Break Me Off A Piece Of That

I ate too much chocolate again.

To a short nervous Jew like myself, Halloween combines two of my favorite things:  Chocolate and Worry. I love chocolate. I'm a little bit prone to worry. On Halloween, I worry about eating too much chocolate. It's the perfect booty bag of dysfunction. So tonight, once again, I'll try not to gorge on the candy that spooks me like a grandmother with a Ph.D in guilt. "I made this Kit Kat special, just for you.  God forbid you should let it go to waste." I'll try not to worry that no one will show up to claim the Snickers, the Reeses, the M&Ms. Leftover candy is almost as scary as my former attorney, Jack O. Lantern III, who's still trying to burn my ass. Tonight I'll remember the words of my Russian ancestors:

"A pumpkin is only a big fat squash with its eyes cut out."

10/31/13

I Like The Furry Guy

Justin Turner: The Furry Guy 

(Sherman Oaks) History was made over the weekend when the SJG watched not one, but two games of the World Series. On Saturday night, she watched the entire game. "It helped that the Dodgers won," she said in an exclusive interview at her palatial estate. "I like winners." She continued, "Don't tell hubby, but I really like the big furry guy with the red hair." On Sunday, however, she watched on and off. "I was there for the last two innings," she said, proud of her accomplishment. "I even turned off 'Outlander,' to catch the end of the game. Do you know how hard that was for me? I had high hopes. I was feeling good. At 10:30, when the game was tied at 12-12, the youngest son called. He couldn't believe I was still watching, and his father, the man who'd gotten him hooked on sports when he was still a toddler, had moved on. It was a rare sports-related mother-son moment. But then, in the 10th inning, the Dodgers lost. I don't like losers. I cried myself to sleep."

The SJG went on to explain her sporadic love of the Dodgers took hold in high school, when she used to get free seats to the games, thanks to membership in some hoity-toity academic organization.  "I believe I may have bought my way into that club. I took my dad to the games, and we never sat in the designated seats because they were awful. We picked the best empty seats, until security told us to move. We'd just play dumb, say, 'Oh whoops, sorry, these aren't our seats?' and find even better seats. We spent the entire game moving around the stadium." As for Tuesday night, the SJG said she's willing to give the Dodgers one more chance to tie up the series. "My daddy wouldn't give up on them, and so, neither will I, not until I get so bored I have to go back to 'The Voice.' It's the knock-out rounds, ya know."

Stay Awhile, Stay Forever

One year ago today, Sir Blakey barreled into our house and hearts for an afternoon visit, just to see if he liked us. 

The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage decided to keep us. 

He had no idea what he was getting into, and neither did we. 

But we're so glad he adopted us. We wouldn't have it any other way. 

Coulda Woulda Or Shoulda Coulda?

I blame Zac Posen for my latest obsession. The other night on "Project Runway," when one of the designers offered up a bunch of lame excuses to match his fairly meh outfit, Zac cut him off at the pleats. "Coulda woulda shoulda." Now hubby and I have latched onto this expression and can't let it go. Hang on, did I say hubby? I did. He loves "Project Runway," too. It may be because I force him to watch it and love it. But it's not much of a leap for him. I mean, come on, he's all about the fashion. Every morning, he stares at his vast array of nearly-identical shirts and reviews his choices. "What do you think about this one? Or should I go with this one?" I don't have the heart to tell him these shirts of his, mainly blue with blue stripes, are interchangeable. I don't want to hurt his feelings. He bruises easily. So I remain diplomatic: "They look exactly the same, honey. There's absolutely no difference to the human eye. If you put a gun to my head, God forbid, I wouldn't be able to tell one shirt from the other."

Back to Zac and the mishegas he's unleashed in my household. We've taken things to a new and maniacal level:
"Woulda shoulda coulda to you, this morning."
"Coulda woulda shoulda to you."
"Coulda woulda? Not woulda coulda?"
"Zac said coulda woulda."
"Look at you quoting Zac Posen."
"First and last time."
"Are you sure Zac didn't say shoulda coulda woulda?"
"He didn't."
"What's the right way to say it? Coulda woulda, woulda coulda, shoulda woulda?"
"It's a toss up. See you later."
"Where're you going?"
"I still have to recycle these bottles from the party."
"You said you were going to do that on Monday."
"Coulda woulda shoulda."
"Woulda coulda shoulda."
"You're never going to stop with this, are you?"
"Shoulda coulda woulda."

Waiting For Garlic Naan

At moments of extreme suffering, of horrible injustice, the SJG turns eloquent and long-winded. Ipretend I'm in front of the Supreme Court. I let my feelings be known. Last night, I picked up the phone and delivered the kind of speech that would make Clarence Darrow proud. It went something like this:

"Have you no sense of common decency? It's been over an hour since I called in the order. One hour.  Sixty minutes of anticipation. So now, I ask you again. Where is my food? Where is it? Where did it go to? Are you testing us? Did you deliver it to another house? Is some other family eating our chicken tikka, our garlic naan, our vegetable biriyana? At this stage, I must register a formal complaint... with the Better Business Bureau. Or perhaps I'll take it one step further. Perhaps I'll write a very bad Yelp review. I'll write the kind of Yelp review that will ruin you. And so, I beseech you to deliver the order, the sooner, the better, before I do something rash. You can't treat customers this way. There are a million other restaurants in the area that would've happily delivered my food by now, delicious food we would have already digested. We'd have moved on to dessert. We'd be watching a movie. Instead, we are wasting away to nothing. My youngest son is currently curled up in a ball, weeping. My husband is banging his head against the wall, moaning. As for me, I'm filled with regret. I'm left to wonder what inspired me to call you people in the first place. Why would I risk the well-being of my family? Why?  Why? It was an impulse move. An unfortunate impulse, a mistake I promise you, as God is my witness, that I will never make again. But I saw the take-out menu in the drawer, it was calling out to me. That was the start of my downfall, my tumble into hell. Never again will I make such an egregious error in judgment. Never again will I -- oh hang on, the guy just pulled up on the driveway. Never mind."
11-9-13

It Happened At Gelson's

I'm not going to lie. It's always been with me. The evidence is everywhere. The baby photos. The adolescent photos. The -- oh you get the picture. In many ways, it's a separate entity. No matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of it. Not that I want to. I need it. This thing of mine keeps me from tipping over. It's a protective device. Take yesterday, for instance. There I am in my Homeland, aka Gelson's, waiting at the deli counter for my number to be called. But then, when am I not waiting, metaphorically, for my number to be called? So, I'm waiting, I'm waiting, and wham! I get rear-ended. A gal walking by bumps into the SJG Booty. Her hip. My butt. Bam.

Does the impact send me flying keppy first into the glass case? Let me think about that. No, thank God. I just stand there, grinning. It's my first booty bender not committed on a dance floor. I'm not clear on the rules. I don't have collision insurance for this sort of thing. "Oh, no," the guilty party says. "I'm so so sorry, really, I am. Are you okay?" "I'll live," I say. "Listen, it gets in the way sometimes." We share a laugh. She feels exonerated. I feel self-conscious. I tuck in the booty to avoid additional ambulatory assaults. Despite the incident, I'm sticking with my daily motto:

Exactly.

After The Party

Dear SJG,
Is it true that after the party its the after-party? Cuz, like, I didn't get an invite.
Drunkenly,
Party Boychick
P.S. Did I leave my iPhone at your house?

Dear Party Boychick,
After the party its the cleanup party. The endless search for rental items. Bar glasses and forks on the front lawn? Check. Countless empty cans and bottles? Check. The young people and their Red Bull. This, I will never understand. So, in answer to your question, after the party it's the exhaustion, the sore feet, the sore everything. And, God willing, somewhere in the after-party mix (see what I did there?), you remember to kvell that you just threw a wedding reception that was more-or-less incident-free. Nobody fell in the pool, as you once feared, mainly because the pool was covered with thick planks off wood that only a karate master or power saw could destroy.
You're Welcome,
The SJG
P.S. We found your iPhone in the freezer. It died a frosty death. We said kaddish with a nice chianti.

Scenes From A Wedding Reception

A sneaky peek of the newlyweds posing for professional photos.

What follows are the unprofessional ones.

When you install a dance floor, chaos ensues. 

The long-marrieds

Pre-festivities, when my hair still looked good, with Scotty, John and my adorable MIL Charlene

Mother and youngest son being very silly 

John and I marvel at the drunken dancing of the young people 

 The dance train rolls through town.

Le wedding cake of yummy creme poufs

Bug Off

 

"What's going on here?" asks Dan, the pest control guy, the latest in a series. 

"A wedding reception. Our son just got married."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"What?"

"Marriage makes me sad."

"Oh, okay, so in the backyard -- "

"I like to avoid weddings at all costs. My last two cost me a bundle."

"Concentrate on the big hedge, Dan. "

"My first marriage lasted 30 years, my second one lasted 10, and each time, I lost my house and all my money."

"Uh-huh. So, let's get busy with the spaying."

"My current lady keeps bugging me to get married, and I say, no way, Jose, marriage is for suckers."

"Enough with the marriage talk."

"You gonna have a live band?"

"No."

"My last wedding, a buddy of mine played guitar. It was sweet."

"I'm going inside now."

"Like I told my lady, why buy the cow when the milk's free?"

"Let me know when you're done."

"You gonna have a DJ?"

And Now, A Religious Experience

Oh, dear God. What are these fellas in the wet suits doing? Deep sea diving? Searching for buried treasure? Should I tell them they're going to find bupkis at the bottom of the SJG pool? Or let the aqua men have their fun?

I left them alone for eight hours and look what happened. They covered the pool. To quote my father-in-law, "I hope they didn't leave anyone under there." 

And here is the final result, the ultimate religious experience: The SJG walking on water. 

A Nice Day In Beverly Hills

Under the courthouse heart-shaped chuppah

He may have been the deputy judicial officer, but I started calling him Rabbi Gordon mid-way through the courthouse ceremony. It may have been the way he explained the meaning of vows, not just marital, but the vows we make every day to keep our promises. It may have been the way he teased the former Bar Mitzvah boy, smiled and gestured and enjoyed himself. The clincher came at the end, when he pronounced Billy and Chloe married, and I said, "Mazel tov!" In that moment, he asked, "Did I just hear mazel tov?" "You certainly did." "Well," he said, turning even more rabbinical before our eyes, "do you know what mazel tov means?" Oy vey, a quiz. Still, I felt pretty confident. "Mazel means good -- " I didn't even get to "tov." He cut me off right there. "Tov means good. Mazel means..." Here he pointed to the heavens. "Dripping down from above... from the constellations. When we say mazel tov, we're giving a blessing. May this drip of inspiration from your soul above have a positive and lasting effect... In other words, good mazel!" "Who knew?" I said. On our way out, I added, "Thank you, Rabbi. That was very hamish."

Billy and Chloe après le mariage

Going To The Courthouse

When the day arrives for them to say, "I do"

When the day they'll get married is Oct. 18

When the day is the same as your dad's birthday
When the day brings you joy in a million ways

A Lifetime To Share

Where there is love there is a brand new toaster oven.

If I had a bagel for every time I thought of you, I could open a deli. 

You're not truly married until you formally announce it on social media.

A marriage works best when you ignore the dumb and thoughtless things your spouse says when sleep-deprived. 

Nice To Meetup With You

At a volunteer Meetup, as the young people say, as opposed to Meeting -- too businessy and boring -- or as I like to call a small group of peeps sitting around a table making conversation -- Hellody, Strangers! -- we introduced ourselves and then picked a piece of paper from a bowl with a fun question. Mine went something like this: "Who would you be if you could be somebody else?" I admit I was momentarily thrown. My whole life, I never knew I had such an option. No one ever handed me an exhilarating alternative. In this moment, my busy monkey mind went into overdrive. "Dear God, this question is throwing my entire identity upside down. Does this mean I can click my heels together three times and become someone else? What would my family think if they found out I wasn't me, anymore? Would they celebrate?!" "Uh, Carol, could you answer the fun question?" the volunteer leader said.  "Oh, sorry. If I could be somebody else... I'd be... I don't know... it's a tough one... uh... maybe, oh wait, I know... Ginger Rogers."

Why Ginger Rogers? Why the eff not? I loved her style and grace and the way she danced with Fred. I loved everything about her. Well, not everything. Politically speaking, not so much. She was a lifelong member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. I'm a lifelong member of the Granddaughters of the Russian Revolution. Ginger and the SJG, we were worlds apart. But to dance like her, to float on air, to tap tap tap my troubles away? That would be something. It really would be something.

Zombie Nurse Johnny & Friends

Scotty, Aunt Elly, Zombie Nurse Johnny, the SJG, 

hubby and Scotty's lovely girlfriend Katri. Hovering above us in a very threatening manner: Zombie Chef Boyardee.

Who else but my brother, Zombie Nurse Johnny, would throw an early Halloween party? No one comes to mind. He's been Halloween-obsessed pretty much forever. Every year, he tries to outdo himself, and last night's early scare fest exceeded all expectations. I screamed at least twice, and spilled my drink in fear at least once. Let's face it, I'm an easy mark. The foggy graveyard, the bloody shrunken heads, the skeletal crew, the freaky-ass maternity ward... I may never recover from this spooky hospital visit. And don't even get me started on what happened to Cowboy Bob. 

Zombie Nurse Johnny introduces soon-to-be-married Billy

to his long-lost Uncle Cleaver. 

Zombie Nurse Johnny shows bride-to-be Chloe just what kind of deranged family she's marrying into. I'd never heard anyone scream in French before. Impressive! 

Shirley & The Shindiggers

Shirley & the Shindiggers

Only one week to go before the big splashy celebration that started off as a smallish low-key soiree -- when have I ever done anything low-key? -- and has now morphed into a full-blown post-wedding extravaganza with entertainment by Schlomo & the Sophisticates and Shirley & the Shindiggers. Sure, the party's gotten pricy. Yes, we're way over budget now that we've decided to provide helicopter service to the guests who've bothered to RSVP.

Schlomo & the Sophisticates

But not to worry, my friends. SJG Enterprises has it under control. Not to brag, but if not me, who then, my side businesses have over-performed in 2017. Turns out, anything with "Anti" in the name brings in gelt like you wouldn't believe. The SJG's Anti-Aging Wrinkle Eradicator, the SJG's Anti-Kvetching Electro-Shock Wristband and, it goes without saying, the SJG's Anti-Slouching Velcro Sling, have all proven profitable and then some. Boy, are the Shark Tank people miffed they never let me on the show. But I'm not bitter. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I've sold enough anti-this and anti-that to almost cover the hors d'oeuvres. And the fact that the invitation clearly states "Potluck: Bring Your Own Everything" should really cut back on the expenses. Like I said, not to worry. This just-married jubilee promises to be huge and very, very loud. Just don't tell the neighbors. I hear they're not big fans of noise. Oh, wait, that's me.

Where You Lead, I Will Follow

I took the shocking news as well as I could, given the ambushy nature of the reveal. "Next time you come here," Renee, commander in chief of my baby fine ka-ka hair, and co-prezzy of the SJG Beauty Team, whispered, "you'll go somewhere else." "Come again?" "Next time, instead of coming here, you'll go to another place." "Please to repeat in a language I can comprendo." "Shush!" "Did you just shush me?" "I don't want everyone to hear what I'm saying." "Would you like me to hear what you're saying?" "Of course." "Out with it, gal." "We're leaving the salon." "Oh. Oh! Wow." "Next time, you'll go here," she said, softly, handing me a card, "not here." "So there, not here." "Right." "Color me surprised. What about Lenny?" Lenny is commander in chief of my hair color and co-prezzy of the afore-mentioned team. "He's leaving, too. We're all leaving. We hate it here." "Mass haircare exodus?" "Right."

So, after 12 years at the now ex-place, and I forget how many at the other ex-place, I've relocated for the third time to yet another salon. Basically, where my beauty team leads, I will follow. That's how devoted I am. Plus, they're the only people on the planet who know how to handle this ridiculous flyaway mess that sits atop my keppy.

See Cashier?!

"It said See Cashier."
"That's me."
"What's the problem?"
"I bet your card's been compromised."
"Compromised? Why me? Why now?"
"It's going to be fine, ma'am."
"Ma'aming me? At a time like this?"
"Sorry. Just give me your card."
"Do I have to?"
"You want gas?"
"Yes."
"Then give it."
"Okay, fine, here. Promise you'll give it right back?"
"Scout's Honor. How much gas?"
"A full tank. Fill 'er up with premium."
"Premium? Pretty fancy."
"You have no idea."
"Okay, I'm sliding it through now... and... voila."
"Voila what?"
"Voila, nothing's wrong with your card."
"Then why did it say See Cashier?"
"Sometimes I get lonely."

Double Date

Join me, won't you, as I step into the SJG Time Machine (patent pending) and meet up with my adolescent self at Wil Wright's in Westwood Village for a hot fudge sundae.  
Aging SJG:  Wow. You're looking good.
Adolescent SJG:  Thankie. Are those wrinkles on our face?
Aging SJG:  No. They're road maps to our soul.
Adolescent SJG:  I think I'll start using moisturizer, just in case.
Aging SJG:  It couldn't hurt. You might cut back on the sunbathing, too. So, met any cute boys lately?
Adolescent SJG:  There's this one guy in math class. But the girl in front of me likes him.  So I'm helping her write him funny notes.
Aging SJG:  You've always been a giver. A regular Cyrano. What's his name?
Adolescent SJG:  Howard something.
Aging SJG:  You want in on a secret?
Adolescent SJG:  Always.
Aging SJG:  Spoiler Alert.  You marry him.
Adolescent SJG:  What? No way. He doesn't even like me.
Aging SJG:  Give him time.
Adolescent SJG:  You're making me nervous.
Aging SJG:   I'm good at that.
Adolescent SJG:  Well, cool it. I don't want to know anything else.
Aging SJG:  But I know so much about our life.
Adolescent SJG:  Keep it to yourself.
Aging SJG:  What fun is that?
Adolescent SJG:  Fine. Tell me one more thing.
Aging SJG:  Math isn't your friend. Neither is the girl trying to steal our future hubby.
Adolescent SJG:  But she's nice.
Aging SJG:  It's the nice ones you have to look out for.
Adolescent SJG:  Okay, now you're just trying to scare me.
Aging SJG:  Of course, I am. I didn't come all this way for my health.
Adolescent SJG:  Can I have some of your fudge?
Aging SJG:  No.  Get your own.  
10-30-13

Suspicious Minds

"What are you eating?" 

"I'm not eating, I'm investigating."

"Then why are you chewing?" 

]

"I'm not chewing, I'm getting rid of the evidence."