The Only Super Glue You'll Ever Need

(Sherman Oaks) Hey. Are you worried that the world as we know it is rapidly falling apart? Well, fret no more. The SJG's team of really smart people would like to introduce you to a specially engineered formula that will hold all those pesky, fraying global seams together, even during the harshest conditions! SJG Super Jew Glue is a fast bonding, super strength, instantly gooey form of magic that peacefully bonds all nations together like you wouldn't believe. It's air-tight, stupidity-retardant, temperature-resistant and can withstand the current head winds of hot blustery air kicking up, tornado-style, over the D.C. area and spreading recklessly throughout the land. Don't panic. SJG Super Jew Glue can take it. It's tougher than tough and non-allergenic. Promise! Oh, and guess what? This miracle game changer comes with a super cute bonus applicator that, when used correctly, helps prevent the destruction of the planet! Still not sold? SJG Super Jew Glue comes in fast-acting, super adhesive liquid or gel, for your convenience. When delivered through proper diplomatic channels, SJG Super Jew Glue can save us all. So. Get your orders in immediately. Who knows how long supplies, not to mention the world as we know it, will last. You're welcome!

Am I Losing It?

Dear SJG,
Yesterday, I heard a cell phone ringing and assumed it was mine. I went charging across the kitchen and down the hall, up the stairs and back down again like a hyena in heat, only to discover that my stupid cell phone had been in my pocket the whole time, and it wasn't even ringing. Am I losing it?
Thanks,
Farmisht

Dear Farmisht,
That's nothing. One time I told my youngest son, as we stood in front of my car, that, "I know this looks like my car, but it isn't," to which he replied, "Mom, you're scaring me." We all get a little farmisht from time to time. Hormones, honey. Hormones. Or the lack there of. You'll know you're really losing it when you no longer give a rat's patootie that your frenemy Shirley Frumpkin stole "Best Kugel" from you at the Sherman Oaks County Fair Kugel-Off three years in a row. When such an epic shanda fails to infuriate you, you're a goner.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

My Famous Mary Tyler Moore Story

You know what they say, "Timing is... is..." What is it again? Huh. For the life of me I can't... oh, wait, it's coming to me. It's right there on the tip of my what's-it. Okay, got it. "Everything." Thank you. Timing is everything, especially when it's freaky and disturbing. The other day, I was at the gym, telling my Famous Mary Tyler Moore Story to a few gals after spin class. I was telling this not-very-flattering MTM story for a reason I'll get to, if you ask nicely, and two seconds later, I went downstairs and saw on the workout room TV that Mary Tyler Moore, the gorgeous, the gifted, the comedy icon, the role model, the subject of my not-very-flattering story, had died. I immediately felt responsible, because I'd just dissed her two seconds before. This is how I roll, people. Is it healthy? No. Logical? Not at all. Remotely rational? Nope. Is there someone I can blame for this ridiculous defect? Absolutely. A few perpetrators come to mind, but I'm far too classy to name names, considering they're not around anymore to defend themselves. They meant well.

So, the Famous MTM Story. First, the setup. As we stretched our tired muscles post-spin, a woman who works at the gym entered, all huffy. "A client has reserved the room for 12:30," she said. It was only 12:26, but who's counting. "I'm turning on the fan. It smells in here." Well! We were collectively offended, the teacher most of all. She claimed she'd bathed in the past week, and we believed her. To make her feel better, I told my Famous MTM Story.

Fetch!

Morty visits Dr. Saul, the veterinarian, and says, "My dog, has a problem."
Dr. Saul says, "So tell me about the dog and the problem."
"It's a Jewish dog. His name is Irving and he can talk," says Morty.
"He can talk?" the doubting doctor asks.
"Watch this!" Morty points to the dog and commands: "Irving, Fetch!"
Irving, the dog, begins to walk toward the door, then turns around and says, "So why are you talking to me like that? You always order me around like I'm nothing. And you only call me when you want something. And then you make me sleep on the floor, with my arthritis. You give me this fahkahkta food with all the salt and fat, and you tell me it's a special diet. It tastes like dreck! YOU should eat it yourself! And do you ever take me for a decent walk? NO, it's out of the house, a short pish, and right back home. Maybe if I could stretch out a little, the sciatica wouldn't kill me so much! I should roll over and play dead for real for all you care!"
Dr. Saul is amazed. "This is remarkable! What could be the problem?"
Morty says, "He has a hearing problem! I said 'Fetch', not 'Kvetch'."

(courtesy of www.jewishmag.com) 

A Daughter Breaks Some News

"Mom, Dad, I've got some news."
"Tell us, darling."
"Don't keep us in suspense."
"Michael asked me to marry him."
"Mazel tov!"
"What a blessing!"
"I knew he'd ask! I had a dream about it."
"What, he couldn't ask my permission first?"
"No one does that anymore."
"They do, too. In the movies."
"This isn't the movies. This is real life."
"Have you set a date yet?"
"No."
"We'll need to book the rabbi. You know how busy she gets."
"I know."
"Are you thinking this summer?"
"No."
"Maybe next summer?"
"No."
"So, fine, a long engagement."
"Why rush? You'll be spending your whole lives together."
"Not exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"I said no."
"You said no?"
"Why would you say no to such a mensch?!"
"He hated 'La La Land.' "

The Look On My Face

... when I turn on the telly and wonder what awaits me.

After a few minutes of news. 

After 15 minutes, I start to look like this. 

At the 20-minute mark, complete and utter despair.

And finally, resignation mixed with hope. 

One day, a grandchild? 

SJG Announces Nominations

(Sherman Oaks) Today's nominations were announced live from the home of the SJG, an internationally-acclaimed maven on many things, including, but not limited to, who deserves an award and who doesn't. Here's what she had to say to a fairly well-behaved mob of reporters gathered on her front lawn at 5 a.m: "I'd invite you nice people inside, but I know some of you would track in mud, so instead, I'll make this fast. Here are my nominations for best picture. 'Funny Girl'..." "Excuse me," a reporter from Jewba.com shouted, "but did you say your nominations?" "You got that right, sister. Now, back to my list. 'When Harry Met -- " "We don't care about your nominations," yelled a reporter from What's It To Ya Weekly. Then someone from Movie Mania Monthly echoed the growing sentiment. "We want to hear about the Academy's nominations." "What's wrong with you people? These are my nominations for best picture ever. I though my people made that clear in the press release." Whereupon the reporters jumped in their cars and took off.  "Bastards!" the SJG said, then went back inside and fired her publicist. "Sir Blakey, stick with the squirrel chasing."

Requesting Quiet

"I had a mole removed," my friend said. "I hate these new parking meters. You need a degree to figure them out." She gave me a look. "It was biopsied," she said. I nodded. I could see her lips moving, but for the life of me had no idea what she was saying. And yet, it would be rude not to keep the conversation going. "Someone should invent a napkin that doesn't leave lint all over your black jeans." Once again, her lips started to move. "The doctor said it's benign." A pocket of quiet allowed "doctor" to escape. "Oh. Did you finally get that mole looked at?" She lifted a stale bread roll and hurled it directly at my head, splitting my brain in half. (Not really, but I think she wanted to hurt me at this juncture.) "I just told you I did!" "Sorry, hon, I can't hear an eff'n thing in here."

Another birthday lunch in a Studio City restaurant that I could've sworn was empty when I arrived. A letdown for the owners, a celebration for those of us who worship silence. I picked a comfy spot and sat down, and soon my friend arrived. We hugged, as all girlfriends do, and told each other how great we both looked, which in our case, was true. We proceeded to catch up. She'd just been to London. I'd just been to Gelson's. We had a lot of culture to sift through, and nothing to distract us. We placed our orders and settled in for a long chat, near-giddy with our barren surroundings. Even on a rainy day, this was a rare occasion. The only explanation: the hot new cafe that had just opened a few doors down.

Micro-Mini March In Sherman Oaks

More than a little crowd phobic, I headed up my own micro-mini-march on Saturday. I marched around the SJG Estate, chanting, "We're not going away!" and "Hey hey, ho ho, the comb over's got to go!" Up and down the stairs I went. I circled the sofa. I flashed my pink protest post-its. I wore my imaginary pink pussycat hat -- imaginary because I look very dumb in a hat, and don't get me started on what happens to my hair under hat duress. I would never subject you to photographic evidence. It would scar you for life. Trust me, it's for your own good. Hair issues aside, I cheered on my sisters in L.A., San Francisco, NYC, Washington D.C. , Boston, Kansas City, Anchorage, London, Paris and Berlin and many, many more. I watched it all, vicariously, and vowed to stay nasty and kvelled on a level of kvelling that's so intense, it's hard to quantify. I am proud of you, people. I was with you in spirit. I'm excited to see what comes next.

Denial App Upgrade Now Available

Just in time for the Apocalypse, the SJG announces an exciting upgrade on the SJG Original Denial App. One touch and here's what you get: Along with an unconscious defense mechanism that helps you avoid emotional conflict and anxiety, and the chance to bury all those unpleasant thoughts, feelings, desires, impulses, or facts you find intolerable, you also achieve Blissful Global Ignorance. Whatever's happening in the world can't hurt you! Thanks to the upgraded SJG Denial App, you're living in the State of Denial, population 66 million and growing. Just remember, none of what you saw on Friday is real! If you don't acknowledge it happened, guess what? It didn't! It's all just make-believe. Would the SJG lie to you? Only if it helps ease the pain. The SJG Denial App: only $1.99 for the next four years. Believe me, people. This is the only app you'll ever need. Enjoy! And, as always, you're welcome!

Exactly. 

Sir Blakey Ponders It All

Sir Blakey of Royal Jewish lineage, a mishmash of ingredients that add up to something wonderful; Sir Blakey, observer of squirrels, birds and trees; Sir Blakey, a frequent viewer of MSNBC, a part-time political pundit and former journalist, ponders the 5 W's and the H so relevant today: Who is all this hoopla about? What, no, really? When is this happening? Where is this happening? How is this happening?

Mission Accomplished

October 18, 1921 - January 19, 2014

"I'd like to be remembered as a guy who died very very rich. I'm not there yet. Seriously, I'd like to be remembered as a nice guy with a great sense of humor." - Ben Starr in an interview with Saturday lunch buddy/"like a son" Dan Harrison for the Archive of American Television: http://www.emmytvlegends.org/news/remembering-ben-starr

Short Jewish Pharmacist

"This prescription won't make you feel better

but it will stop your whining and make 

everyone else feel better."

Put a group of gals together, gals whose bodies ache and creak and demand constant TLC, and you get a hodgepodge of iffy medical advice. In dance class, where we stretch and groan and flash the semi-arthritic jazz hands, we split into two camps:  The Holistic Types, who believe the body can heal itself.  And the Advanced Kvetchers, who believe there's a nice pill for whatever ails you. Which camp do I fall into? I'm so glad you asked, even though something tells me you already know. Before I divulge the answer, let me give you some medical back story. I never met a flower, a tree, a blade of grass that didn't make me sneeze. Growing up, I got allergy shots twice a week. I had my own Ear, Nose and Throat specialist before I hit puberty. Every morning, my mother gave me a yellow spoonful of something so icky, so repugnant, that I'd pretend to swallow it, then spit it out on the black rug in the dining room. Yech. What prompted me to tell you that?  Sometimes, I overshare. As a grown up, and I use that term loosely, Googling disturbing medical conditions is a hobby.  God forbid I shouldn't be up on the latest life-threatening disease. I like to stay informed. Advanced Kvetcher.  That's me.  I'm the leader of the pact. In dance class, I'm the Short Jewish Pharmacist. Need an Advil?  Hit me up. I got a stash in my handbag.  Need  a tranquilizer? Yeah, I got that too, in case I need to jump on a plane at a moment's notice.  I'm all about disaster preparedness. You need a nail file? A stick of gum? A doctor recommendation?  Look no further. I'm here for you.

Put The Sparkler Out, Ma'am

To make sure everyone in the surreal, un-cyber world knew it was my birthday yesterday I carried a lit sparkler (just like the one pictured here) with me all day and encouraged anyone in my path to sing me "Happy Birthday." Sometimes they cooperated. Sometimes I got chased by hunky fireman and told to, "Put the sparkler out, ma'am." To which I replied, "Make me." Seriously. The things I do for attention. I should be ashamed of myself, but at 59, what's the point? I was born silly and plan to stay silly. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My Birthplace

1958 Oldsmobile/SJG Birthing Suite

Yes, here it is again, the story of how the SJG entered the galaxy on this very day. Way back in the sweet, innocent late '50s, when my sweet mom was in her last trimester with baby me, she got chicken pox, courtesy of the brothers. Complications ensued. She became so sick with double pneumonia, that her gynecologist – “that man who almost killed me three times,” as she decribed him – kept her out of the hospital so she shouldn't spread germs.

Drama queen from the git-go, I hand-picked the middle of the night for my Hollywood debut. My sweet daddy loaded Mom into the Oldsmobile and took off down Sunset Boulevard for County General, the only hospital that would admit a pregnant gal with an infectious disease. He had never been to County General and had only a vague idea that it was somewhere downtown.

He deliberately ran every red light on Sunset to try to get arrested. But there’s never a cop around when you need one. So he stopped another car, asked for directions, and the driver said, right out a B movie, “Follow me!” By the time he pulled into the parking lot, the SJG, a touch claustrophobic, wanted out. As in, right now.

Handsome doctors ran out and delivered me in the back seat of the car. My mom and I were immediately separated, which no doubt made me very, very nervous out the gate. "Where's the nice lady?" I asked. "Where'd she go? Are you bringing her back?" They put her in quarantine and saved her life with a new medicine called Cortisone.

What I Really, Really Want

There's still one more shopping day before the SJG turns, are you kidding me, 59. There's still time, people. I urge you to go out and spend, slap a bow on it and drop it off via helicopter, flying saucer or drone. What's that? You want an address? Just look for the neon sign that says SJG Palatial Estate. Okay, so here's what I want, what I really, really want. A lot less of this:

Dumb-ass-ness

Mean-ness

Hateful-ness

Prejudice-ness

Intolerance-ness

Thank you in advance. I've always liked you the best. 

Mentally Yours

Dear SJG,
It has come to our attention that in two days, despite your tendency to bump into things, drop things, and kvetch about assorted bupkis, you've made it another year. Mazel tov. Your friends at Mentally Yours would like to celebrate this important occasion by offering you 18% off your next mental cleaning. We're eager to polish off the rough edges of your psyche, scrape the tarter off your frontal lobe, and restore the luster to your tarnished keppy. Let us floss between the crevices of your personal mishegas and help delay your inevitable descent into "Has anyone seen my glasses? Oh, @#$%, I'm wearing them." One of our skilled mental technicians will be calling you shortly to arrange an appointment. Please don't hang up on us again. Your parents raised you better than that. Forget calling. How's Monday at 7 a.m. sound? If we don't hear from you, will assume you're coming. Cancellations will be ignored. Don't disappoint us. Haven't you disappointed enough people already?
See you Monday!
The nice people at Mentally Yours

That's A Laugh

Judith goes into a Picture Framing shop and says to Skippy the manager, "I have something here that's worth over $100,000 and I would like that you should personally frame it."
"Oy, lady," says Skippy, "I've never ever been asked before to frame anything so expensive. Can I please see it?"
Judith hands over to Skippy her son's college diploma. 


Minky's Grammar School in is not known for producing brilliant students. Nevertheless, Brian the teacher says to his class one day, "OK class, listen up. Can anyone here put together a sentence with the word 'cultivate' in it?"
Only one boy's hand goes up. It's Shlomo, a student who, if truth be known, is a bit farmisht. 
"OK Shlomo," says Brian, "let's hear your sentence."
Shlomo replies, "Venever you're vaiting for the school bus and it starts to snow, you should go back home because it's too cul ti vate." 

http://www.awordinyoureye.com

So Ask Already

"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I don't think I've ever asked you this before."
"I can take it."
"In fact, I'm 100 percent positive I have never even thought to ask you this before." 
"So ask."
"What do think we'd be like if I'd been raised by your parents and you'd been raised by mine?"
"That's an interesting question."
"I know."
"We'd be different."
"Do you think I'd be the one fixing things all day, and you'd be the one worrying about everything?"
"Sounds about right."

Love It Or List It

Yesterday, I strutted past hubby, clutching a basket of laundry. I was wearing my finest sweatpants, my fluffiest slippers, my flattest hairstyle. No jewelry, no pouty pink lipstick.  The SJG, Domestic Goddess Edition, dialed down to the simplest format currently available. "Are you going to love it, or list it?" I asked, in my best English accent, a la Hilary Farr, host of my once-favorite HGTV obsession until I became obsessed with "Fixer Upper." Hubby got up off the sofa, looked me over, up and down and sideways, considered my market value, stepped into the never-renovated kitchen and debated his options. What else could I do but set the basket of undies and t-shirts and rumpled jeans down on the eco-friendly bamboo flooring, and wait for the big reveal. Was hubby willing to look past my shortcomings? The faulty memory, the tired exterior?  Or was he ready to start anew? It took him a while to answer. "I've decided I'm going to..." Suddenly, he cut to a commercial for Living Spaces, the giant furniture emporium. And then, he was back. Like all reality shows, he replayed the key moment again, for optimum effect.  "I've decided I'm going to... love it!" "Smart choice," I said, and went off to transform our dated, dirty clothes.

For The Sake of Beauty

Oy-Veeno! That's cold!

(Sherman Oaks) Breaking News: A major manufacturer is shelling out the big bucks to acquire some questionable celebrity talent. If things go as planned, a short Jewish blogger from the S.O. (the nicer part) will become the next face of Oy-Veeno! “The SJG would be great for the brand because she appears to be a little bit younger than she actually is," says an unnamed source. "Oy-Veeno! thinks she can pass for 57 on a good day, even though she's about to turn 59, and we'd like to tap into the lucrative market of rapidly aging gals trying to save face before it's too late." The SJG is no stranger to beauty products. The blogger has used every gel, goop, mousse and industrial-strength spray out there, to deal with her baby fine thin ka-ka hair. She's been slapping on eye cream since she was a pre-teen. She's a huge fan of concealer. "With me, it's always been about self-preservation," the SJG says. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep my punim from slouching toward the abyss."

Sometimes You Just Need A Little Push

"Ma, I'm 29. How the @#$% did that happen?"
"Well, honey, I'm so glad you finally asked. I've been waiting 29 years to explain it, and now it's my pleasure, my honor, to tell you how you arrived on Earth, as opposed to Mars. Are you ready?"
"I think so. Is it scary?"
"Little bit. But you're a big boy, you can handle it."
"Okay, tell me, Ma."
"I pushed and pushed and pushed and screamed and yelled and swore at the top of my lungs, and oh, at one point, I laughed hysterically like a complete lunatic, on account of the drugs, and then they ran in and gave me oxygen, and the nurses exchanged looks, like uh oh, we got a wacko, and then, many, many, did I mention many, hours later, out you came with a pointy head, just an adorable bundle of absolute joy."

When Brothers Cook Together

When the sons collaborate on an apartment-cooked meal, a group text with the parents follows shortly thereafter, complete with video attachments and insults.

"Scott just obliterated a simple chicken dish. It will forever be classified as a sodium bomb."
"We'll have to go over some basics, honey."
"Or whatever comes before basics."
"And whatever comes before that."
"Shut up, Bill!"
"Just remember, less is more. A pinch of salt is all that's needed."
"I was following the recipe."
"Read me all recipes before attempting, honey."
"Bill, you could've helped him."
"I was distracted with work. And he entered the kitchen confident."
"Okay, he'll get there with more practice."
"Next time, honey, not so much seasoning."
"My potatoes were a hit."
"Eff your potatoes, Bill!"

People Are Staring, Ma'am

"Excuse me, ma'am?"
"Mmmbop?"
 "Could you please stop singing that?"
"Ba du bop."
"Customers are complaining."
"Ba duba dop."'
"They're fleeing the store."
"Ba duba dop."
"Did you bring that microphone with you?"
"Ba du, yeah."
"Don't make me ask you again, ma'am."
"Mmmbop."
"Three salespeople just went home with headaches."
"Ba duba dop."

"Have a heart, lady."
"Ba du bop."
"Oh, great, now you're dancing?"
"Ba du bop."
"Stop dancing."
"Ba du dop."
"People are staring, ma'am."
"Ba du bop?"
"Have some self-respect."
"Ba du dop!"
"There's the exit. Take the escalator and skedaddle."
"Mmm-kay."
"Have a nice day, ma'am."
"Ba du, too."

It's not my fault they were blasting "MMMBop" at Bloomies. 

Let's Blame The Dog

"Who me?"

Lately, the best word to describe the SJG household is Zombified -- not in the gory "Walking Dead" way, but in the "too exhausted to function" way. The good news is that Sir Blakey is well-rested. He falls asleep when he wants to, and gets up when he wants to, whether we want to, or not. Our needs are of no importance to him, whatsoever.

"Yes, you."

Our exhaustion comes across nicely in this late afternoon phone conversation with hubby, during which I regale him with my latest trip to the market:
"I achieved a whole new level of laziness today."
"You elevated your laziness?"
"I took it as high as it goes. You know that section with the hot foods, to the right of the shopping carts when you walk in?"
"Zzzzzz."
"Hey, wake up, I'm talking here."
"Sorry... Hot foods... shopping carts."
"Did you know that in all these years, I've never once bought anything from that section."
"I think I know where this is going."
"I walked right by it, like I always do, and then I backed up, and thought, 'oh, eff it, I can't cook dinner. I simply can't. It's physically and spiritually impossible.' So I put together what I pray will be a nice enough dinner."
"What'd you get?"
"Some nice chicken. Some nice roasted vegetables. I even got you some nice macaroni to go with."
"As long as it's nice."
"If you don't like it -- "
"Zzzzzzz."
"You get your money back."

Kugel Yourself, I Dare Ya

Hey, there, you with the sleep in your eyes. Have you tried out the new search engine everyone's yakking about? It's called Kugel. Kugel is so much better than Google, you have no idea. Kugel only finds the Jewishness in your bio. Kugel yourself, and oy vey, up comes your Hebrew school evaluation from 1969: "Talks too much in English. Can't say her Alef-Bet to save her tush. Debating whether to expel."

Kugel yourself, and oy vey, up comes all the aggravation you caused your parents: "In 1975, she dented her mother's Pontiac for the third time." "In 1976, she came home too late, to find her parents sitting shiva."

Kugel. Powered by guilt, and there's plenty more where that came from, believe me. So go on, Kugel yourself. I dare ya. But I'm warning you. You might not like what you find.

The First Memory

Adler's Signature Dance Move

"The first memory will show the individual's fundamental view of life, his first satisfactory crystallization of his attitude." -- Alfred Adler

The SJG's first memory:  Falling out of bed onto the cold floor, in the middle of the night, and breaking my collar bone.  Smack!  Ouch!  Oy! Followed by screaming and crying.  I was three and a half.

So Al, what does my first memory say about me?  That maybe I'm a little too tuned into my own pain and suffering?  A little too sensitive for my own good?  A little too aware of life's "gotcha" moments? A little too self-involved?  How dare you.  I'm tuned into everyone else's pain and suffering, too.  But of course, my own comes first.

Tell me.  What's your first memory?

The Tournament of Schmoses

Hello, Shalom and welcome to the first, and God willing, not the last Tournament of Schmoses, coming to you from Sherman Oaks, and hosted by, who else, me, the Short Jewish Gal. For today's event, I'm wearing a stunning pink robe and fluffy slippers. I would've put on my Vera Wang and a little makeup, but then I figured, why bother, this thing isn't being televised. What's that? It is being televised? Well, spank my butt and call me Chana. I guess it's too late to run home and transform. Oh well, as my mother used to say, it's important to look comfy, and I believe I've achieved that today. It goes without saying that I'm excited to host the Tournament of Schmoses. It's about time we honor the ordinary dummies, dimwits and doofuses just trying to get through their boring-asses days with a shred of dignity. Speaking of which, here to open up the event are Joe Schmo and his Sassy Gal Accordion Band, playing their big hit, "This Is What I Shlepped For."

SJG's New Year's Resolutions for 2017

1. Revive SJG Chakra Cleansing Service.
2. Develop cure for bad selfies.
3. Teach Sir Blakey how to bow.
4. Polka more.
5. Take "SJG: Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch!" on the road.
6. Embrace random acts of stupidity.  
7. Sigh like everybody's listening.
8. Find out who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp.
9.  End Twitter War with Tweety Bird.
10. Open SJG ShlepWear Outlet in Camarillo.