

"What is that high-pitched voice I keep hearing?"

"Oh, those are the peanuts.  They're complimentary."

A Not-So Nice Brisket

What's going on under there?

Last night, I gave myself such a fright. I dreamed I made the brisket for Rosh Hashanah wrong. It's not that easy to mess up a brisket, people. But in my dream, I messed up with the wine. As the world knows, the SJG Brisket involves Manischewitz and lots of it. Red Manischewitz. I pour the wine, I splash it on, generously, I douse in ketchup and Lipton's onion soup mix, I wrap it all in foil, stick it in the oven and forget about it for many hours. It's no fail, people. The only way you can eff up this simple recipe is if you forget to turn on the oven.

But I know you. We're close. You're too smart for that. You probably have post-its all over the house: "Don't be a shmeggege! Turn on the oven, fool!" I have the utmost confidence in your brisket-making abilities. Unless you do what I did in my dream.  Or maybe we should call it a nightmare. I took my brisket out of the oven, unwrapped the foil and it looked funny. It was a white brisket, cooked in white wine. Shanda! This was a brisket unworthy of your worst enemy: "Here, I made you an awful brisket, you crapshtinkah. Enjoy." But you wouldn't do that, would you? You're too nice to deliver such a misguided Rosh Hashanah brisket, even to someone you despise.

So, now we come to the meaning of it all. What does a white brisket symbolize, dream-wise? Is it a reminder not to tell little white lies I'll have to atone for during the High Holidays? As in, "That purple Mohawk is so you!" Or, "I love that you still have a tree stump on your front lawn. It's so rustic." Or, "I'm so glad you dropped by and asked me for a donation to your 'Send Us to Paris So We Can Eat Cheese' campaign. If I decide to cash out an Israeli bond for this noble cause, I'll let you know." Lies, people. Little white lies. They get us in such trouble. Yes, I think that's what my dream means. Either that, or it's telling me: "Don't make brisket this year, let your mother-in-law do it."

What Do You Got?

My namesake: Carol Merrill 

This morning I offered hubby the candelabra or the scandalabra. He wanted details. He's detail-driven. I gave him the breakdown. "The candelabra is silver, plus I'll throw in the matching silver tchotchkes." "Tell me more." "That's all I got. Oh. Daily polishing required if you want to see your own shiny reflection." "What do I get with the scandalabra?" "The question is what don't you get?" "Meaning?" "You can pick from a vast catalogue of scandals, whereas the candelabra comes 'as is.'" "Tell me more." "Basically, it's the gift that keeps on giving. You want a football scandalabra?" "NFL or college?" "We got both.  Or maybe you're in the mood for a National Enquirer-style, nail-biting celebrity scandal." "I didn't know celebrities bite their nails." "It's covered up, for the most part. Hence, the scandal." "What else?" "You want a royal scandalabra? Even if there isn't one we'll make something up." "I'm not comfortable with that." "Then you don't have to pick it.  Maybe you'd prefer a culinary scandalabra, straight out of 'Master Chef.' Or you might like a juicy political scandalabra. That's always fun. An international scandalabra might be more up your alley. Or maybe you'd like us to dial it down for you, make it a little closer to home. A neighborhood scandalabra, perhaps?" "Yea, like who called the cops on us for hogging half-a-parking spot with a bin full of concrete for three eff'n days." "Now you're catching on." "I mean, really, people? Don't you a-holes have something better to do than call the cops on us?" "Don't get too worked up, honey.  It's time for you to make your choice. Candelabra or scandalabra?  What's it gonna be?" "I choose Door #1." "That's not an option, honey." "It should be."

A Short, Silly Patio Poem

The patio's done, but the grass is dead.
The BBQ's done, but the grass is dead.
We should've just paver'd the yard, instead.
The patio's done, but the grass is dead. 

The After Party

Dressed up for the after party

Where do the famous ones go when they go? Does anybody know? Is there a special reserved section just for them? I'm picturing Joan Rivers and Lauren Bacall, a short Jew and a very tall one, sipping tea and laughing, and Robin Williams reuniting with Jonathan Winters. Sid Caesar's over in the corner, hanging with Imogen Coca, Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. I'm picturing an epic after party. I see Joan tracking down Johnny Carson, who's hanging with Merv and Mike Douglas and Jack Paar. And Joan looks Johnny in the eye, and says, "Oh, grow up." And maybe at last, after all these years, he forgives her for going for it, her own late night show. He lets bygones be just that. Gone. Where do the famous ones go when they go? Who knows? Nobody. But it's fun to think about, just the same. It's better than thinking about Joan's funeral today. Much better.

Again With The Cone?

Dusty ponders what's up with the damn cone

This morning, I received the following testy text from a certain pissed-off pup: "Seri-assly, SJG? Why you gotta be so mean? I always thought you were the Nice One. All those maternal tendencies. All that silly kissy-face talk. Now I realize it's just a big con, 'cuz here I am with the damn Cone of Shame. Again. Just 'cuz I lick too much? Just 'cuz I make a little trouble for myself? According to my birth certificate, I'm a dog. Licking comes with the territory. Licking, sniffing, digging. It's all part of my charm. So here's an idea. How about you wear the cone for a day and see how it feels? How about you wear the cone for two days? How about you wear it for an entire eff'n week and get back to me? Or, here's another idea. How about I promise not to lick as much as I like to and then I won't make any more hot spots? Gimme a chance. Pleeeez! Just take the cone off my head, like, right now, and I'll be good. Come on, you know you want to do it. Love, Dusty xoxo"

A Fearless Short Jewish Gal

"Never be afraid to laugh at yourself, after all, you could be missing out on the joke of the century."

"I have become my own version of an optimist. If I can't make it through one door, I'll go through another door - or I'll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present."

The Parky Pokey

You put your two cars in,
You put the young one's out,
You put your two cars in,
And leave the first born's out.
You do the Parky Pokey,
And you hear your neighbor shout.
That's what it's all about.

You turn your left wheel in,
You turn your left wheel out,
Your turn your left wheel in,
Take your keys and get out.
You do the Parky Pokey
And you hear your neighbor shout.
That's what it's all about.

You put your two cars in,
You put the young one's out,
You put your two cars in,
And leave the first born's out.
You do the Parky Pokey,
And you hear your neighbor shout.
That's what it's all about.

Temper, Temper

I spotted the hole first. I'm that observant. I'm always on the lookout for trouble. Of course, I can't speak for the other dancer gals. On a Tuesday night that felt like Monday, it was a miracle any of us showed up. But that hole, by George, it got my attention. I saw it and I knew, instinctively, someone had punched the sh*t out of the wall. That hole screamed temper tantrum. That hole meant hand injury and blood, emergency room visit and stitches. That hole symbolized a whole highly dramatic scenario. Had some crazed ballerina done a wonky triple pirouette and smashed the crap out of that wall in frustration? It seemed unlikely.

But who else would've taken their anger out on a wall in a dance studio? Then I remembered the studio has hosted many interesting activities over the years. Puppy-training. Beauty contestants. But Wall Punchers Anonymous? It seemed unlikely. My dancer friends didn't know bupkis about the hole. So I did a little investigating. I turned to the one, the only Doug Rivera, our teacher extraordinaire, and hooked him into my latest obsession."Dougie, go find out who put that hole in the wall." Good thing he does whatever I tell him to do. Out the door he went, and seconds later, came back with an explanation. The exposed plaster, the fist-sized hole was the work of a mad Russian acting student. An over-emoter. Someone getting really, really into a scene.

".... so go ahead and smash the wall if it feels good."

Doug began to speculate what kind of acting class had led to the infamous hole: Stanislavski? Strasberg? Adler? Meisner? Was it an example of Affective Memory and Substitution? Past emotions to generate current emotions? Was it a Brando moment? James Dean? Paul Newman? Pacino? We may never know. But we know enough, don't we? And now, onto my next obsession: How long till that hole is fixed?

A Short Week

If it's Tuesday, it must be Wednesday.

It's a going to be one of those weeks. A short week. A week where every day, I wonder what day it is. Take today for example. Today feels like Monday. But it's not Monday, bitches. It's Tuesday. Tomorrow will feel like Tuesday. But it won't be Tuesday. It will be...wait, don't tell me. Wednesday? Yes, Wednesday. All week it will be one of those weeks. A short week. A week where I'm slightly off my game. By Saturday, which will feel like Friday, I may or may not have figured this week out. By Sunday, which will feel like Saturday, I'll be counting the days till the week is over. And then a new week will begin.

A few survival tips to get you through this short week:
1. Act taller.
2. Don't take any nude selfies.
3. If someone asks what day it is, say, "Who wants to know?"
4. Don't send any nude selfies to loved ones.
5. Keep your clothes on till next week.

Ready To Push

Well, that's one way to get the baby out.

Dear SJG,
At the neighborhood block party today, I'm bringing a nice salad and planning to recreate giving birth. I've been rehearsing my interpretative "Ooo, Baby Baby" hora daily. I've hired a Bar Mitzvah DJ and everything. But my husband thinks this is a terrible idea -- the interpretative baby hora, not the salad. I keep telling him it's Labor Day, silly, what's the problem? I need your guidance.
Thanks,
Ready to Push

Dear Pushy,
I see nothing wrong with bringing a nice salad, as long as you put the dressing on the side. People are so picky these days. God forbid you should douse the lettuce with a little too much balsamic vinaigrette. It could lead to a brawl. The interpretative baby hora does sound fun, and totally appropriate for a block party with little children running around. Just make sure your hospital gown stays tied in the back, and remember to share the epidural with everyone.
You're Welcome,
The SJG