Spend, Spend, Spend

In cyberspace, no one can trample you or take out an eye with a hanger. If that's not a reason to spend without leaving your house, what is? This morning, my inbox floods with Happy Cyber Monday!   50% off! 75% off! Well, how can I resist? When it comes to clothes, easily. I'm not good with the online shopping. I study the pretty models, in their pretty tops and skin-tight pants, and what occurs to me isn't, oh, joy, oh, rapture, please God let them have it in my size. I find it demoralizing. I can't picture myself in clothes worn by tall skinny gals.  I need an online version of me.  Give me a short Jewish gal with a butt. Give me a gal under 5'2." Give me the SJG Line of Contempo Wear.  Fill an online page with petite middle-aged models, well-endowed in the backside, and I will throw dollars at you. Today I lack the fortitude to click on something that might fit in this lifetime should certain body parts suddenly decide to cooperate. Today my internal credit card is maxed out. But please, don't let that stop you. Stay in and spend, spend, spend. I double dare you. Happy Cyber Monday, to you and yours. Let me know what you buy, and what you return.

A Formal Request

Last night at 10 p.m., the SJG uttered the following sentiment in a Mary Poppins accent, whilst leaning over the upstairs bannister, in my jammies:
"May I formally request that you keep the manly whooping, yelling and hollering to a minimum?"
From downstairs, hubby issued the following heartfelt reply:
"The Kings just won in overtime!"
"To repeat, are you done making a racket, or must I call the police and formally complain?"
"It was a beautiful goal, Ma!"
"How lovely for you both. Done or not done?"
"We're done."
"Sorry, Ma."
"Hmm. Spoken with a modicum of sincerity."
"Really sorry."
"Still needs work."
"REALLY SORRY!"
"Must you yell?"

Sweata Weatha!

"Hello, old friend."
"Hello, yourself."
"What? You're not happy?"
"For months you walk right past me, you never talk to me."
"I'm talking to you now."
"Only because you need me."
"It's finally cold outside."
"And once it warms up, you'll neglect me again."
"I'll always love you."
"Ha! You loved me when you bought me. I was young and pretty and you folded me, nicely. Then, you got lazy. You started hanging me up with the others. Now I'm out of shape. You take me for granted. You assume I'll always be here."
"You're a sweater. Where else would you be?"
"Out to dinner, or, God forbid, a movie. I'd settle for anywhere."
"Would you prefer a pile for Goodwill?"
"No thanks, I'm good. Don't worry about me. I'll just sit here in the dark."
"We could go to the market. Would you like that?"
"Compared to spending another day in this closet, yes."
"I don't understand the resentment. You're surrounded by friends."
"Friends? Please. The long-sleeves never talk to me. They're my competition. You put on a long-sleeve, you might not need me."
"I need you both. It's cold."
"You say that now, but tomorrow the temperature could go up and it's back to the T-shirts."
"You don't like the T-shirts?"
"The T-shirts are mean. They talk about me behind my back. They say I'm too heavy most of the year."
"Stop kvetching and I'll take you to New York with me. It's really cold there."
"Do I have to share a suitcase with the others?"
"Maybe I'll wear you on the plane."
"Promises, promises.

Black Friday SJG Steals & Deals

SJG Black Friday Sale

Let's face it, those eight nights of Hannukah are a real bitch, gift-wise. Every year, you run out of ideas. After the fourth night, your generosity dips to a new low. Your urge to give gives-out. Your kids, or God willing, grandkids, your nieces and nephews -- the delightful offspring of siblings you're still talking to, or at least emailing with -- are a difficult bunch to please.

Relax. The SJG is here for you. In honor of Black Friday, for the first time ever, the sporadically-acclaimed international blogging sensation will offer her devoted readers a pricey, high-end collection of misguided mishegas, miscellaneous maladies and maternal madness, at a HUGE discount. Buy one big box of crazy and get a second one for free. Today only! What are you waiting for? The line is already around the block. The smart people camped out last night. Hot kugel and coffee for the best-behaved shoppers who don't shove, trample or tackle anyone on the way to the sale table. Supplies are limited. Hurry up, slow poke. You need this more than you know.

Hanukkah Gift Ideas

Dear Sister,
Here's a subtle hint. All I want for Hanukkah is Dorothy's dress from The Wizard of Oz.  It's a steal at $1,565,000, not to mention, a nice conversation piece. I'll never ask for anything ever again. 
Love,
Brother 
P.S. Word on the street is you're rolling in gelt

Dear Brother,
So much for your Hanukkah surprise.
Love,
Sister 

Sorry, Did I Scare You?

The SJG scares easily.  Naturally, I blame the genetic package I received in utero.  The embedded message:  "Here's some anxiety, some neurosis, and a nice helping of shpilkes.  Enjoy."  My entire family is a jumpy bunch.  I learned early that sneaking up on my father, which I did once and only once, some time in the early 70s, was a huge mistake. He was downstairs, turning the lights off, putting the house to sleep for the night.  I wasn't trying to scare him, I swear.  I just needed his immediate attention. I walked up behind him, in my dainty way, and said, "Daddy, I can't sleep." He wasn't expecting me at that moment. He thought I was upstairs sleeping.  His reaction:  He grabbed his heart, jumped two feet off the ground and yelled, "Aaaaaaacccchhh!"  He gets his jumpiness from his dad, who scared easily, too.  When my grandma gave him a surprise party, the guests whispered "surprise," for fear that yelling "Surprise!" would scare my grandpa to death.  Hubby knows how easily I scare, but it took him a few decades to figure out how to handle me.  In the past, if he entered a room and I didn't hear him come in, I grabbed my heart, jumped two feet off the ground and yelled "Aaaaaaaaaaaaach!"  Just like my daddy. So now hubby lets me know, "It's me, I'm walking into the room, I'm in the room now."  So much better.  If only everyone else would give me the same courtesy. Yesterday, I was in Macy's and a mannequin waved.  I admit that threw me. Then the mannequin turned slightly and smiled at me.  I grabbed my cell phone.  "Hello?  Men in white coats?  Can you please come and collect me?  I've officially lost it."  Not to worry.  Before the guys from the funny farm showed up, I realized that the mannequin was an actual live leggy model put there to surprise jumpy-ass people like me.   Ha ha.  Not funny Macy's.  Not funny.  "You scared me!" I said.  "Sorry, " the leggy model said.  "People keep telling me that." "Then stop doing it."

Let's scare the SJG!  She's an easy mark!

Thanksgiving Do's & Oh-No-You-Didn'ts

In honor of Thanksgiving, an important holiday that signifies the start of Christmas shopping, the SJG will now take time away from my obsessive preparations to share a few etiquette do's and oh-no-you-didn'ts to help get you through the celebration without getting booted from my table, shoved onto the mostly-dead front lawn and told to never darken my doorstep again.
Do's:
1.  Praise the Short Jewish Hostess.
2.  Tell her she sets a lovely table.
3.  Rave about the delicious turkeys she birthed.
4.  Express gratitude that she let you back in the house after last year's "incident."
5.  Leave.
Oh-No-You-Didn'ts:
1.  Forget to slip the Short Jewish Hostess a couple crisp Benjamins.
2.  Forget to bring the Short Jewish Hostess a thoughtful, very expensive hostess gift.
3.  Forget to tell the Short Jewish Hostess how fabulous she looks.
4.  Forget to thank the Short Jewish Hostess for letting you back into the house after last year's "incident."
5.  Forget to leave.
11/21/12

Forgive Me

"... for butt-dialing you during dinner."

Dear SJG,
Not once, but twice this week, I've been butt-dialed by two of my formerly favorite peeps. I answered the phone, all excited. "Well, spank my tush and call me Charlie, look who's calling!" only to hear, "Waahh, waahh, waahhh, kreplach. Waahh, waahh, waahh, kasha varnishkes." I'm deeply offended and wonder what you, maven of so much, would do in this hurtful situation?"
Thank you,
Waahh Waahh

Dear Waahh Waahh,
There is nothing worse than the butt dial. Nothing. Okay, fine, maybe there are worse things than the butt dial, but when you receive one, it feels like a cruel trick, not to mention, the end of civilization. No one ever butt-dialed you when you were an innocent child. Better you should have stayed eight and left it at that. But please, don't despair. You have options that will restore your will to live. You can butt-dial the offenders who butt-dialed you first, but why get down on their level? Or, you can rise above. Answer the call for kreplach and kasha varnishkes and open that adorable deli you've dreamed of owning since you first stepped foot in Nat n Al's and heard your daddy order up a pound of Nova Scotia and a dozen onion bagels.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Get Out

SJG: "Ha ha, I'm not a member of AARP."
Hubby: "Yes, you are."
SJG: "Nah-uh."
Hubby: "Here's your card."
SJG: "@#$%!"
Youngest: "What's AARP stand for, anyway?"
SJG: "American Association of Ridiculous People."
Youngest: "Ma, you've been a member of that club since birth."
SJG: "Get out."

What's The Issue?

"Hellody?"

There are so many issues, you have no idea. Or maybe you do, now that we're close. Either way, where to begin? Here are just two of the pressing matters occupying the metropolitan area of the SJG Keppy:

1. "Hello," Adele's new single. I can't sing it without Lionel Richie creeping in. I start off with the best intentions. I channel the melodramatic, stunning Adele vocals, the overall devastation, the timbre of romantic ruin. "Hello..." I wallow. And then, this happens: "Is it me you're looking for?" I'm cross-pollinating two songs named "Hello." Clearly, a lawsuit is pending. In the meantime, I need a Lionel Richie intervention, today, if possible. Anyone? Hello?

2.  Shopping. When will it become easier? When will it become less of an Olympic event, a feat of fortitude? I'm not talking groceries, people. Oh, I got that down. I go to Gelson's, where I'm worshipped and adored for my smart choices. I'm talking clothes. The fight for the right freakin' fit. The trials and tribulations of a short curvy gal with a worthy tuchas. I'm just going to put it out there. I needed an outfit. When do I ever need an outfit? Not too often. But in three weeks, I'm going to New York City for an event of great personal import. Are you following me? If not, set your GPS, I've already lost the point of this particular issue. Hang on, it's coming back to me. Shopping.

"You're obviously in the wrong store."

In Bloomies yesterday, the SJG was booted from the Designated Skinny Bitch Section. In theory,  I'm entitled to buy Theory, am I not? I can spend $300 on pants and claim temporary insanity. And yet, after trying on numerous Slacks for the Svelte, in this size and that size, even the tolerant salesgirl who works on commission had to admit, "You're not a Theory girl." "I know, I know," I said, and left her sobbing in the dressing room. So I moved on, not ready to surrender. Armed with my credit cards, I found Cecilia, the saleswoman I've been waiting for my entire life. I haven't shopped at Ann Taylor since I bought an outfit for the eldest's Bar Mitzvah almost 15 years ago. But in I went, and thanks to this goddess, this genius of mix and match, who brought me 85 different combinations, I scored a chic, sassy ensemble and then some, and for much less than I would've misguidedly spent at that big-ass department store. Take that, Theory. Or, as Julia Roberts would say, "Big mistake. Huge."

Gobble This!

Things we may (or may not) say next Thursday:
Let's play football on the front lawn.

Bring out the first turkey! The first turkey?!
Who wants to say grace?
This turkey is to die for.
Your turkey is 18 times better than Carol's infamous burnt cheesecloth turkey of yore.
How dare you?!
Let's sing a medley of Thanksgiving songs.
You're so funny when you're drunk.
Is this going in the blog?
Oh, @#$%, I spilled cranberry on my shirt.
These pants fit when I walked in.
I will now recite a short soliloquy on gratitude.
All credit cards accepted.
God bless Donald Trump.
Next year, Jerusalem.
You got so tall.
You got shorter.
Thanksgiving means thanks living.

Working Man

According to family lore on hubby's side, his first audible words were: "Working man." He was staring out the window at the time, presumably watching men work. His first words were plenty prophetic. He started working as soon as he could, parking cars, doing whatever it took to earn money to pay for important stuff like fast cars, wine and women. Or maybe just his first Volvo and a nice case of Chateau du Westwood Village. I'll have to do some fact-checking and get back to you. Some years back, don't ask me how many, I'm not good at math, the eldest son became a working man, too. And today, the youngest son becomes a working man, as well. He is officially employed, people. His internship days are over. No more of that run-and-get-you-coffee kaka. I am officially kvelling on his behalf. I've offered to drive him, but he has denied my request. I'm a little hurt, but at some point, I'll get over it. I'll have to get back to you on that, too.

Side Effects of Watching The News...

... May include:
Extreme helplessness
Overwhelming hopelessness
Complete and utter despair
Uncontrollable anger
Recurring global fear
Frequent epic agitation 
Constant disbelief
Inconsolable weeping

The Tragic Moment

"I have spent more than half a lifetime trying to 

express the tragic moment." 

Marcel Marceau

"When there are no words...know 

that the silences are carrying the thoughts 

and prayers of all who love you."

Dawn Dais

Cleanup On Aisle 5

In observance of Veteran's Day, several important agencies that oversee the SJG will be closed on Wednesday, including the Supreme Court of Dysfunction, the Office of Enabling, the Library of Guilt, the Complaint Department and the Bank of Obsession. The Post Office that delivers the SJG's daily dose of worry and regret will also be closed. On a happy note, the Collection of Canine Ka-ka will remain open, which is a good thing, because this morning, the Eccentric Elderly Pup made a surprise deposit on the living room rug and someone needs to clean that up.

Pretty, Pretty Good

The state of the SJG household was pretty, pretty good upon my return. There was no evidence of scandalous, she's-out-of-town-let's-party behavior, although Dusty did look a little guilty, but that's just a leftover from his lengthy, highly-destructive puppyhood. I'm still searching for that rhinestone-studded left flip-flop, circa 2004.

The Tall & The Short of It

A short Jew and a very tall half-Jew, director Bess Wallerstein Huff, before the parade of talented actors marches into the Fish Tank in Kansas City to audition for "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs."

"Thank you, we'll be in touch. Next!"  Cathy Hamilton, SJG and Bess Wallerstein Huff on Day 2 of auditions. 

Union Station, where "Brushes" (produced by Moonshine Variety Co.)

will premiere in April 2016 at H&R Block City Stage.

On the grounds of KU. I have to come to Kansas to see trees like this. 

SJG & The Three Bears

The Great Taco Trade-Off

Last night, at the Mexican restaurant in Lawrence, Kansas:
Waitress: "I'm so sorry, but your shrimp tacos have been compromised."
SJG: "Oh. Okay. What does that mean, exactly?"
Waitress: "Well, it seems that... the plate with your shrimp tacos fell on the floor."
SJG: "Oy gevalt."
Waitress: "It'll just take a few minutes to make you a new plate."
SJG: "Hey, it's fine. It's not like my personal info's been compromised, God forbid."
Waitress: "Be right back with your order."
SJG: "I'm not going anywhere."

Category Four Hurricane Carol Makes Landfall

The SJG at H&R Block City Stage, Kansas City,

where "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs" 

will premiere April 2016 

Note to self: When asked by the stewardess, "Would you like something to drink?" do not, under any circumstances, say, "What have you got?" The look on the poor woman's face registered 800 difference emotions, the most prominent being hostility and, "Will I get fired if I throw this short person off the plane?" I'm telling you, people, I meant no harm. I drew a blank. I needed options. She offered none. Plus, she wasn't even pushing a cart full of beverages. Instead of answering, "We've got booze, coffee, booze, soda, booze..." she didn't answer me. She just bore a hole through my delicate soul with her steely stare. Where does one go to get a soul repair in Kansas, by the way? So I had to come up with an answer on my own. Lesson learned. When in doubt, no matter the situation, just say, "Orange juice."

Cathy Hamilton, co-conspirator. 

We've decided we like faraway 

shots of ourselves the best. 

Countdown To Boarding Pass

8:41...
8:42...
8:43...
Racing heart.
Rapid breathing.
8:44...
8:45!
Click!
"A" group.
Sweet!
Boarding position...

42?!
Forty-eff'n-two?!
So much for Early Bird Check-In.
Next time: Business Select.

Personal Schlepper Wanted

Personal Schlepper Wanted to schlep things the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks is tired of schlepping. Tasks include: loading and unloading groceries; schlepping laundry downstairs and upstairs; doing laundry, folding laundry, putting laundry away, so, anything laundry-related; emptying trash, dragging trash cans to the curb, dragging trash cans back, so, anything trash-related; lugging weights, bar, ball, steps, mats, jump ropes, back and forth during boot camp at the whim of the instructor; taking boot camp class while the SJG luxuriates elsewhere; driving over the hill, driving home, so, driving anywhere the SJG doesn't feeling like driving to; making bed; watering bone-dry begonias; cooking dinner, cleaning up after dinner, so, anything cooking-related; packing and unpacking suitcases, even when the SJG isn't going anywhere; finding clothes and shoes buried somewhere in cluttered closet, don't ask where, the SJG doesn't know; putting clothes away in closet, re-organizing closet; shopping for new clothes that actually fit, specifically, jeans, shirts, pants, skirts, shoes, so, anything clothes-related; discovering things that have gone missing in the SJG's office, such as, passport for exciting galactic trip not scheduled, but who knows, maybe one day; notes for big project, notes for little project, notes for in-between project; a decent pen that works, a paper clip, just one freakin' paper clip, is that too much to ask; the rubber ducky with the yarmulke that makes me giggle; the disco cow that makes me giggle, the horsey that makes me giggle; anything that makes me giggle needs to be relocated and put in front of the SJG. Payment: Negotiable. God knows, just because I'm not getting paid for all this schlepping, doesn't mean you shouldn't prosper. Benefits: The reward for doing a mitzvah is to do another mitzvah. So hurry up and apply. The SJG is tired of schlepping. 

Work Mother

"I typed up a few suggestions..."

A conversation with the eldest as he lounges on the sofa:
"Can I come to work with you tomorrow, honey?"
"Why?"
"I never get to see you do anything other than lay on the couch like the former Banana Slug you are."
"What's your point, Mother?"
"It's been years since I've been Room Mother. Why can't I be Work Mother? It'd be fun to watch you act like a grown up."
"That sounds awkward."
"Awkward?! Why would you say that, my son? Are you trying to hurt me?"
"No. It's just that no one else brings their mother to work."
"You can be the first to start a trend. Plus, there are snacks involved."
"Snacks? Go on."
"I'm thinking adorable little pb&j sandwiches."
"With the crust cuts off?"
"That goes without saying."
"What else would you do?"
"Why, I'd clean up after you, of course. I'm sure your desk is a total pig sty."
"That's hurtful, Mother."
"Am I wrong, my son?"
"No. Keep talking."
"I might make a friendly suggestion or two. Like tuck in your shirt, you look like a slob. That sort of thing."
"You know I never tuck my shirt in."
"It's about time you started."
"So basically, it's Bring Your Mother To Work Day."
"Only better. It's not just a day. Anyone can do a day. A Work Mother stops by as needed."
"With food."
"Bagels. Sushi. Cookies. Anything your heart desires, my son."
"Work Mother, huh? The concept has potential. Let me run it by our social media/marketing team and get back to you."
"I thought you were the social media/marketing team."
"You got me there, Mother."
"This is why you need me to drop by on a regular basis."

Hug It Out

It's true, half my people come from New York by way of Kiev. I should've been rooting for the Mets in the World Series. Historically, when do I ever root for any team, unless one of the sons is running back and forth, doing something sporty? But these days, my heart belongs to Kansas City, my adopted town. Still waiting for them to sign those papers, by the way. "We hereby adopt the SJG as our favorite visiting Jew." The fact that I'm flying to KC on Thursday (as opposed to parachuting in, or teleporting) is just an added bonus. Is it wrong for me to expect some sort of parade? I don't think so. I thought I made myself clear to my co-conspirator of playwrighting, Cathy Hamilton, when I emailed, "What time's my parade?" 

Today she sent the following update, from which I may never recover: "I called the mayor this morning and asked him to postpone the parade until Thursday when you arrive, but he said the train had left the station. Union Station, that is. I'm so glad I have a few days to recover before Hurricane Carol hits town. See you on Thursday in the home of the world champions!!!" 

Hurricane Carol. Well, at least she's getting a hurricane named after me. That's nice. 

The Leftovers

And so they came, the little people in costumes, the big people in costumes. There were Harry Potters and Bumble Bees, Zombies and Princesses. Not that many, but in the SJG mindset, plenty. I put on my sneakers. I ran back and forth to the front door until it was enough already. I turned to hubby and said, "You go." Most importantly, I hit an all-time low in candy consumption. I faced my demons, people. I stared down the Peanut M&Ms. And I won. I only ate two of the fun-size. Two. That was it. This is huge for me. I deprived myself of the Reeses (my drug of choice). I ignored the Kit-Kats and the Snickers. I let the goodies stay in the decorative Halloween bowl. I didn't send them on a quick journey to my hips. I'm kvelling on my own behalf. Finally, I've done something real, something to tell the future grandchildren (kina hora). There's no telling what might happen today. There are still mini-Reeses on the premises. But last night? Last night, I stayed strong. I showed a little thing called self-control. Here's hoping I still have some of that on reserve.