Oscar Party Controversy

Last night's winning Oscar Party controversy happened mid-way through the show, or maybe it was three-quarters of the way through (there's no way of knowing, what with all the pausing of the remote control) as rumors swirled that the SJG had swallowed a piece of decorative gold foil. Why would I do that? Did I do that? I say no, but then, everyone else at the party, the people who love me the most, all agreed that I was just the sort of absentminded gal to swallow a piece of decorative gold foil, especially when faced with a heavenly assortment of miniature desserts by Cousin Amy, gourmet caterer to the stars. Dainty cups of chocolate and peanut butter swirl. Salted caramel in petite, chocolate-dipped golden foil cones. Naturally, I sampled all the yumminess. It was in my contract: "The SJG shall eat whatever you put in front of her, particularly in the award-winning dessert category." So, yes, yes, I ate the salted caramel in the golden cone. Or, according to my sons, "Christ, Ma, you scarfed that down like a piranha." But did I eat the foil, too? Was I that enraptured with said dollop of divinity that I forgot to discard the Teeny Cone of Shame? I wish I could tell you. Only my digestive track knows for sure. And my adoring family.

Oscar Predictions!

The SJG predicts that the following may or may not happen at tonight's 2016 Academy Awards: Chris Rock will sing his opening monologue in Yiddish. Donald Trump will present Best Spray Tan. Queen Elizabeth will present Best British Accent. The Surreal Housewives of Sherman Oaks will present Best Supporting Bitch.

Stunted

Dear SJG,
Every year I try out, and every year I get rejected from Stunt Woman Shul. What am I doing wrong?
Sincerely,
Downhearted Daredevil

Dear Downhearted,
Every year you write me, and every year I tell you the same thing. Stop bringing your personal injury attorney with you to the audition. It sends the wrong message.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Mooning Violation

"License and registration, please."
"Here you go, officer. Please don't judge me based on the photo. It was a windy day and the lighting in the DMV was just terrible."
"Feel free to file a complaint."
"Complaints are my specialty. By the way, what'd I do wrong, officer?"
"You really have to ask?"
"Could you give me a hint? I mean, I'm just sitting here in my car. So it can't be a moving violation."
"It's a mooning violation, ma'am."
"Ex-squeeze me?"
"We got a report that a short Jewish gal was seen leaning out the window, full-mooning cars on Ventura Boulevard. You match the description."
"Oh, dear God in heaven. Do I look like someone who'd hang her naked tush out the window, officer?"
"You'd be surprised what people do, ma'am."
"To clarify, I wasn't leaning out the window, full-mooning cars. I was taking an artsy-fartsy photo of the full moon. Big difference. I mean, look at that moon, officer. Isn't it cool and noir-ish? Like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel?"
"It's a very nice moon, ma'am. I'll give you that."
"Plus, everyone's always posting photos of the moon. I thought, why not me, officer? Why don't I get into the act? As far as I know, I've never posted a photo of the moon. It was my moment, and I thought I'd grab it. Trust me, I wasn't breaking the law. I'd never moon anybody. I might shake, shake, shake my booty, but it would be covered up in my curvy girl jeans. On that, you have my word."
"Alright. I'll let you off with a warning."
"Thank you, officer. I promise to never flash the moon on Ventura Boulevard again."
"Do that."
"Even though a flash would've ruined the shot."
"I'd have to agree."
"Have a nice night, officer. You're a real mensch."
"Tell me something I don't know."

Oh! Pollen

Oh! Pollen, please relieve me
You keep on doin' me harm
Relieve me, please, I beg you
You keep on doin' me harm

Oh! Pollen, if you leave me
I'll breathe nicely on my own
Relieve me, please, I beg you
You keep on doin' me harm

When you found me, I didn't need you anymore
Well you know you made me sniffle and cry
When you found me, I didn't need you anymore
Well you know you made me lay down and sigh

Oh, Pollen, please relieve me
You keep on doin' me harm
Relieve me, please, I beg you
You keep on doin' me harm

(apologies to the Beatles)

My New Go-To Expression

"Golly gumdrops!"

It's true, the SJG has a bit of a potty mouth. What's that? "A bit" is putting it mildly? Fine. The SJG swears like a sailor. It's part of my charm. Ask anyone. But after watching the second-to-last eppy of "Downton Abbey" -- oh, for @#$%'s sake, don't sh*t yourself, no spoilers here -- I've decided to rid myself of such inappropriate language. I shall now emulate Lord Grantham, a classy gent stuck in the past, but then, who isn't? So, from now on, whenever something of worth happens that requires a reaction, I shall say, "Golly gumdrops!" As opposed to my standard, "Holy eff'n sh*t!" I just think "Golly gumdrops!" sounds better, don't you? Of course you do. When am I ever wrong? 

Henny Or Red?

Henny Youngman

Red Skelton

Last night at dinner, our hilarious friend Joel pointed out, gently and respectfully, that the SJG had maybe, if not definitely, eff'd up the credit for a famous one-liner. "Tell me more, Joel. I love this kind of thing." And by thing, I mean, when people tell me I'm wrong, gently and respectfully. At least once or twice a week, someone lovingly points out a typo to me, via email or carrier pigeon: "Hey dumb ass, you can't spell for sh*t." These moments remind me of that oft-quoted line, "She who is her own editor has a fool for a writer." 
So, Joel went on to tell me that I attributed a Henny Youngman line to Red Skelton in Friday's blog, A Perfect Marriage. Tanks God I'm so evolved and take criticism well. 
"Oh, yeah? Really? Prove it," I said, "accidentally" spilling chianti in his lap. 
"See, I told you not to bring it up. You're upsetting Carol," his wife, Mrs. Gorgeous, said. "She's too sensitive for her own good. We went over this in the car." 
"Sensitive? Me. Nah-uh. Just tell me how I eff'd up so I can make good with my vast international readership."
"Look, I'm not trying to start anything," Joel said.
"Oh, you started it, baby. It's on," I said.
Meanwhile, hubby tried to change the subject. "We've been coming to this restaurant for 15 years."
"No one cares," I said. "Go on, Joel."
"Henny Youngman is the one who said, 'Some people ask the secret to our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays.' I've been using that line for years."
"Well, my daddy told me about Red Skelton's tips for marriage, including that one, while he was dying."
"I wish I could've met him," Joel said.
"I bet I know what he'd say now."
"What would he say?"
"Another bottle of chianti," hubby told the waiter. "And hurry."
"In vaudeville," I said, like some authority, "everybody borrowed from everybody. Who knows who said it first."
"Henny."
"Maybe. All I know is, to this day, everybody steals from everybody in comedy."
"True. But Henny said it first."
"You don't know that."
"Enough, you two," Mrs. Gorgeous said.
"If only I could call up my dad," I said.
"Bottom line is, it's funny," Joel said.

Can This Funny Bone Be Fixed?

Dear SJG,
I'm embarrassed to even discuss this with you, but you're the only one I can turn to in my time of need. For the past year or so, I've suffered from a heinous condition so alarming I'm reluctant to go out in public. I checked the medical books, and it doesn't have a name, so I made one up: TCES (Tragically Crusty Elbow Syndrome). Ever since I developed TCES, I can't go sleeveless and that hurts because I really do have great arms. Or should I say had great arms until the onset of TCES. I've tried everything, including slathering my elbows with coconut oil, but that only drew unwanted attention from the neighborhood monkeys that hang out in the palm trees. They licked all the coconut off, which was kinda gross. I've dipped my elbows in egg whites. I've dunked my elbows in petroleum jelly. I'm running out of ideas. Please tell me what to do before summer hits, which, according to the local weather girl at your Emmy-winning station, SJG-TV, is next week. And it's still February! I'm not ready. Help!
Sincerely,
Crusty in Cerritos

Dear Crusty,
You're not alone, sister. I, too, suffer from TCES, and your timing couldn't be better. I've just developed my own product, full of top secret ingredients, to handle this unsightly curse. It's called SJG's Anti-Aging Elbow Cream. It's so full of holistic fabulosity, you could plotz. One schmear on each offending elbow, in the morning, and then again at night, will fix your funny bone -- and restore its youthful glow -- so fast your head will spin like a dreidel gone rogue. All you have to do is send me a money order for $356.26 and I'll send you a tube of miracles. As an incentive, I'll even let you in on one of the hush-hush ingredients: Cream cheese! Discovered by accident when I slipped in the kitchen during Sunday brunch, and went elbow-first into the whipped Philadelphia. That's just between us. Don't spread it around. (See what I did there?)
You're Welcome
The SJG

A Perfect Marriage

Red Skelton's Recipe For A Perfect Marriage 
(a rediscovered gem courtesy of the late, great Ben Starr, aka, my daddy):
1. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, have a little beverage, good food and companionship. She goes on Tuesdays, I go on Fridays.

2. We also sleep in separate beds. Hers is in California, and mine is in Texas.

3. I take my wife everywhere....but she keeps finding her way back.

4. I asked my wife where she wanted to go for our anniversary. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested the kitchen.

5. We always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.

6. She has an electric blender, electric toaster and electric bread maker. She said, "There are too many gadgets, and no place to sit down!" So I bought her an electric chair.

7. My wife told me the car wasn't running well because there was water in the carburetor. I asked where the car was. She told me, "In the lake."

8. She got a mud pack, and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

9. She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, "Am I too late for the garbage?" The driver said, "No, jump in!'

10. Remember: Marriage is the number one cause of divorce.

11. I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was Always.

12. I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months. I don't like to interrupt her.

13. The last fight was my fault though. My wife asked, "What's on the TV?" I said, "Dust!"

Cereal Napper

Some days, I do and I do and 

around 4 o'clock, I collapse.

Some days, I do absolute bupkis and 

around 4 o'clock, I collapse.

In this way, I'm a lot like my mother, who took a nap every day of my childhood. Around 4 o'clock. There was a lot of "shush, Mom's napping." A lot of, "Don't wake up, Mom." To this day, I still wonder if she was napping, or just hiding from us. 

 In my own case, I'm not hiding from anything. 

Except reality. So there's that.

Take A Number

Is there anything more exciting in life than when they call your number? When the long wait is over? When the world says, "Hey, YOU! The short one with the glasses. It's your turn." And so, you step forward to claim your moment, and it goes something like this:
"Number 48? 48? 48? Anyone? Okay. 49?"
"Woo-hoo! I'm number 49!"
"What'll it be?"
"I'd like a medium-size container of  -- "
"Oh! Did you call 48? Sorry! I was over in the bakery. Can I still go?"
"Well, technically... no, but -- "
"'I just need a few things. Is that cool?"
"Cool? I don't know if cool is -- "
"Thanks."
"It's just that -- "
"I'd like a large container of cole slaw, a large container of --"
"Chutzpah."

"What?"
"Nothing."
"Potato salad. And... oh, how's the pasta thing with the tomatoes? Can I have a sample? And I'd like to try the quinoa thing, too. With the carrots? That looks amazing. And then, a pound of turkey, sliced thin. Half a pound of Jarlsberg..."

A good while later...
"Number 49? 49? 49? You're up, 49! 49?!!!! Going once, going twice. 50?"

That Thing That Happened

On Grammy night it was the worst possible thing
That thing that happened right when she started to sing
All I ask is who would do such a bad, bad thing
To tamper with the tune, the sound, the whole damn thing
The random guitar twang nearly ruined the thing
The audience couldn't deny that off-key thing
And in the end, she piped up to explain the thing
The piano mics fell on the piano strings

Cupid Fed Up, Threatens Early Retirement

The day after Valentine's day, and Cupid's nowhere to be seen. I'm thinking, early retirement. Thousands of years shooting arrows, that's got to lead to some kind of tendonitis, not to mention, overall dissatification. The day after Valentine's Day, and Cupid's off to therapy for the body and mind. Thousands of years trying to make a shidduch and the chubby little dude's done with the matchmaking. Even Cupid needs to kvetch now and then. Let's listen in on today's session with his shrink. "Seriously, I've had it with this job. I'm exhausted. My arm hurts. I look stupid in this costume. I thought I was applying for the bookkeeper gig, and before I know it, I'm in diapers and wings and they're telling me where to aim the arrow. Personally, my goals are a little loftier than flying around, trying to get people to notice each other. Do you think even once, I get a thank you note? Where are my chocolates? I could use a little love too, you know. But year after year, I get bupkis. I quit. I resign,  I -- " "I'm sorry, Cupid, but time's up. Let's pick this up again next year."

Good Answer

This morning, I ask hubby, "Will you be mine?"
This morning, he answers, "Who else's would I be?"

Heartfelt Valentine's Day Advice

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,
Distraught in De Soto

Dear Distraught,
There aren't enough hours in the day.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Helpful. Thanks. 

Einstein, Such A Mensch

"I told you so!" 

So, Einstein was right. Again. Like that was ever an issue? A wild-hair Jew tells you that we can hear the universe -- its gravitational waves and cosmic collisions -- and you don't believe him? It takes you 100 years? It takes 1,000 scientists to turn on the light bulb at the fancy observatory? People, people. The SJG doesn't need a fancy observatory to figure out what the universe has been telling us all along. Would you like to know? Fine. I'll tell you. Since the beginning of time, the universe has been saying this on a continuous loop: "Listen. Turn down the noise. Stop talking. Stop arguing. Stop with the insults. Stop with the meanness. Just stop. And listen. You might learn something." That's the kind of audio message we all need to hear.

Birthday Bliss

"All the lab work confirms it -- I'm sorry, Mr. Franklin... You're old."

(Harry Bliss cartoon)

It would be slightly misleading to say that the SJG lords my youngish age over hubby, who, as of today, just got even older. And by older, I mean, older than me by a whole year. I only remind him of this huge age discrepancy once a year. On his birthday. Today, I'll bring it up a few hundred times. Then, I'll let it go. So happy birthday, you hubby, you. Did I mention you're older than me? By a whole year?

Open & Shut Case

"Morning, honey."
"Morning. Someone left the garage door open all night."
"I closed it when I came home."
"It was open this morning."
"I'm positive I closed it. I turned the alarm on, too. Why did the alarm go on with the garage door open? It makes no sense."
"Don't worry about it."
"So what you're saying is, I've lost my mind."
"I didn't say that."
"My brain is mush."
"It isn't."
"I left the garage door open all @#$%'n night."
"I'm sorry I mentioned it."
"I wonder what I'll leave open today."
"I'm going upstairs to shower."
"Maybe I'll leave the fridge open, so that everything can spoil."
"Forget I said anything."

"Maybe I'll leave the front door open, so the men in white coats can come and take me away. I'll say, 'Hi, boys, I'll be right with you. Make yourselves at home. There's some coffee and cake in the kitchen.' "
"I'm closing the shower door now."
"Sure, close it. Then I'll open it and flood the bathroom."
"There's a mop in the garage."
"Oh, good. I'll get the mop and leave the garage door open."
"Sounds like a plan."

Hey Girl, It's Bagel Day

In honor of National Bagel Day, the SJG would like to remind you of her Bagel & Lox Diet Plan (trademark pending). In an exclusive interview with The Sherman Oaks Tattler, she explains, once again, why her diet is better than all other diets in the universe. "Listen," she says, dabbing a drop of cream cheese off her upper lip, "I've tried many diets. I've lost and regained the same five, six, seven, okay, fine, eight or nine pounds since I was a radical feminist freshwoman in college. I've counted calories and points. I've weighed myself. I've not weighed myself. There's only so much punishment I can take. Finally, I came up with the meal plan that works for me. For breakfast, I eat a bagel with cream cheese and lox. It's so delish I feel grateful just to have teeth with which to bite into this masterpiece. What kind of bagel depends on whatever greets me at eye-level in the fridge, although I'm partial to sesame. I don't like to over-reach in the morning. I might pull something. And make sure the lox is good lox. Cheap lox ruins the whole deal. Go imported. Local lox is disappointing, in my personal opinion. Toast the bagel first. That goes without saying."

"For lunch, I have another bagel. Maybe an onion, maybe a plain. By now I can bend and stretch and find a decent bagel just about anywhere. Sometimes I find them hidden all over the house. Whoever is doing this, stop eff'n with the SJG. For dinner? You guessed it. Another bagel, cream cheese and lox. This diet, while a touch pricey, keeps me satisfied till the moment I put my keppy down on my fancy Tempurpedic pillow. With this diet, I want for nothing, expect maybe a piece of chocolate rugelach or a nice slice of Halavah. Sure, it's carb-centric. Sure, there's plenty gluten and a distinct lack of quinoa, kale and antioxidant-rich what-have-you. I don't necessarily lose weight on the SJG Bagel & Lox Diet, but at this point, I'm just trying to be happy and fit into some of the items in my closet."

SJG's Super Bowl Highlights

CBS Sports caught up with the SJG this morning as she was watering her bone-dry begonias to find out what she considered to be the highlights of the Super Bowl. "When it ended. That was a big moment for me. I kept saying, 'Is it over?!' I was so happy when it was, I did a little jig around the flat screen. Other than that, the best part of the Super Bowl came early in the game, when my mother-in-law, the decorator, who was rooting for the Panthers, mainly because she liked their uniforms better, shouted at the top of her lungs, 'Hold onto the ball with two hands, you klutz!' For some reason, my husband's family thinks that if they yell at the TV, the players on the field can actually hear them. I've never had the heart to tell them they're wasting their time. Thanks for stopping by, CBS. Can I get you some nice cake before you go?"

Big Men In Uniforms

This, I'd watch

Super Bowl Sunday.  Hubby at the stove, cooking chili.  The SJG whispering in his ear:  "Not too spicy."  Super Bowl Sunday.  Big men slamming into each other.  A lot of grunting.  The SJG reaching for a tortilla chip:  "This is my last one."  Super Bowl Sunday.  Funny commercials.  Half-time hoop-de-doo.  A touchdown.  A tackle.  A huddle.  The SJG looking up to heaven:  "Please God, let it be over soon."  Super Bowl Sunday.  Sports fanatics in the living room.  Hubby.  His father and mother.  The youngest boychick. And then there's me.  The sports gene.  Not in my DNA.  But the chili is a winner.

I Was Afraid of That

Things that scare me:
1. Monsters under the bed.
2. Goblins in my head.
3. Headlines I have read.
4. Appointments that I dread.
5. That thing I never said.
6. Encounters with the dead.
7. Moldy-looking bread.
8. Orson's Rosebud sled.
9. Alligators named Fred.
10. So much from A to Zed.

The Labrador Goes With Everything

Dog as decor 

The SJG is somewhat of a design expert, doncha know. Well, it's true. You don't dwell in a palatial, not to mention, sprawling Sherman Oaks estate, without picking up some valuable tips along the way. So here's one I'm most excited to share: Make sure your dog matches the decor. You heard me. Pick a dog with a workable color scheme and you'll never have to worry about your pet clashing with the furniture. Take Dusty, for example. The Eccentric Elderly Pup is a lovely shade of honey. See how his golden hues complement the rug and the bamboo floor, the coffee table and sofa? That wasn't an accident, people. It's by design. Dusty goes with everything. His flaxen fur ties all the tones of the house together ever-so-nicely, achieving a luxurious neutral look, and adding extra depth and dimension, as he lumbers from room to room, arthritically. And now that's he's a vintage dog -- 96 in human years, but who's counting -- the SJG mansion is right on trend, mixing old and new, formal and casual, and just un petit peu de dander, to produce an inviting and comfortable space, worthy of a spread in Bark Magazine.

The Hebrew Lesson

"Hello Cyril," says Fred, "I hear you know Hebrew?"
"Yes I do," replies Cyril.
"I was wondering what the Hebrew for ‘he' is?" says Fred.
"Hu," says Cyril.
"No one in particular," says Fred, "I just wanted to know what is he?"
"Hee is she," says Cyril.
"Who?" says Fred.
"No, Hu is he," says Cyril.
"I thought you said he is she?" says Fred.
"Yes, that’s correct," says Cyril.
"What is correct?" says Fred.
"Hee is she," says Cyril.
"I have no idea what you said. Who is she?" says Fred.
"No, Hu is he," says Cyril.
"I don’t want to know who he is, now I want to know what she is in Hebrew?" says Fred.
"Hee," says Cyril.
"He who?" says Fred.
"Yes that’s correct, but Hee is she," says Cyril.
"Who is she?" says Fred.
"No, Hu is he," says Cyril.
"Why do you keep asking me who is he?" says Fred.
"I thought you were asking me what he is in Hebrew?" says Cyril.
"Me?" says Fred.
"That’s Hu," says Cyril.
"Who is me?" says Fred.
"No, Hu is he, Mee is who," says Cyril. 

"I don't want to know who you are, I want to know who is he?" says Fred.
"That’s correct," says Cyril.
"But I’ve no idea what I‘m saying," says Fred.
"But you say it so well," says Cyril.
"Who me?" says Fred.
"Why are you asking me who he is?" says Cyril.
"No, I’m asking you what is he?" says Fred. 
"Hee is she," says Cyril.
"Who is she?" says Fred.
"No, Hu is he," says Cyril.
"I’m very lost. Me is who? Who is he? He is she?" says Fred.
"Very good, you said that very well," says Cyril.
"What did I say?" says Fred.
"Mee is who, Hu is he and Hee is she," says Cyril.
"Well if you must know, you’re crazy. I don't know who he is and if she is a he, I’m sure I don't want to know her," says Fred.
www.awordinyoureye.com

Disappointed In Des Moines

Dear SJG,
I'm feeling so sad and let down lately. I try so hard, I give and I give, and yet, things don't always go my way. Do you have any guidance for me, o wise one?
Thanks,
Disappointed in Des Moines

Dear Disappointed,
Listen, if I lived in Des Moines, I'd be disappointed, too. I'd be asking myself, hey, how the @#$% did I wind up in Des Moines? Not that there's anything wrong with Des Moines, I'm sure it's nice, but the point is, I was born in glamorous Bev Hills. So I'd have to wonder, How did I get re-routed here? To work through my head-spinning disappointment, I'd follow these simple steps, and suggest you do the same, if you ever want to get on with your empty existence, and I say that with love:

1.Throw an epic tantrum. Yell, scream, pout. What better way to get your feelings out than to act like a two year old?
2. Walk up and down the street, crying, "Why me?" until someone takes pity, invites you in, and serves you a refreshing alcoholic beverage.
3. To get rid of that sinking feeling, wear a life preserver at all times. Sure, you'll get some funny looks, but you'll keep your head above water and make an interesting fashion statement at the same time. You may even start a trend. You may get rich. Or you may get locked up for observation.
4. Make a list of all the people who've let you down, include examples, and send it out in an e-mail blast to everyone you've ever met. This is the quickest way to eliminate these toxic tsuris-makers and lose your carry-on baggage, spiritually speaking.
5. Ask random strangers to share their latest failures with you. You'll gain instant perspective. These people are so much worse off than you, it's incredible. These people are bitter disappointments. Why are you even talking to them? You're not such a loser, after all. Now, don't you feel better?
You're welcome,
The SJG

I Got You Babe

In honor of "Groundhog Day," one of the SJG's top 10 favorite movies of all time, I will check into a quaint B & B, listen to "I Got You Babe," step in a puddle, recite French poetry, rinse and repeat. 

Excuse Me, Butt...

Talk about your low rise jeans 

Sunday brunch in Studio City. I'm sitting in a hip establishment with Maura, a wonderful gal who's been putting up with me since 7th grade, and we're kvetching about life, and these days, there's plenty to kvetch about, when suddenly, I notice something alarming beaming in my general direction -- a very prominent butt crack, courtesy of a gal's way-too-low low rise jeans. "Oh my f'n G," I shriek, frightening Maura. "What's wrong?" she asks. I can barely form a declarative sentence. "Deeply disturbing... butt... crack... sighting." "Where?" "Over there." Maura cranes her neck counter-clockwise to take it all in, and I do mean, all. "Ew," she says. Maura is much more controlled and lady-like than the SJG. We spend the rest of Sunday brunch debating whether I should go over to the young exhibitionist and drop the following bombshell: "Excuse me, madam, but your ginormous butt crack is showing, for all the world to see, and it's not pretty." Ultimately, we decide to let Butt Crack Gal hoist with her own petard.

"Don't you love when the SJG goes all Shakespearean?"

"Well, she was an English major, you know."