Hotel SJG

Welcome to Hotel SJG, where we cater to your every need, and even those needs you don't even know about. Fresh towels. Fresh sheets. Fresh bagels. Hot and cold running water. The comforting sound of a dog barking in the early morning, in the mid-afternoon, and in the evening. Free Wi-Fi. Free advice. Free shoe shine. Free ironing. Free everything. Where else would you find rates so reasonable? All we ask of our current guest is that he keeps his world renown farting routine to a minimum.

That Dress Thing

The SJG doesn't understand so many things, ocular and otherwise. Like this dress issue sweeping the world. A gal posts a photo of a dress and asks a simple question. Is this dress white and gold or blue and black? What's to debate? To the SJG, the dress is clearly white and gold. Except it isn't. It's blue and black. Here's the full explanation, if you're interested. All I know is, the dress is so ridiculously white and gold. Except it isn't. It's blue and black. But it can't be. It just can't! I'm going back to bed. Wake me when it's over.

Say Prunes!

Such a happy prune.

Pretty much my whole life, whenever my dad took our picture, he'd tell us to say, "PFLAUMEN!" 

The German word for prunes, pflaumen sounded like "fly-men." 

Here are my grandparents, caught mid-pflaumen. The mere mention of pflaumen made anyone within my dad's Kodak Instamatic range crack up. He wanted real smiles and moments. But that still doesn't explain pflaumen, does it? Hang on, you. I'm getting to it. According to my dad, "in the olden days," photographers would tell their long-seated subjects to say, "Prunes," to achieve a nice smile. At some point, who knows when, the comedy writer changed prunes to pflaumen. Much funnier, don't you agree?

I Just Can't See Myself

... with someone who doesn't recycle.

This morning, as hubby heads out the door, he informs me of his intentions.
"I'm going to recycle this box."
"As long as you don't recycle me."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."

How To Look Less Old

Dear SJG,
The nice people at Punim Enterprises would like to wish you a big fat Mazel Tov on winning the Oscar Pool on Sunday. A hundred and sixty dollars is nothing to sneeze at. Why not double, or better yet, triple your money by investing your gelt with us? The timing couldn't be more perfect. Punim Enterprises is just about to launch a new product that will put us on the beauty map. With a little financial help from you (and many, many others), we can roll out our mitzvah in a bottle in time for Mother's Day.

The miracle elixir in question: Rapidly Aging Punim Reversal, a concentrated anti-aging serum that will correct uneven skin tone, deliver an otherworldly glow and wipe out all the life damage that's settled on your formerly younger face. Consistent usage of Rapidly Aging Punim Reversal will erase all signs of grief, parental aggravation and career frustration, plus make your complexion dewy.

So, please, SJG, put that win to good use. Invest with us and get a free bottle of Rapidly Aging Punim Reversal, which will retail for $399 if we ever get that first shipment out of Krapistan. A chance like this comes along maybe once in a lifetime. You don't want to spend the rest of your limited time on earth filled with regret, now do you? Of course not.

Thanks for your money in advance,
Punim Enterprises

Dear Punim Enterprises,
No.
Embracing my flaws,
The SJG

And The Winner Is...

Me, dammit. Me.

Well, well, here's one the Oscar experts never saw coming. The biggest surprise of the evening: The SJG won the Oscar pool gelt at Cousin Andy's. A hundred and sixty smackers, minus the forty we put in. So, a hundred and twenty smackers. Sweet victory. This was a huge moment for me, an Oscar party highlight, a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. I pretty much had the lead the whole show. Sure, I missed a few. I messed up here and there. But everyone else messed up so much more. Their ballots were a shameful, shameful embarrassment. My heart goes out to the losers. You know who you are. Names available upon request.

Oscar Predictions

The SJG predicts the following may or may not happen at the 2015 Academy Awards: Neil Patrick Harris will open with a lengthy musical tribute to "The Jews of Hollywood." Richard Linklater will announce his follow-up to "Boyhood" -- "Bar Mitzvah: A Thirteen Year Walk Toward the Bima." Meryl Streep will wear a vintage Oscar de la Renta made of tallises. Michael Keaton and Eddie Redmayne will pass out yarmulkes for the group celebrity selfie that will break the Internet for good.

Vote For Me

Look who stopped by.

Ding dong. Bark bark. Ding Dong. Bark bark.
"@#$%! Not another candidate for City Council. Hang on! Dusty, hush... Who is it?"
"Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette."
"Wait, what?!"
"It's Ethan Hawke and -- "
A quick check through the peephole. Spank my butt and call me Charlie. It really is them.
"Ethan, Patricia, hi. What a surprise."
"Hi, SJG," Ethan says.
"We're huge fans," Patricia says.
"Ditto. I loved you both in 'Boyhood.'"
"So you're going to vote for us?" Ethan asks.
"Vote for you? Please tell me you're not running for City Council, too?"
"I'm running for best supporting actor," Ethan says.
"And I'm running for best supporting actress," Patricia says.
"We're hoping you'll check our names on your ballot," Ethan says.
"Unless you've already filled it out," Patricia says.
"Not yet. I don't have to turn it in till we get to my cousin Andy's on Sunday."
"Cool. Then there's still time to win you over," Ethan says.
"We're really hoping you'll commit to voting for both of us," Patricia says.
"We're a package deal. If you vote for Patty, you have to vote for me, too," Ethan.
"Unless you only want to vote for me, which is fine, too." Patricia says.
"That's not how we rehearsed it," Ethan says.
"I know, but, look at her face. She's obviously conflicted," Patricia says.
"Patty's right, Ethan, sorry. I'm voting for J.K. Simmons in 'Whiplash.'"
 "You sure there's no way I can change your mind? Maybe throw some high-end Oscar swag your way? I've got the basket in my car. Lots of bling."
"Are you trying to buy my vote?"
"Absolutely," Ethan says.
"Oh, Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. I love me some bling. But you're missing the point, I'm afraid. Oscar pools aren't about who deserves to win. They're about guessing who will win. You gotta vote with your keppy, not your heart. You see the diff, big guy?"
"Yeah, I hear ya, SJG. What you're saying is, you'd rather vote for me than J.K., but you're voting for him because you think he'll win."
"Actually, he deserves to win and will win. Not that you're not good in 'Boyhood.' You are. But he's better in 'Whiplash.'"
"Wow, okay. Thanks for your honesty, SJG," Ethan says.
"Well, we hope you'll vote for 'Boyhood' for best picture," Patricia says.
"I haven't made up my mind yet, hon."
"Which way you leaning?" Ethan asks.
"'Boyhood' looked good for a while, but the prospects have dimmed. Everyone's predicting 'Birdman.' But 'American Sniper' has a shot, too. A shot. See what I did there?"
"We've gotta go, SJG. We've got a lot of voters to reach today," Patricia says.
"Thanks for stopping by, guys... good luck. Oh my God, is that Bradley Cooper coming up the walkway?! @#$%! I better go put on some makeup and a nice outfit. I can't let him see me like this. Tell him to wait, okay?"

"Vote for me, SJG."

If I Can't Sleep

If I can't sleep, I don't count sheep.
I think of Seinfeld and his peeps.
Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine.
Who won "Master of My Domain"?
"The Contest" went to George, hands down.
But George, that cheater, stole the crown.
In the end, it was Jerry S.
"Lord of the Manor"? Turns out, yes.

And Another Thing

It's true, I miss my daddy daily. Good thing he's all over my blog. Several years back, he sent me an email from a future groom's pissed-off mother to her future daughter-in-law (I wouldn't hold my breath) that went public. Extreme Anglophile that I am, I adore it on numerous levels. For full impact, read it with a hoity-toity British accent.

From: Carolyn Bourne
To: Heidi Withers
Subject: Your lack of manners

Here are a few examples of your lack of manners:
When you are a guest in another's house, you do not declare what you will and will not eat, unless you are positively allergic to something.
You do not remark that you do not have enough food.
You do not start before everyone else.
You do not take additional helpings without being invited to by your host.
When a guest in another's house, you do not lie in bed until late morning in households that rise early; you fall in line with house norms.
You should never ever insult the family you are about to join at any time and most definitely not in public. I gather you passed this off as a joke but the reaction in the pub was one of shock, not laughter.
You regularly draw attention to yourself. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.
No one gets married in a castle unless they own it. It is brash, celebrity-style behaviour.
I understand your parents are unable to contribute very much towards the cost of your wedding. (There is nothing wrong with that except that convention is such that one might presume they would have saved over the years for their daughters' marriages.) If this is the case, it would be most ladylike and gracious to lower your sights and have a modest wedding as befits both your incomes.
One could be accused of thinking that Heidi Withers must be patting herself on the back for having caught a most eligible young man. I pity Freddie.

The SJG Fraud Squad

Not the squad in question. But aren't they cool?

A jet-lagged SJG is a very dangerous thing. Proceed with caution, people, especially if you think you can eff with me. You cannot, capiche? You need an example. Fair enough. Consider the fraudulent fraud alert from a Major Banking Institution, right as I was heading out the door to dance my jet-lag away. The faker on the phone sounded pretty authentic, I'll give him that. He had my name and the last four digits of my debit card. There was ambient background noise, too. Fraud alert folks handling fraud, when actually, they were committing it, instead. Who knew? Me. But not right away. Then he started asking questions, and about a minute in, I turned the tables on him. "This isn't [insert name of Major Banking Institution]."

Oh. Hell. No. 

Whereupon the fake-ass bank dude said, "Yes, ma'am it is." "Uh, yeah, I don't think so," I said, and hung up, dramatically. Slam! Then I called the Major Banking Institution, and two reps and 25 minutes later, including a snarky exchange with their fraud squad, during which I had to keep proving my own identity, I felt semi-confident that my stupid debit card was blocked and my stupid new one was on the way. Not that I'll ever use it.

Sadly, given all the fraudulent phone activity, the jazz hands never made it out of the Sherman Oaks manse.

You may now weep on my behalf. 

Snow Day

Well, I felt like a little kid when I woke up yesterday morning and this highly picturesque view of Cathy's backyard greeted me. "Snow!" I yelled, running through the house. "Snow! Glorious snow!" For some reason, no one met my level of enthusiasm. Snow was not that big deal to the Hamiltons of Lawrence, Kansas. If anything, snow was a pain in the ass, a road hazard, an icy nightmare. Snow could delay my flight back to L.A. Snow threatened to keep me in my comfy home away from home forever. Would that have been such a bad thing? I'd already asked Cathy's adorable mom and step dad to adopt me. And they were considering it. Reviewing the paperwork I'd sent over. I'm pretty sure I was in. "I could be your Jewish daughter!" I told them. "I've always wanted to go to a Bat Mitzvah," Cathy's mom told her on the phone, as she mulled it over. (So far, no signature, but it's coming, people. I feel it.) I spent the next hour and a half explaining the difference between the Bar and the Bat to Cathy and her daughter Emily, a performance that included charades, a medley from "Fiddler on the Roof," a selection of hits from my Broadway musical, "Torah! Torah! Torah!" and a brief but rousing hora 'round their living room. I'm pretty sure they were sad to see me go. Except I think they paid the airport extra to clear the runway. So here I am, back home in Sherman Oaks, where snow is just not happening today, and that's probably a good thing.

The Cone of Shame in Kansas City

Sentenced to wear the cone of shame: Natalie Jensen

Rehearsal Time

Before

After

The Program

The playwrights: Cathy Hamilton and the SJG 

The Infamous Puffy Coat

Wisest shopping decision: the puffy coat, purchased online at a nice discount, perfect for those nippy, 21-degree Kansas mornings. Wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day from the Heartland. See what I did there? I came all the way here just to be able to say that. Who says I don't love you more than life itself?

What Happens In Lawrence...

Before and After

... Winds up in my blog, no matter how ridiculous. Seriously, people, this is what happens when I'm under the influence of Cathy Hamilton. She just gets me to do stuff, especially if I've had a little wine. Case in point: the above photo. Not how I wish to be remembered, and yet, here I am, posting these silly photos of my humble self, poking my head through "before and after" hairdo cut-outs -- props for our play, "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs." Of course, I wasn't the only model in this scenario. There are photos of Cathy poking her head through "before and after" cut-outs, too. Not that you'll ever see them. I'm under court order not to reveal them: "Don't you dare post these or you're sleeping outside," she said. Well, it's 20 degrees here, so I decided to heed her warning. I'm no dummy.

Welcome Back, SJG

Old-fashioned parade in Lawrence, Kansas 

that may, or may not be, in my honor 

On the phone yesterday, I reminded Cathy Hamilton, my Kansas-based co-conspirator, "I'm arriving Thursday at 4:05, God willing." Even though she currently feels like ka-ka, what with the sinus issues, she couldn't have been more elated. That is, until I asked her if all the important arrangements had been made on my behalf. "Your room is ready, Madame," she said. "Not those arrangements," I said. "I bought the real cream for your coffee, m'lady, per your instructions." "Not those arrangements, either," I said. "Then what arrangements are you talking about, your highness?" "The parade, Cathy." "What parade?" "The parade you promised to throw in my honor when I came back." "I never promised you a parade, missy." "You never promised me a rose garden. You did too promise me a parade." "I'll get right on it." "That's my girl."

Our first official performance: Valentine's Day
The Fish Tank in Kansas City 

Put Another Candle On...

Hmm... Looks like the bakery gave me the 

wrong birthday cake for hubby.

"Happy birthday, honey."
"Thank you."
"You are so much older than me."
"Not that much older."
"Would you like your birthday gifts now, old man?"
"Not yet."
"When?"
"When I'm more awake."
"When will that be?"
"I'll let you know."

Advice For The Lovelorn

Dear SJG,
Every year, I try my best to look gorgeous on Valentine's Day. I pull out my finest fishnets, my skintight couture, my sky-high stilettos. I slap on my purple eye shadow, smear on my shiny red lipstick, rouge my cheeks and tease my hair into a fetching beehive, and wait for romance. Still, no takers. What am I doing wrong?
Sincerely,
Still Single in Outer Monrovia

Dear Single,
It's all about location, location, location. This year, I suggest you stand on a street corner in Outer Monrovia, wave to passing cars, show a little leg and there's a good chance that love, or something in the vicinity, will find you. If the cops find you, instead, SJG Bail Bonds is just a phone call away.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
I'll be out of town on Valentine's Day. For the first time in 35 years, the man I gave my tender heart to so long ago will have to wing it alone. I'm concerned that he may spend the entire holiday weeping and/or scarfing all the Girl Scout Cookies I hid from him. What are the odds that he'll survive Valentine's Day without me?
Hugs,
Worried in Sherman Oaks

Dear Worried,
Take the cookies with you, leave him an extra box of Kleenex and call him every 15 minutes to make sure he hasn't fallen in love with someone else during your absence.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Mrs. Sherman Oaks Dethroned

A former Mrs. Sherman Oaks Rapidly Aging Beauty Queen is fighting in court to get her tiara back after claiming that pageant officials harassed her for packing on Girl Scout Cookie poundage. The cruelly dethroned Mrs. Sherman Oaks, aka the SJG, claimed pageant organizers told her to "get off the thin mints, you porker," the Associated Press reported.

Linda Bloomstein, president of the Mrs. Sherman Oaks organization, said that a recent rear-end photo of the SJG yielded "unfortunate" pictures that did the SJG "no favors." "I was born with this butt," said the SJG, in self-defense. "Plus, I can't help myself. Those Thin Mints... they're just too eff'n good."

But Bloomstein says they stripped the Mrs. Sherman Oaks 2015 sash from the SJG, "because she's left-handed and her thank-you notes for gifts are illegible. The fact that she sent the wrong message modeling at important functions in a cheap, ill-fitting Vera Wang knock-off is besides the point. Although I did suggest to her that she might want to get off the Thin Mints. She took it very personally."

The SJG says the charges of insubordination and wardrobe offenses are an attempt to cover up the initial complaints about her Thin Mint habit. "They really made my butt a big deal," she told the Today Show. "I think they're trying to cover up for their big butt prejudice. I've been eating Thin Mints since I was a Girl Scout selling them door to door to support my family. I'm not about to stop now."

Two Degrees of Separation

Ellen Bloom Underhill, my almost sister 

She writes a blog. I write a blog. She's five years older. I'm five years younger. Her grandparents come from Kiev. My grandparents come from Kiev. She loves funky glasses. I love funky glasses. She knows people I know. I know people she knows. At the Hamburger Hamlet yesterday, we had a bowl of lobster bisque, the soup we were both raised on, and played a wild game of Jewish Geography that made our keppies spin. "You know her?" "How do you know him?" "Get out of here!" "Shut up!" "That's insane." "Wait!" "What?" "You're freaking me out." "This is getting weird."  Such a fun, menschy gal, this Ellen person. A laugh riot, a music lover, a knitter, a mondel-bread maker, a Facebook friend who's now a real live friend. But how did this happen? How did the cyber gods put us together? I'm so glad you asked. I just love your curiosity. The story goes something like this: After my sweet daddy passed away, Ellen contacted me via Facebook. Turns out, her mother and my father dated at UCLA for a year. Then, her mother, a lovely lady, I'm sure, because she showed me photos (what a looker! and such great hair!) dumped the man she called Benny when her future husband returned from war. And that was that. In the '50s, their paths would cross again, at the tennis club where my dad's best friend and Ellen's parents belonged, or on the streets of Beverly Hills. Her mom followed my dad's TV career. She was still proud of her Benny. Ultimately, it all worked out fine, didn't it? If her mother hadn't dumped my father, they might've married, and then neither one of us would've been at the Hamlet, playing Jewish Geography and enjoying our lobster bisque. And yet, somehow Ellen still feels like my almost sister, which makes no sense from a DNA standpoint, but my heart knows better.

You May Already Be A Winner

Everyone's talking about the Powerball. It's a big one, I'm told, in the neighborhood of 380 million doll-hairs, as we say in this family. Don't ask me why we call it doll-hairs. It's a deeply-held family secret. So secret no one remembers the origins of this particular mula-related silliness. Except maybe my brother John, and if he does, I'll get an email later, telling me the exact time and place when the expression "doll-hairs" was first uttered, most likely by him. It may have something to do with receiving our paltry weekly allowance for doing unnecessary chores around the house. Chores were character-building, according to my dad. In fact, everything we didn't want to do was character-building. But let's get back to the lottery, shall we, and all those doll-hairs up for distribution. To land this big-ass pot o' gold, all you have to do is buy a ticket at your local convenience store, although what's convenient about these places, I'll never understand. They're often located in weird mini-malls. You take your life in your hands just trying to back up in their cramped parking lots. They're often filled with questionable folks, agonizing over which beef jerky goes best with their Schlitz Malt Liquor. Not that I judge.

My lack of desire to frequent the birthplace of Slurpees and beer nuts --snacks that would only appeal to me in an altered state, a state I haven't visited since that traumatic edible incident in the early '80s -- probably explains why the thought of purchasing a lottery ticket would simply never occur to me. I have never bought one in my life. Why is that? Am I already a winner? Is that how I see myself? Uh, no. If that were true, I'd be less neurotic and more confident in general. Clearly, high self-esteem isn't the reason I've never purchased a lottery ticket.

Maybe I just prefer to defer to the other potential winners in my immediate vicinity. Why not piggyback off their win? Hubby and the eldest are all about the lottery tickets. Hubby is always part of some "if we win, we'll split it 32 ways" arrangement at the office. The eldest thrives on lottery-inspired fantasies, too. Much like his father, he'd rather work for himself, as opposed to "all the idiots and morons who run things." Well, no wonder they both want to win the lottery. They share a dream of permanent, generously-subsidized unemployment. I figure, if either of them wins, they'll give me my well-deserved share. So please, if you're any kind of person at all, wish them a lotto luck, on my behalf.

If Machines Could Text

"Hi! It's me! Your fancy high-tech dryer. The second you try to put the wet stuff in my belly, I'm going to stop working, for no reason! So that's gonna happen. LOL."

"No problem. I'll just hang up all the wet 

clothes on my imaginary clothesline."

If only the dryer had sent me a text. But gosh darn it, it didn't. It just stopped working. No advance notice. No warning light. So rude. So inconsiderate. Good thing I put hubby on the case. A regular Dr. Fix-It, he spent the whole afternoon diagnosing the situation online. All I know is, he came home and went into surgery in the laundry room, unplugging things, jiggling stuff, removing important dryer-type organs, putting them back in, and after about an hour or so, the patient came out of the anesthesia in perfect working order. Yet another miracle, courtesy of Dr. Fix-It. No, you can't hire him. He's on my payroll, bitches. Find your own repairman. 

Knock On Wood

Oh, the indignities the SJG must endure on a daily, if not hourly, basis. What's that? You want a "for instance"? Fine: Every time I try to write "kina hora" in an email, or a blog, spell check rudely changes it to "mina hora." Spell check seems to know hora, which is a fun and aerobic Bar Mitzvah ritual, but not kina. It goes without saying that I resent this spelling intrusion on a deeply personally level. I've been re-written enough as it is -- I refer you to my entire career -- to tolerate the repo of my favorite Yiddish expression. At this stage, I'm so paranoid by the thoughtless seizure of intellectual property that I'm doubting my own knowledge of Yiddish. What if "mina hora" slipped past me like a phantom cutting in line at Gelson's? I could holler, "Hey, you Demon Yiddish Word, how dare you?" Or I could check with my go-to Yiddish maven, the one, the only Dr. Kasha Varniskes. "Kasha," I said in a frantic phone call, "is mina hora a thing, or a figment of my imagination? Please, Kasha, I beg you, enlighten me."

"Calm down, you," Dr. Varniskes said, "and I'll give you an answer. It may not be the one you want, but still, it's an answer. A mina hora is a little-known, not very useful phrase, the equivalent of half a kina hora. What I'm saying in layman's terms is that mina is kina split in two. How the powers of spell check got a hold of it, we'll never know. Some things are better left a mystery. Maybe they're too superstitious to go for the full kina, hence the substitution of mina. In the grand scheme of things, we'd rather have the kina in its totality to ward off the evil eye and all the tsuris that comes with. Whoever said less is more should have their keppy examined for potholes. Is the glass half empty or half full? More to the point, what kind of cheap-ass person offers half a glass of Vodka? Were you raised in a barn? Full is always better than half, especially when we're considering the holiest of Talmudic laws. The kina hora is sacred. 'Kina hora' is what Moses proclaimed before parting the Red Sea. 'I need a miracle. God willing, this trick works, kina hora, or biblically speaking, I'm screwed.' Torah-wise, the mina hora, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. A mina hora doesn't do much for humanity, but it's better than bupkis. That said, whatever schmuck came up with spell check in the first place deserves a bad parking spot in Hell. All his teeth should fall out except one to make him suffer. I hope this clear things up, doll."

"As always, you've been a big help, Kasha," I said, "although some of your scholarly explanation puzzles me, I admit. I'm thinking mina is Yiddish for mini, and some bastard at Spell Check thinks I'm only worthy of a mini kini, not a full kina, which, in my opinion, is unacceptable. They should free a madman, and lock Mr. Spell Check up, instead."

The Care & Maintenance of The SJG

Today's Short Jewish Gal is much more complex than the early 1958 model, who only needed baby formula, a binky, a nice soft blankie and a good burping to operate. Basic care and maintenance of today's SJG requires a few more steps, but nothing a fully qualified brain mechanic can't handle. Just follow these easy tips and the SJG will run forever:

1.  Check for inner turmoil.
2.  Gauge pressure levels.
3.  Inspect engine for neuroses.
4.  Examine psyche for cracks.
5.  Determine level of childhood damage.
6.  Estimate repair costs.
7.  Calculate exhaustion.
8.  Suggest a nap.  
9.  Pay attention to warning lights.
10.  Recharge batteries with compliments.
11. "You never age."
12. "You look thinner."
13. "Your hair is fabulous."
14.  "Without you, I'm nothing."
15.  "You light up my life."
16.  Replace worn-out parts.
17.  Pump up ego.
18.  Recalibrate denial.
19.  Hose off guilt.
20.  Renew warranty.
(7-7-13)

My Morning Ritual

6:15: Pretend to sleep while hubby gets up to walk dog.
6:16: Ignore personal need to tinkle.
6:17: Can't ignore. Crawl to bathroom.
6:19: Crawl back to bed.
6:20: Think about starting day. Decide not to. No one needs ride to school. Thank God.
6:21: Feel brief sense of gratitude. Never have to drive carpool again.
6:22: Gratitude this early exhausts me. Stay in bed.
6:23: Review "to-do" list. Decide not to do anything.
7:00: Turn on TV. "Today Show" full of bad news.
7:01: Thanks for that, "Today Show."
7:02: Smell coffee. Time to haul big arse downstairs.
7:03: Kvetch while walking downstairs. Things hurt.
7:04: Greet dog. Greet hubby.
7:05: Pretend to understand where hubby's freakish early morning energy comes from.
7:06: Feed dog. Clean up drool. Regale hubby with complaints.
7:07: Hubby pretends to listen. Nice hubby.
7:08: Retreat upstairs.
7:09: Turn on laptop. Sip coffee.
7:10: Wait for hush-hush, well-paid ghost SJG blogger to send me today's post.

Best Way To Watch The Super Bowl Ever

The best way? Well, best for the SJG, which is, personally speaking, all that matters in my tiny universe. Skip the game, go to dance class, flash the aging jazz hands, and later, watch the recorded half-time show and the commercials. All the fun without the football.

The wackadoodle, high-tech, lip sync-a-thon with some actual singing thrown in? The insane costume changes, the dancing sharks, the showy lunacy of it all? I adored every goofy, hallucinogenic moment. 

Of course I loved this commercial with Bryan as Walt and sorta Greg.

I loved this one, too, although I forget what it was about, which explains so much about me at this moment in time.

The Brady Bunch-Snickers commercial was my absolute fav.

Pierce Bronson imagining his next action movie: Big fun. A car commercial, I think.

Liam Neeson was funny here.  He's playing some kind of game. Please, I beg you, don't ask me which one. Thank you.

Dusty picked this Budweiser one as his fav. A lost puppy may have little to do with beer, but it's a winner.  

The Senior Puppy Bowl

Dusty rests up for the big game

(Sherman Oaks) The Senior Puppy Bowl is SJG-TV's solution to what to broadcast against the more popular Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet. "Sure, it's easy to put adorable puppies on TV and watch them run around, bumping into each other and tinkling on the puppy-size football field," said the Short Jewish Gal, SJG-TV's head honcho. "You put a biseleh peanut butter on a camera lens, and puppies are going to lick and slobber. Cute is cute. Big deal. You put a bunch of elderly puppies together, altacocker Spaniels and Labrador Retrievers that have already done plenty running in their day, and have the hip dysplasia and the arthritis to show for it; you put lovable dogs that shed everywhere and can barely get in the car anymore, not to mention up the stairs, you put that noble team of Olympic nappers on the field, and see if they can stay awake long enough to make a touchdown; now you've got something to root for." This year's halftime performers will be Schlomo and the Rodents, a talented group of senior squirrels that will attempt to sing "Lullaby of Broadway" while searching for walnuts they've hidden in the SJG's backyard. "Listen, their memories aren't what they used to be. They may not  remember where they hid their nuts. But the search promises to be riveting. Plus, these guys can really carry a tune."