Get Up, Stand Up

"Get up, puppy. Up. Up. Good boy. Come on, let's go. Kitchen, Blakey. Kitchen. Let me put this harness on. Oh, bleepity bleep. Seriously. Who designed this bleeping thing? Honey! Can you help me -- oh, never mind. I got it. Okay, Blakey, hang on. Stand still. Let me put the leash on. Good boy. Mommy loves you, yes I do. Come on, puppy. Let's go. Not the front door, Blakey. No walkies. Car, Blakey. Car. Car! Hang on, let me get the door. Calm down, you. Okay, okay, up you go. Good boy. Who's an angel? You are. Let me just... hang on, let me strap you in. Stop moving around. There you go. Good boy. Hang on, I know. Okay, I'm lowering the window. That's all you get. Okay, okay, off we go... don't lean out that far. Blakey, don't bark at the dog. Blakey, no. You want me to close the window? I'm closing it. There it goes. Bye bye window. Okay, okay, I'll leave it open, just a crack. Settle down, you. Settle down...."

There Goes Another One

"I've got some news," hubby says, early this morning.
"Is it bad?"
"It's bad."
"How bad?"
"Pretty bad."
"Is it 'someone died' bad?"
"No."
"Is it as bad as the dream I just had?"
"What was the dream?"
"I was at this huge party with people I don't know, and I wanted to leave but I couldn't find my shoes, my keys, my wallet. I'm opening drawers. I'm looking for my contacts, which I haven't worn since the '90s. Is it worse than that?"
"Much."
"Okay, let's hear it. I'm ready."
"You won't believe who was fired."
"Not you."
"Not me."
"Don't make me guess."
"Matt Lauer."
"MATT LAUER?"
"Yep."
"Again with the sexual harassment?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Pretty soon, there'll be no one left on the air but the gals. I kinda love that."
"I thought you might."

How To Sleep Defensively

Defensive sleeping reduces the risk of bedroom accidents and increases sleeper safety. A defensive sleeper follows certain rules and avoids bad sleeping habits. Defensive sleeping involves constant awareness of other sleepers and their bad habits, including, but not limited to, Royal Rescue Pups of Questionable Lineage that tend to pounce, paw, wag, shake, rotate and mattress-leap. Here are the top five defensive sleeping techniques that will help you get through the night and early morning without permanent injury to your personage:

1. Leave room for error! Account for the reckless sleeping and negligence of others in your general sleep vicinity. Leaving space between you and potential offenders, both human and canine, can save you from getting sideswiped, rear-ended or kicked in the keppy during your sleep cycle.

2. Buckle up! A defensive sleeper minimizes the risk of sleep injuries by strapping down any and all animals/humans currently co-habitating her cozy snooze zone. When other sleepers are strapped down, they can't flail, swing, hit, punch, smack or shove you off the bed.

3. Reduce speed for sleep conditions! Defensive sleepers always plan for bad sleep or mattress conditions. Defensive sleepers don't rush or speed into slumber. They take their time and look for obstacles, including prong collars, chew toys, doggy bones, iPhones, iPads, laptops and Fitbits.

4. Avoid distracted sleeping! Sleeping defensively includes avoiding all distractions above or below the covers. Distractions could endanger lives. So no talking on the phone or texting while sleeping. No eating or drinking while sleeping. Don't take your eyes off the pillow while sleeping. Don't engage in other dangerous sleep activities. No yoga, no Pilates. No Zumba, no spinning. No TRX, no kickboxing. Don't do anything but sleep while you're asleep and chances are you'll wake up alive.

5. Resist sleep rage! Sleep rage is a major cause of sleep accidents. Safety-prone sleepers may develop sleep rage when other sleepers sleep insensitively, hog the covers, curse, change positions without signaling or bark at some random outdoor noise from eight blocks away.  If someone insists on sleeping aggressively, don't get down on his, her or its level. Don't engage in any reckless or risky sleeping to prove a point. We are not asleep to police other sleepers. We are asleep because we're so exhausted we can't see straight and can barely function while awake.

The best thing the defensive sleeper can do to assure a safe night's sleep is to sleep in a separate locked room that no one human or otherwise can enter. In conclusion, don't be a dummy. Sleep defensively. You're welcome.

Royally Engaged

(Ye Olde England) This morning, Prince Harry and the lovely American actress Meghan Markle announced their royal engagement, singling out a delightful Hallmark Channel movie as the initial source of their romance. "I was at Nottingham Cottage, chilling royally, when suddenly this life-changing movie called When Sparks Fly popped up on the telly," Prince Harry explained, "and it just so happened to be written by the Royal Family's dear friend the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks. You know the SJG is our go-to on All Things Jewish. She taught Wills & Kate how to do a proper hora at their wedding. She's shared her famous kugel with us on numerous holidays. When I saw the SJG's name, I knew I was in for a fun romantic comedy with a guaranteed happy ending. And isn't that what the world needs now more than ever -- more Hallmark movies by the SJG?" The crowd of reporters responded, collectively, with, "Indeed!" and "Do tell!"

The prince continued, "Within seconds, this simply stunning actress named Meghan Markle appeared on screen and I was... what's the word the SJG always uses? Farklempt. My royal eyes bulged with intrigue, my royal heart went pitter pat, and I realized, blimey, I must meet her! I had my people call her people and in no time, I jetted, royally, to Canada and met Meghan whilst she filmed Suits. Can you say fireworks? Of course, the SJG has already reserved a spot under the chuppah, and Meghan and I plan to invite her over for bagels and lox as soon as possible. We've decided to say our vows in Yiddish, and who better to help us than the diminutive commoner who brought us together?"

Sunday Sayings

"It’s a beautiful Sunday morning and a great opportunity 

to thank the SJG for being so silly." 

"On Sunday, do what makes your booty look good."

"There is always someone older than you at Gelson's on Sunday."

"Sunday. The day before Cyber Monday. 

Be grateful for all your credit cards." 

When Life Gives You Yams...

The only drawback to not hosting Thanksgiving is the lack of leftovers, unless you count the remnants of my yam-marshmallow casserole, currently occupying my fridge. Every non-hosting year, I must relearn the same harsh lesson: the SJG Sweet Spud Sub just doesn't pack the same punch as a day-old turkey-cranberry-stuffing sandwich. Not that the negative response has stopped me from trying to make the SJG Sweet Spud Sub a thing. Sure, I've pitched the revolutionary carb concept to the mucky-mucks at Subway. Those bastards laughed me out of the boardroom. In terms of trending, my marketing team informs me that the SJG Sweet Spud Sub isn't. No matter how I spin it or rename it, my own family rejects the Tasty Tater Tartine as an ooey-gooey disaster. Even my daughter-in-law concurs: "Peut-être qu'il est temps de construire un meilleur brioche." Well, how can I argue with that? Color me inspired. I'm not giving up. I will build a better brioche if it's the last thing I do. I'm the hero of this sandwich! Like I always say, "When life gives you yams, make something."

Turkey For Me, Turkey For You

"Oh, dear God in heaven, someone take a decent photo of me in this chair!" I commanded. And soon the iPhones were drawn, and it got vicious and competitive, a wrestling match ensued, along with a Kennedy-esque football game on the new salmon-colored rug, and four hours later, here is the result. "A miracle! I don't look half bad," I said. To counter that claim, the nice people started un-nicely revealing an archive full of awful photos of me, enlarged for optimum horror. "Fine, I get it. I'm a very goofy gal. But I have to have this chair!" "It's the Egg Chair," Sissy told me, and by Sissy I mean the wonderful Allison, married to my wonderful cousin Andy.

"How much?" hubby, who'd already been photographed in the Egg Chair, looking good, asked. "It's an Arne Jacobsen." "Sounds expensive," hubby said. "Sounds like a nice Jewish boy," I said. "He's Danish," Sissy said. "So, he can be Jewish-Danish." Jewish, Danish, whatevs, turns out the Egg Chair costs more than a bundle. Why? I'll tell you why. Because, as Sissy explained, "It's vintage." "Like you, Ma," said someone I birthed. "Go to your room," I told the youngest. "This isn't our house, Ma."

The youngest said namaste before imbibing -- did I raise him right, or what? -- as the daughter-in-law, who surprised us with a smashing new hair color, posed gorgeously.

A lot of great people who let me share Thanksgiving with them.

Nephew Ben, a newly-minted Marine Reservist,
dropped in to say hellody. 

 Cousin Andy and hubby: two showbiz vets discussing things.

Nice people I'm crazy about on the verge of fressing.

For some reason, no one believed that I made this amazing princess/turkey cake. It was hurtful. But then, what isn't? And speaking of hurtful, the best line of the night came courtesy of hubby's aunt, who said this to her devoted sister, hubby's mom, as we drove them home: "Thank God you didn't drive, Char, we'd be lying in the street, dead." Another Thanksgiving, another full tummy, another fun time with family. I'm one lucky SJG... kina hora poo poo poo.

Happy Day of Indulgence

Hello to you, Thanksgiving Day. Happy You to You and Yours. What a day you are, Thanksgiving. Full of splashy parades, football games, family and food. So much food. So much potential for gluttony. Everywhere you look, there it is again, either something delicious to tempt you, or some helpful tidbit telling you how to avoid temptation. Well, for bleepity bleep's sake, where's the fun in that?

You want to know how to eat healthy on Thanksgiving? Pretend it's Yom Kippur. Stay home and fast. Invite your family over, you know, the ones you're keeping in the will, and offer up a nice big juicy platter of bupkis. Sure, it may not go over well, but I promise no one will ask for the recipe. They may, however, throw themselves at the mercy of your neighbors: "Can we come in? The crazy lady next door refuses to seat us. And we made a reservation months ago."

So today, the SJG gives you permission to fress to your heart's content. Indulge like there's no tomorrow, because, let's face it, you never know.

Today is the day to count blessings, not calories. Tomorrow, you can atone.

This Morning I Woke Up With This Feeling

Twelve. Such a delicate age. You're betwixt and between spunky adolescence and boy-crazy teenagery. You're what they now call a preteen, but in 1970, that term didn't exist. At least I don't think it did. What did exist, for those of us gals on the precipice, was David Cassidy. He was the perfect fill-in after my lengthy Davy Jones phase. "The Monkees" ended in 1968. Then came "The Partridge Family" in 1970, based on a real singing family called The Cowsills. Two of the Cowsill brothers, John and Barry, actually went to Camp Akela with my brother and me, and John became friends with them. The day John Cowsill showed up at my house was almost too much for me to handle. Of course, I was too shy to say anything.  I think I managed to squeak out "hi." When "The Partridge Family" came along, we felt a personal connection. John and I never missed an episode, what with the singing and the dancing, the guitar and keyboard playing, the all-round silliness. We spent our entire childhoods performing in our living room for our parents and grandparents. Sadly, no talent scouts ever showed up, but we could so relate! David Cassidy was a little too perfect, looks-wise, a little too goyisha, for a full-on SJG crush, but I adored him just the same. Tracking his life post-pretend Partridge perfection was a sad reminder of how hard it can be to peak too early and not know how to navigate whatever comes next. Intermittent success, failed marriages and troubled times awaited him. But no matter what he endured and overcame, he always seemed like a pretty sweet guy to me. So thank you, David Cassidy, for the way you looked in those bell bottoms, and the way you sang "I Think I Love You." I may have hoped you were singing to me, but that's just betwixt and between us.

Life-Changing Thanksgiving Advice

Danger: Kugel Cocktail Up Ahead 

Even though this isn't my year to do Thanksgiving -- thank God, it's my wonderful cuzzy's turn -- I can still dole out important, life-changing advice. The SJG wants everyone to have a fabulous holiday. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a giver. According to my own calculations, I give more than I take. It's just the way I arrived on this wacky planet of yours. Give, give, give. That's my motto. Let others take, take, take. So today I'll be giving you some valuable beverage guidance, courtesy of one of my hardest-learned lessons as a hostess with the mostess. Don't serve the Kugel Cocktail. You heard me. Don't. A few years back, I found the 2nd Avenue Deli recipe online: Rum, pineapple, peach schnapps, vanilla, cinnamon, non-dairy creamer. Garnished with, what else? A bite of kugel. But I'm making this public service announcement to spare you embarrassment and the worst hangover of your life. I used to offer Kugel Cocktails on a first come, first serve basis. My family couldn't get enough of 'em. But I don't serve them anymore. Hell, no. By 6:30 the mishpocha were so eff'd up, they were walking into walls, falling, tripping and dancing the Gobble Gobble Hora naked through the living room. Then came the lawsuits, most of which I settled out of court to avoid the bad publicity. So if you're smart, you'll ban the Kugel Cocktail from your repertoire. If you're not that smart, you'll message me for the exact recipe. You're welcome.

Out To Lunch

Not to name names but on Sunday, two members of the prestigious SJG clan (membership limited, so apply soon) were, as they say, "Out to lunch." See if you can guess who nearly ruined not lunch, but dinner. Here are two word problems to guide you:

1. The lovely French daughter-in-law makes two very French leek pies, a trial run for Thanksgiving, as her new husband plays sous chef. When pies are ready to bake, someone on the short side sets top oven to 360 degrees and puts pies in bottom oven. What happens next?
a. Pies cook in 30 minutes.
b. Pies cook in 38 minutes.
c. Pies don't cook at all.
d. Out to luncher/short blogger corrects double oven boo-boo.
e. Pies cook in 34 minutes and are beyond delish!

2. The short resident cook prepares a yummy chicken dish and cooks it early to avoid the afore-mentioned confusion. The short cook wraps it in foil and puts it in the refrigerator. Before departing for dance class, the short cook writes down instructions for reheating. What happens next?
a. Someone who married the short cook follows instructions.
b. Someone who married the short cook reinterprets instructions.
c. Someone short arrives home in time to rescue dinner.
d. Out to luncher/hubby gets scolded.
e. Out to luncher/hubby gets sent to bed without supper.

The Gardener In The Winter Rye

Every year, I ask him, and every year, he says no. When has "no" ever stopped me before? So many times, I've lost count. But that's not the point of today's blog, you, so simma down. Post-wedding reception, I tried again. "Filiberto," I began. "Filiberto!" I repeated, hoping he'd turn off the leaf blower and listen to me. He hit pause and smiled, as though he knew what was coming. "Filiberto," I said once more, just 'cuz it's a fun name to say, "what are we going to do about all this dirt?" He shrugged. When it comes to my yard, he is the Zen Gardener. "The grass is dormant. There is nothing to do but wait." See what I mean? He knows what he can change and accepts what he can't do diddly about: the weather and the squirrels and the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage wreaking havoc wherever he roams.

Will the grass return?

If only I could be more serene. If only I could be more like Filiberto. But alas, I yam what I yam. "Every year, I ask you about the dead grass, don't I?" He nodded. "And every year you shrug." "True." "Filiberto, put me out of my suffering. I can no longer look out at the dirt. I feel bereft and a bissel unhinged." "A what?" "Filiberto! Have you misplaced the Yiddish-Spanish dictionary I gave you last year for Hanukkah?" "I... ummm..." "A bissel means a little." "Ok." "What I'm saying is, I need a miracle, and I need it now." The Zen Gardener sighed. "You want the Winter Rye." "I want the Winter Rye." "You know how I feel about the Winter Rye." "You hate the Winter Rye." "I do." "Remind me. Why must you hate the Winter Rye?" "It is messy. It is sloppy. It is no good for my mower." "Too bad, and I say that with love. Everyone in the neighborhood has the Winter Rye. I want the Winter Rye, too." "You will get it." "Will it fill in the backyard?" "So fast, your head will spin like a dreidel." "I see what you did there, Filiberto, and I dig it." 

Within a week, up it came, the lovely Winter Rye. 

Fancy-Schmancy Century City

The Millennials help the Rapidly Aging SJG get around the 

swanky-swanky new Century City mall. 

All I can say is, it's so important to have a couple of younger brains with you when you decide to navigate the billion-dollar behemoth that is the newly renovated CC mall. 

And I needed all the help I could get yesterday, starting with the parking situation. Right up front, I warned Chloe, "I'm taking photos of wherever I park so I can remember where the bleep we are." "No problem," she said, in her delightfully French way, declining my suggestion that she pose by the car. Our first destination: Eataly, a gourmet maze-like food-a-rama, perfect for those who enjoy waiting in line forever. We entered on the first level, walked around, oohing and aahing at the expensive veggies and pastries and whatever else is there, I can't remember; then we walked upstairs and admired the cheeses and pastas and whatever else is there, I can't remember. Then I looked over the balcony and saw the level below, and said, "Oh, look, there's another level. We should go down there and look around." Chloe smiled at me, charitably. "Well, we just came from there." "Oh my God, you're right. I'm losing my mind. Thank God you're with me." 

Later the youngest son met us for lunch and escorted his befuddled ma and charming sister-in-law to Nordstroms, mainly because I kept saying, "Where is it? Where?" Then he returned to work, leaving Chloe in charge of me. Her next job was to help me figure out how to pay for parking and leave without incident. Mission accomplished. Woo-hoo. So, to you, Gigantic Century City Mall, I say Mazel Tov on your major expansion. Enjoy it in good health.  You are now the the biggest, most glammiest ever. No offense, but I plan to continue shopping at my humble Sherman Oaks mall, where I never get lost. At least, not yet. 

Bitch or Byotch, What's The Diff?

Well! Thank you for clearing that up!

Some of you may wonder, where does bitchiness come from? Are you born bitchy? Does bitchiness evolve or do you wake up one morning and realize, I'm such a bitch! As always, the SJG is here to help illuminate, clarify and confuse. But first, you may wonder, why am I all up in your face today about bitchy this, and bitchy that? Why am I not focusing on all the oven-fresh goodness that life has to offered? If I knew that, I wouldn't be me. Now then. The other night, as I stepped, Capezio first, into the dance studio, I encountered a scary Dance Mom who gave new meaning to the word Bitch. My friend and I were in the hall, waiting for a class to finish on time, which they never do, because God forbid they give a crappola that there are other dancers on the planet who need to get their groove on (see what I did there? I went all bitchy without warning!). The Dance Mom opened the door of the smaller studio, so aggressively, that she nearly knocked my friend unconscious. The door came "this close" to ka-knocking her in the ka-noggin. How close? Really close. What, you think I carry around a measuring tape? I'm not an interior decorator. But I know a good one. You want measuring, call my mother-in-law. Why are you bothering me with this? 

So, as the Dance Mom barreled out, all territorial and outta my way, I channeled my overdeveloped maternal instincts, yanked my friend out of harm's way, and said, "Careful." I swear it was a very nice, "Careful," as opposed to an attitude-infused, "Careful." There was no imaginary "Bitch" at the end of my helpful statement, which, if I'm being honest, which I am most of the time, was directed more at my friend than the Entitled Dance Mom. But oy, did she give me a look. Instead of saying, "Oh, whoopsie, my bad, sorry, I apologize from the bottom of my tacky, knock-off, cheap-ass copy of an expensive running shoe,"  this raging fount of negativity said, "I didn't do it, intentionally," huffed over to the drinking fountain, flashing me the "die,bitch, die" look, stormed back into the studio and slammed the door. Really? Get a grip! And ex-squeeze me for living. But that, my friends, is a walkin', talkin' definition of bitchiness.

So, in answer to your earlier questions, bitchiness comes from deep within your messed-up psyche.  You are not born bitchy. No, you are not. Bitchniess evolves over time, due to your environment, how much bitchiness you're subjected to from an early age, and then, once hormones come into play, it's anybody's guess. You're just a time bomb of uber-bitchiness. Not that menfolk can't be bitchy, but I think they prefer another term: a-hole. "He's such an a-hole." Pretty much the same as, "She's such a bitch." Thus ends one in a series of SJG lectures on bitchniess, or if you prefer, byotchiness. You're welcome! And please, have a bitchin' day.

A Nice Topping of Guilt

I rolled my cart over and waited. The elderly gentleman was blocking a shelf. He stood there, deep in contemplation. I hated to interrupt. He seemed sorta serene. "Excuse me, can I squeeze in there?" He glanced at the shelf in question, then gave me such a look, and said nothing. "I'm trying to get to the salad toppings." Another look, harsher this time. "I didn't think anybody bought that crap." It felt like a harsh judgment, given the locale. Gelson's is my personal homeland, my friendly, Zen-like grocery shrine of happiness. The first thought bubbling up in my keppy: "How dare you?" But I didn't go there. My parents raised me to emote, heavily, and verbosely, but only in the confines of their home, my home, your home, his home or her home. It's a home-based exhibition of feelings. Yell, scream, get it all out, but not, God forbid, in Gelson's. Not there!

Still,  if this guy wanted to condemn the gourmet tortilla strips, the crunchy garlic croutons, the crispy fried onions (lightly salted), the vegan baco bits, I figured, have at it, mister. I'm not a regular consumer of packaged salad toppings, so I didn't take too much offense. But he was just getting started. "Have you ever looked at the ingredients?" "Um," I said. "It'll kill you," he huffed, shaming me as he went on his way. Great. Leave me with a moral dilemma. Do I buy salad toppings that might kill my loved ones and myself? It might not be an instant death, just gradual, but do I need to feel responsible for that, too? Will a coroner one day declare, "Death by Salad Topping"? Well, I can't live with that sentence. So I spared my people. But in case I relapse, if you ever see me about to purchase croutons or some equally sinister salad fixin', please knock it out of my hand. Slam it to the ground. Stop me before I do further damage to my loved ones. Or myself. Thank you.

A Klutz Is Born

Yes, fine, I can't deny it. I've been a klutzy SJG since I tumbled into existence in the backseat of my father's Oldsmobile. Not exactly a ladylike arrival. It's pretty much been downhill since then. I broke my collar bone at three, rolling out of bed onto the floor. When a big rubber ball hit me in the stomach, I went flying into the air and landed on my butt for everyone on the schoolyard to see. Kids gathered around me, staring, waiting for me to cry. But I didn't cry. I'm the SJG! I don't cry in public. I laughed and then everybody else did, too. Thanks to my mother, a natural born klutz if ever there was one, I just associate klutziness with laughter. My mother delivered klutzy comic relief in the kitchen on a regular basis. I can still see her walking toward the table with a carton of sour cream -- back then, we put sour cream on everything -- and dropping it splat on the linoleum. A big blob of white went everywhere. She looked down at the mess and started howling with laughter. We joined her. How could we not? I can still see her sitting on the formica phone shelf that jutted out of the wall next to the dinner table. She could've used a chair; there were five of them only two inches away. But no, she preferred to sit on the shelf while gabbing with her friends -- until the shelf broke with her on it, sending her to the ground in a heap of hysteria. So I've followed in her klutzy footsteps, with the tripping and the breaking, the dropping and the spilling. 

Some days, it's a miracle I remain upright. 

What A Joke!

Two kids are in a hospital, each lying on a stretcher next to each other outside the operating room. The first kid leans over and asks, “What are you in here for?” The second kid says, “I’m getting my tonsils out. I’m a little nervous.” The first kid says, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I had that done when I was four. They put you to sleep and when you wake up, they give you lots of jello and ice cream. It's a breeze." The second kid then asks, “What are you in here for?” The first kids says, “A circumcision.” The second kid replies, “Whoa, good luck, buddy. I had that done when I was born and I couldn’t walk for a year."

A Jewish father was very troubled by the way his son turned out and went to see his rabbi about it. “Rabbi, I brought him up in the faith, gave him a very expensive Bar Mitzvah and it cost me a fortune to educate him. Then he tells me last week, he’s decided to be a Christian. Rabbi, where did I go wrong?” The rabbi strokes his beard and says, “Funny you should come to me. I, too, brought up my son as a boy of faith, sent him to university and it cost me a fortune and then one day he comes to me and tells me he wants to be a Christian.” “What did you do, Rabbi?” “I turned to God for the answer,” replied the rabbi. “What did he say?” asked the man. "He said, Funny you should come to me..."

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/lawrence-rifkin/5-best-jewish-jokes-ever_b_7630812.htm<

On The Cover of Moses Magazine

"Honey, are you excited about Tuesday?"
"What happens on Tuesday?"
"I know you know what happens on Tuesday."
"I don't know. Scout's Honor."
"Should I tell you or do you want to be surprised?"
"Give me a few hints."
"You, on the cover of a magazine. Maybe."
"Me?"
"You."
"Why?"
"You're in the running for something."
"What?"
"People's Sexiest Man Alive."
"We both know that's not true."
"Sorry, I got that wrong. I meant Moses Magazine's 'Sexiest Over-60 Boychick Still Breathing.' "
"How did that happen?"
"You have to ask?"
"You nominated me?"
"Guilty as charged, your honor. Feel free to make a citizen's arrest."
"I thought this is a family blog."
"What the eff gave you that idea?"

Veterans Day, 1938

Dad goes to war

This morning, an email from John, the historian of the family: "Veterans Day, 1938: 79 years today, Grandma and Grandpa and Dad drive into Los Angeles." There's a sister in this story too, but as my family lore tends to go, she's forever referred to as "the ex-sister." Don't ask.

It's a classic Depression Era story: the Starrs descending on Los Angeles, via Brooklyn, broke and looking to start over. Dad is 17, one year of City College under his belt. Grandpa -- "I'm in textiles" -- has lost the schmata store and is working out of his car. Someone breaks in, steals the fabric and they change locales, shlepping to California, where relatives offer to help them get settled. I have no idea who these relatives are, but thanks for the help, nice people.

I never saw him eat one of these.

Grandpa and Dad go to work at a donut factory, Grandpa driving a truck without brakes, and Dad making donuts. He eats so many donuts, he vows to never eat one again. Slowly, the Starrs, formerly of Brooklyn, get back on their feet, as the saying goes. Grandpa opens a tiny closet of a store to sell fabrics from, somewhere downtown. Dad goes to UCLA and in the summer, works with Grandpa. Dad is not meant for textiles. He's majoring in accounting. He's not meant for that, either. Slowly, Grandpa grows his textiles empire, eventually opening a number of stores and building a nice big house on Highland Avenue, while Dad is off at war, fighting the Nazis.

Dad, top row, third, with his squadron 

The Distinguished Flying Cross 

He comes home a hero, lives in the nice house for awhile, starts writing short stories and radio skits and sells something to Jack Benny. He meets a nice girl...

Under the chuppah with Jerry and Sheldon and Gloria June

Variety mention

A classic story, and it all started on Veterans Day, 1938. Something I always forget. Once again, thanks for the reminder, sweet brother. Where would I be without you?
(11-14)

Crazy Eights

It's true, the SJG loves to sing, sing, sing. All day long, I'm singing like nobody can hear me, and other than Sir Blakey, nobody can, thank God. That is, until hubby comes home and must deal with the day's harmonic medley of jingles and mundane updates. I don't just go upstairs. I sing, "I'm going upstairs!" It's one of my top ten selections. But my all-time personal fav, the one that brings me unbridled joy, is "Cellino & Barnes, Injury Attorneys":

Do you blame me? It's the best. So catchy. So peppy. I'm crazy about those eights. How I love to sing each and every one. Best of all, hubby often joins in. In this way, we stay in tune. Unlike... oh, it pains me to tell you this, and maybe you already know, but... Cellino & Barnes? They're out of tune. Splitsville. Lawsuits up the wazoo. Divorced. Turns out, these two injury attorneys can't stand each other. The new jingle, featuring Barnes sans Cellino, just doesn't have the same pizazz. Where once I had eight eights to sing, now I only get three. Three lousy eights: "Call 800-800-8000." Pretty lame, don't you agree? Of course you do! It's practically unsingable. In protest, I've decided to keep singing the original eight-eight jingle. You don't like it? Sue me.

Clothing Optional

"Did I say you could post this photo?" - SJG 

Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
So, what am I, chopped liver? You ask for nude photos "in case of revenge porn," I send you a nice big batch of baby pix from 1958, the only self-nudies I possess, and you return them with, "Never mind, we don't need these."  So hurtful, Mark. I'm weeping as I write this. What gives?
Feeling Rejected,
The SJG

Please, call me Zucky 

Dear SJG,
You were a little premature in sending us your baby photos, which, by the way, we all found adorable and well-lit. Black and white photos are so nostalgic. However, this is a pilot program in Australia. We'll be reaching out to America soon. In case you haven't noticed, we're living in a sick world. Sick people here, sick people there, doing sick things. Have no fear, Facebook is here. Say you have a spiteful ex who wants to embarrass you and post a naked photo you made in private. Such an epic shanda this would be around the table at Thanksgiving. "Oh, my God, did you see the naked shot of Aunt Hedda on her homepage? I can't unsee that!" But if you send us, your most trusted cyber friends, the "private shot" first, we'll make sure it never shows up to embarrass Aunt Hedda or your entire mishpocha. Your baby pics from 1958 are lovely, but don't fall into the right revenge category.
Authentically Yours,
Zucky

Dear Zucky,
Thank you for clarifying this exciting new program. I feel so much better now. It really sounds like a winner. I'm thinking, what could possibly go wrong?
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
The SJG