Hanukkah Hilarity

Morty's mother gives him two sweaters for Hanukkah. The next time he visits her, he makes sure to wear one.  As he walks into the house, his mother frowns and asks, "What -- you didn't like the other one?"

Last year, just before Hanukkah, Sara, a grandmother, was giving directions to her grown up grandson who was coming to visit with his wife. "You come to the front door of the condominium complex.  I am in apartment 2B." Sara continued, "There is a big panel at the door.  With your elbow push button 2B. I will buzz you in. Come inside, the elevator is on the right.  Get in, and with your elbow hit 2.  When you get out I am on the left.  With your elbow, hit my doorbell." 

"Grandma, that sounds easy," replied Jonathan, the grandson, "but why am I hitting all these buttons with my elbow?"

To which she answered, "You're coming to visit empty handed?"

Admiring the Christmas trees displayed in his neighbor's windows, Nathan asks his father, "Daddy, can we have a Hanukkah Tree?"

"What? No, of course not.' says his father.

"'Why not?" asks Nathan again. 

Bewildered, his father replies, "Well, Nathan, because the last time we had dealings with a lighted bush we spent 40 years in the wilderness."

Still Spinning

The call came in around 5 p.m. The news? Unexpected. Not to mention, disturbing:

"So we're not getting the Samsung, after all," hubby said, choking back tears.

"What? I don't understand. We're not getting the Samsung?"

"No, we're not."

"Why? Why? Why?"

"Because... hang on, let me collect myself."

"Take your time, honey. I know how emotional you get over appliances."

"Because the @#$%'n Samsungs aren't even available."

"Are you saying -- ?"

"Yes, I am."

"Best Buy lied to us?"

"They don't even have them in stock."

"Those bastards."

"So we're going another way."

"What way are we going, my love?"

"We're going with another Maytag."

"But... but..."

"I know, I know."

"Aren't they back-ordered?"

"They are."

"Oh dear God, why are we being tested? We're good people, more or less."

"It's a conspiracy."

"I'm not sure how much longer I can spin this topic."

"If anyone can do it, you can."

"Thank you, honey. That means a lot."

"So you're okay with the back-ordered Maytag?"

"Not really. But what choice do I have?"

"None."

"Then I'm good. I've always wanted a new Maytag for Hanukkah."

"You're welcome."

A Little Off-Balance

Why buy a boring new washing machine when you can buy an exciting one that might explode, God forbid, when you least expect it? This is the reasoning in the SJG household, where we're a little off-balance, anyway. All it takes is a lot of reassurance that "the exploding ones were recalled and no longer for sale" to decide on the highly discounted model that God willing, won't blow up the house. Rather than fix the malfunctioning Maytag with the spin cycle issue, we've ordered a Samsung -- a company known for exploding stuff -- for only a little more than the repair would've cost. I keep telling you we like to live on the edge over here in Sherman Oaks. We never know when the machines we rely on might go Ka-Boom! And we like it that way.

Sometimes I Get My Way

Every now and then, all the skills of smothering, make that mothering, the two sons, mesh into a magical moment, and just like that, I get my way. "Why don't you stay over?" I ask the youngest, conveniently parked on the couch, with no sign of shifting gears and driving home. "Okay." "Why don't you stay over?" I ask the eldest, heading out for a 10-year high school reunion in Calabasas, with no desire to Uber back to the apartment at 3 a.m. "Okay." See how easy that is? Sometimes all it takes to turn back time is an empty bed and a pull-out sofa.

Turkey As Metaphor

At this point in the Thanksgiving weekend, when leftover turkey sits in the fridge, next to the cranberry sauce and the gravy and the stuffing, not to mention Grandma Char's chopped liver, let's take a minute to reflect on all the other meanings of turkey, shall we, and how they pertain to the semi-adventurous life of the SJG.

Turkey: a jerk, a fool, a failure, a flop, a dud.

Cold Turkey: instantly quitting something that's not good for you.

Fine, those are the only two definitions that pertain to me. The one about bowling a turkey - three strikes in a row - is so irrelevant I won't even mention it. Why are the other two definitions relevant? Because the washing machine that gave me such tsuris only days ago  has continued to cause suffering with the spin cycle. Therefore, the question of the day is this: Is the washing machine, the six-year-old Maytag with the expired warrantee, a turkey we must quit cold? The actual repairman who repairs stuff for a living arrives soon. I will keep you in suspense.

Turkey For Me, Turkey For You

Here are some people who stopped by on Thanksgiving, demanding to be fed.  Good thing I spent many hours preparing food, or there might have been an uprising. Turns out, I'm related to all of them, one way or another, by birth, by giving birth, by marriage, by parentage, by cousin-age. It was my year to host, so I acted happy to have them in my palatial estate, and they bought it. As is my custom, I handed each guest a list of rules:

Eat.
Drink.
You break it, you pay for it.
Leave.

I'm pleased to report that the people in the above photo followed the rules, beautifully. The four renegades missing from the above photo, well, let's just say they spent the evening on the patio.

When I Shop The World Gets Better

It's never too soon to get in on a good holiday deal, am I right? Last night, my brother John and I started planning our extensive Hanukkah shopping. It went something like this:
"Kohl's opens at 6 p.m. on Thanksgiving. Just saying!" -John
"Everyone into the station wagon! We're going to Kohl's, bitches." -SJG
"But what about the turkey? Won't it dry out?"
"Who gives an eff! Kohl's is open."
"Wait! JC Penney is open Thursday at 3 p.m.!"
"Shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"No wonder they named the store JC! It's a Thanksgiving miracle."
"We'll hit JC first, then Kohl's."
"Dreidels for everyone!"
"I hear Kohl's is having a special. Buy one dreidel, get one free!"
"Oh, oh, oh! Menorahs are on sale at JC's!"
"Spend, spend, spend!"
"Hang on. What's this? Target is giving out free gelt."
"What?!"
"Sorry, I read that wrong. Target is giving out nothing for free. But it supports gender-free bathrooms!"
"Then eff Kohl's! Eff Penney's! Let's throw our Hannukkah gelt at Target!"
"Everyone into the station wagon! We're going to Target, bitches!"
"By the way, I killed the station wagon driving it around in 1976 when the engine ceased up and stopped working forever."
"Buzz kill!"
"Who me?"
"Everybody into the Pontiac."
"I'll bring the sleeping bags."
"I'll bring the thermos of booze."

Wanton Washer Woman

"How clean do you want it?" 

It's true what they say. Sooner or later, it all comes out in the wash. When the washing machine went kablooey, the SJG transformed into Wanton Washer Woman. When faced with adversity -- in this instance, a sudser on the fritz -- I got reckless with the Woolite. A downstairs shower with a detachable nozzle set off something wild in me. Dirty clothes meant for the Maytag, clothes that had misbehaved during the work week, got doused with a capful of gentle detergent, overly spritzed with water, wrung out, pioneer-style, and shlepped to the dryer, drip-drip-dripping all the way, making dangerous puddles that someone could slip on and God forbid break a bone. In the end, the hubby who fixes stuff had a serious come to Moses moment with the Maytag. Once again, he performed his expletive-laden, domestic wizardry, and the washing machine did what it was told to do. Well, I hope you've enjoyed our Sunday soap opera. I know I feel cleansed. But please, let us never speak of this again.

A Very Merry Unbirthday

This morning, only moments ago, hubby and I proved, once again, why our math skills are nothing to kvell over. This morning, only moments from now, we are taking Sir Blakey of Sherman Oaks to the vet. To you, this sounds like so what. To us, this is big news. Why? I'll tell you why. Because Sir Blakey has never met our wonderful vet. But that's only part of it. When Sir Blakey adopted us, three weeks ago today, he told us in his own special way that he was three-and-a-half, more or less. This morning, we will be called upon at the vet's office to give Sir Blakey's date of birth, an occasion we must make up for we have no records of his arrival on Planet Oy Gevalt. And so, the date in question involves the afore-mentioned math.

"Let's say he was born in March 2013," hubby suggested, after doing some fancy counting backwards on his manly fingers. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I did some silent counting on my dainty digits and realized, uh no, that would make Sir Blakey too old. "Man of my dreams," I began, "I must inform you that your calculations are a bit off." Whereupon he crossed over to the calendar on the fridge, held up by clever magnets that say "Where did I go wrong?" and "It's all about me." In cinematic style, calendar pages started flipping this way and that until hubby arrived at the sixth month mark of May, a very merry unbirthday, indeed. So today, only moments from now, we will tell the nice people at the vet that Sir Blakey's birthday is May 1, 2013, more or less. This is the first time in our humble lives that we're making up a birthday date out of bupkis. It feels so wrong, and yet, somehow, it feels right. Who said we don't like to live on the edge?

Sweet Sixteen

With the promise of

fewer mortgages payments
on the horizon

we invite you to share

a special moment in our lives

when our Tuscan-style mini-mansion

with the solar panels

and the eco-friendly

bamboo flooring

celebrates its Sweet Sixteen.

To help us pay for all the expenses

we've incurred in the past 16 years,

we welcome large sums of cash,

checks, credit cards, and of course,

Israeli Bonds.

An elegant potluck will highlight the festivities.
So please, don't be a stranger.

Bring whatever you've got in the fridge,

stop by any time you like, we're home,

and help us celebrate this joyous occasion.

Attire: California Casual
Flip Flops Optional
RSVP
with a hint
of how much
you're giving us.

Emotional Scar Removal Cream On Sale Today

(Sherman Oaks) A short Jewish maven on everything proudly announces the release of SJG Emotional Scar Removal Cream, a miracle formula comprised of amnesia-inducing New Age remedies and a hefty dose of rachmones. "That's Yiddish for compassion," the SJG said in a self-serving interview at her palatial estate. "You can't get rid of those deep emotional scars without self-compassion, am I right? The instant suppression of unhappy memories is an added bonus. Just apply a nice shmear and no one will see the pain and suffering you're trying to cover up. A week or two of twice-daily application and those hurtful issues you've been shlepping around in your eff'd up psyche since birth will dramatically diminish. Suddenly, you'll have the energy and confidence to face your relatives at Thanksgiving without projecting years of anger and bitter resentment over all the dumb and insulting things they've said and done. Remember a few years back, when Great Auntie Zelda asked if you were pregnant and all you could say was, 'I don't have a uterus anymore'? Well, my emotional relief emollient will help you vanquish all that ugliness, once and for all. A month in, your natural glow of feigned mental health will shine through and everyone will think you just got back from Maui. SJG Emotional Scar Removal Cream will eradicate a lifetime of trauma, so fast your head will spin like a dreidel. You may get a little nauseous, but as side effects go, it could be worse." The SJG went on to say that no therapists were harmed in the making of this, the only topical you'll ever need.

Easily Amused

When the sons were younger, we had to find ways to amuse them. Amusement parks. Parks, in general. Movies. Dodger games. Laker games. Kings games. Any venue that served milk shakes, hamburgers and fries. Buying them stuff worked well, too. Skateboards. Rollerblades. Bikes. Basketballs. Baseballs. Bats. Hockey sticks. Sports memorabilia. Gameboys. Video games. New equipment of any kind brought temporary joy. Entertaining the sons was a costly endeavor. These days, it's so much easier to amuse them. It costs nothing. The effort on our part is minimal. All we have to do is doze off, mid-afternoon, in a seated position -- hubby on the sofa, me on the LazyGirl -- and hilarity ensues, especially when the eldest son captures the siesta on his iPhone and offers to share it with the world. Fortunately, a series of parental threats, including disinheritance, stopped him from exposing us to international ridicule. Such self-restraint. Have we raised him right, or what? He only shared "Parents Snoring On A Sunday" with his brother, who was all the way in the next room, debating whether it was worthy of Funny or Die, Instagram or Facebook. In the end, the sons wisely opted to spare us the global humiliation, most likely because they prefer not to lose their laundry privileges, upcoming Hanukkah gelt and supervised visits with our new dog.

What Can't I Stand?

Happy now, sure. But soon,

someone's gonna get hurt. 

Throughout my childhood, my dad would roam the house, issuing the following battle-cry: "What can't I stand?" And the three children who brought him nothing but joy would answer: "Happy children!" The theory was so smart and simple, so logical, I'm surprised Dr. Spock or Dr. Phil didn't think of it first. Happy children get charged up. Happy children get carried away. Happy children wind up doing dumb things and getting hurt. As the mother of two sons, I'd have to say my dad's theory was spot-on. The other thing my dad used to call out to us: "What's the most important thing in the world?" "Money!" we'd yell back. That was not the answer he was looking for. Love was the answer. But then, love is always the answer. He was right about that, too.

Not One of My Better Moments

Jack Bauer, unleashed

Usually, I keep it together. Okay, most of the time. Fine. Now and then, the SJG loses it. I'm sure it's hard for you to imagine me, short and demure gal that I am, diva of etiquette, queen of unsolicited advice, just completely going apesh*t on a total stranger. What's that? It's not hard at all to picture such a scene? You mean you've picked up signs of a temper in this blog, that blog, oh, and remember that blog from 1958? Yes, I'll admit, the hints are sprinkled throughout my Pulitzer-deprived oeuvre. There have been a few moments I've shared that reveal a darker side of my personality. Just ask a family member.

So, I was walking Blakey in the neighborhood, trying to teach him that not every squirrel, every bird, every car, every noise is worthy of his attention. Suddenly, I spotted a very large, unattended, unleashed dog rounding the corner. As is my ancestral way, I said to myself, "Oh @#$%!" Then I called to no one, for no one was visible, "Someone's dog is off-leash!" I thought I sounded so official. As the big dog -- whose named I later learned was actually Jack Bauer -- got closer, I took Blakey up on a neighbor's front porch (a protective maneuver I pulled out of my tush) and said again, "Someone's dog is off-leash!" Then an entourage appeared, three or four children parading in back of Jack Bauer, followed by a bigly buff fellow, in charge of this cheery brigade.

"Why is your dog off-leash?" I said to him, angrily.
"My dog is fine. My dog isn't the problem, ma'am."
"What you're doing is against the law."
"You're the problem here, not my dog. You're making your dog crazy."
"Excuse me! This is a rescue dog. I'm training him. You need to have your eff'n dog on an eff''n leash. That's the law!"
(Piss me off and I go all litigious.)

The rest is a blur. There was more screaming, mostly on my part. I know, I know. It was not one of my better moments. I handled myself horribly. But when it comes to protecting my posse, canine or human, I get fierce. I rise up to a level of Do Not Eff With Me. Where does this fury come from, this anger and fighting spirit? Beats the kaka out of me. Somewhere deep in my Russian DNA, I suppose. Next time, I'll do better. I'm sure there will be a next time. That's just how the universe works.

To Catch A Squirrel

Here only two weeks, the newest addition to the SJG mishpocha has already found important work as a Professional Squirrel Chaser. We are so proud of our Blakey. His techniques are top secret, of course. God forbid the wrong people get a hold of his dossier. But from what I can gather, his strategy involves staring out the window and making yelping sounds until I set him free in the backyard, or what's left of it, to terrorize his speedy tormentors.

All he wants is to catch a squirrel, any squirrel, and fulfill his destiny. Is that too much to ask? The Spunky One doesn't think so. He shows the kind of determination I long to approximate. Right about now, I lack the dedication and commitment to chase anything. But maybe, if I keep studying Blakey's sophisticated moves, I'll learn how to chase a dream and catch it before it scampers up a tree, only to taunt me from the highest branch.  

Make Me

Dear SJG,
Is there a way to make myself great again? Lately, I'm only feeling half-great. Not even half. More like a quarter-great. How do I restore my natural greatness? I know it's in there somewhere.
Thank you,
Feeling Un-Greatful

Dear Un-Greatful,
Just do what I do. Make yourself the star of your own reality show. Surround yourself with people who keep telling you how great you are, like every two minutes. Also, wear a hat. A hat will help sell the concept, believe me.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Long Day's Journey Into OMFG

Early last night, I felt like this. 

So I did this.

Late last night, I did this.

This morning, I'd like to feel like this. 

I'm not quite there yet. 

My Son, The President

An early morning call from the eldest:
"Hey, Mamba."
"Hi, honey."
"I just voted."
"Good for you, sweetie."
"I got there early. It was at a chapel. There was no wait."
"Lucky."
"Coupla altacockers just sitting there, slowly taking names."
"I love when you say altacocker. Except when it applies to me."
"You're not an altacocker."
"Not yet. Give me a few years."
"I did my civic duty. I just wanted you to know."
"I've never been prouder. So, who'd you vote for?"

"Me."
"You?"
"I wrote myself in."
"For president?"
"I think I could run the country."
"It's a big job. You sure you can handle it?"
"@#$%, yes."
"Well, I wish you'd told me sooner. I would've made a few posters."

Silly Time Change, How You Mock Me

The SJG awakens in a state of delightful, yet rapidly dwindling, enthusiasm: "Oh, good morning, world. Hello, birdies. Hello, doggy. It appears you've taken over our marital bed. Isn't that cozy? The smattering of black doggy hair as it sheds, hither and thither, on the satin sheets and velvet pillows. The luxury of it all. The splendor. I can't quite get enough of it. Do tell, doggy! What time is it on this joyous day? Ahem, doggy. Could you kindly stop licking yourself long enough to tell me at the tone what the time will be? What's that, doggy? Six a.m.? No! Too-too early. It cannot be. I refuse to accept this hourly conspiracy. Clockwise, it feels like 7 a.m. Silly Daylight Savings! How you mock me. How you eff me up, twice annually. How you mess with my internal tick tock. Can't you leave this glorious body, this shul of wonder, this creaky anatomy of mine, alone? For if Daylight Savings isn't about me, who is it about, anyway? You? Oh, right. Silly me. I almost forgot. Much like the Election from Hell, we're all in this together.

Training Day

Sit! Stay! 

Sit! Stay! Heel! Leave it! The SJG is in training. That's right. I'm a work in progress. I need to relearn the commands I thought I knew. So I've hired a great gal named Shawn to tell me how to behave. Shawn calls "Sit!" I sit. I'm so good at sitting. Once I plop down, it's hard to get up. When Shawn calls "Stay!" I'm happy to obey. I'm so good at staying. I've mastered it. Sit! Stay! The SJG excels at these commands. When Shawn calls, "Heel!" I try not to wobble. I'm plenty aware of my heel, the left one in particular, you know, with the plantar whatchamacallit. I baby my heel, I do. I insert my sassy orthotics daily before I head out the door. In this way, I remain upright without too much whining. When Shawn calls, "Leave it!" I'll admit, that's a challenge. Leaving food on the plate seems dumb, not to mention counter-intuitive. Why Leave It! when it's right in front of you? That's so rude. Food left on the plate insults the host. It's just wrong. Turns out, Blakey, the lab mix of debatable DNA, a Jewish dog in training -- he's a little this, a little that -- is learning some things, too. Like me, he's good at Sit! He's good at Stay! He's better at Leave It! than me, which hurts, but I'll get over it. As for Heel! That's a work in progress for Blakey, too. With any luck, and a lot of help from Shawn, the SJG will be walking this spunky guy and getting him to Heel! before I get too old to walk, unassisted. It's something to shoot for. Goals are so important, don't you agree? Please say you do. I'm too tired to argue with you.

Oy Vey, It's That Time Again

Jews keep time differently than other people. Here's how it all starts. You sit in temple, fidgeting. You're a kid. You want to get out of there, already. All you keep hearing throughout the service is this: "There was evening, and there was morning." Let's be honest. It's a little vague. You figure, "Great, I'm stuck here for eternity." A few specifics would be helpful, but do you get them? No. "It was 6 p.m. and Moses said, 'My God, these tablets are heavy.' " You don't get that. "It was 7:15 a.m., Eastern Biblical Time, and King David turned to Queen Esther and said, 'You call this breakfast?' " You don't get that, either. This explains so much, historically, that I'm surprised I haven't been asked to help craft an updated Old Testament. I'm convinced this iffy approach to time has permanently rejiggered the internal Jewish clock to one, and only one setting:

Run. Run for you life. Keep running.

This makes for an anxious people. It is and has always been the Jewish objective to get up and get the eff out of whatever situation we're in that might be a little dangerous. Seriously. Why stick around? Get. Out. Now. This internal setting may also explain why Jewish time tells us to arrive early, so we can sit there and worry till you finally show up, then make some excuse and leave early, so you have to sit there, feeling bad about yourself.

This internal setting may also explain why even if we're not running late, we still call and tell you we might be late. We know we're not going to be late, but we'd like to punish you, somehow, for always keeping us waiting.

So. If I'm ever late to meet you, start worrying. I'm never late. Something is wrong. Please notify TMZ, immediately.

Which brings us back to the main reason for today's Torah portion. Tonight we turn the clocks back one hour. Not me. I plan to turn the clock back two hours. That way, I'll be even earlier for everything and can spend even more time fretting about my own existence and maybe yours, if there's still time.

(11-2-13)

What, you expect me to come up with something new every time we change the clocks?

Nicely Done

Well, we took a short break. About three months, give or take. But now, hubby and I are back to discussing important things. You know. The day-to-day stuff that matters most in life. I refer you to this morning's conversation:

"How was it?"
"Good form."

The question for you is, what were we talking about?

1. The freshly-baked croissant I got up at 5 a.m. to make hubby, 'cuz I'm that kind of wifey.
2. The cute way hubby recreated the last few seconds of last night's epic baseball battle with a spatula and a sponge.
3. The nice condition of Blakey's backyard poopy.

A Nice Day For A Luncheon

The SJG has been to many, many luncheons. Every phase of life has brought a buffet of luncheons, always at a hotel. The Beverly Hilton. The Beverly Wilshire. The Beverly Something. The early luncheon phase exclusively involved my sweet mom. She started shlepping me to political events when I was a pre-teen. There I was in tights and a dress, feeling self-conscious and shy, as she introduced me to the mayor, or the senator, or the famous actress who'd come out to support Women For:, the liberal organization my mother chaired, or co-chaired. Chairs were very important. I'd sit in my designated chair and smile a lot. The best part was the chocolate dessert. I ate the whole thing.

Next came Phase Two. (Who said I wasn't good at math?) Phase Two was post-college, when I found myself at the illustrious Century City News. As the business editor (a position for which I was in no way qualified) I went to many luncheons, either at the Beverly Hilton or Century Plaza Hotel. Business luncheons. Charitable luncheons. Women In Film. Women Not In Film. I wore nylons and a dress and introduced myself and smiled a lot. The best part was the chocolate dessert. I usually ate half. I wanted my tush to still fit in my chair. Self-restraint, people. Self-restraint.

Luncheon-wise, Phase Three has been a bit spotty. There have been long stretches between luncheons. The professional writerly luncheon. The good cause luncheon. Whatever the occasion, the best part is seeing old friends. There's a lot of "oh my God, you look gorgeous, how are you?" There's a lot of "I'm sorry to hear about your dad... so sorry about your mom..." This is Phase Three. Today I'm going to a luncheon honoring a dear friend who's done so much good for the world, she deserves more than a luncheon. But that's all she's getting today. I'm so proud of her, I could scream. At some point this morning, I'll put on some nylons if I can find a pair that doesn't have a run, I'll conduct an archaeological dig through my closet to see if I can find a luncheon-worthy dress, and shoes that won't cripple me within the first half hour. And when the chocolate dessert arrives, I'll look at it on the plate. Maybe I'll take a bite. But only one. I'm still doing penance for all the Halloween candy. It's the lack of self-restraint that gets me every time.

Squirrel Patrol

Squirrel!?!

Last night's costume was shockingly similar to my everyday costume. To scare the trick-or-treaters, I wore my signature SJG shlep-wear and my sleep-deprived punim. I was going for Aging Zombie. I do believe I achieved the look. Thankfully, the doorbell only rang three or four times -- the actual count is hard to assess, what with the barking, the howling, the growling, and other unearthly sounds emitted by the spunky new addition to the SJG clan. Turns out, Blake, the Labrador-Boxer, or Boxer-Labrador, depending on the angle, likes to express himself. A lot. Squirrels and birds. Doorbells. Noises, in general. The dog that has adopted us? A bit of an over-reacter... an over-emoter... an over-thinker. Welcome to the family. You fit right in.