A Toast To Life

It's the last blog of Seventeen
Spent the last week watching the Queen
Claire Foy's last season on "The Crown"
Her last chance to dance in a gown

It's the last day of Seventeen
The last look back, know what I mean?
My last kvetch of this long-ass year
My last bagel with a nice schmear

And then it's the first of Eighteen
The first plea for a world serene
The first day comes with a promise
The first move as Nostradamus

The first prediction on the list
The first attempt to co-exist
The first time you say, "Twenty-Chai!"
The first toast to life zipping by

In Denial

Last night, I'm all cozy in bed, with Mr. Stinky Butt by my side, oh sorry, he doesn't like that nickname, I meant Sir Blakey, and I'm on my iPad, in brief denial about the world at large, watching a very funny Judd Apatow special on Netflix, when a texted image of a TV screen pops up and interrupts my bliss with the following testy alert: "Too many people are using your account!"

It's 10:45 and the eldest son is in crisis mode. I better pause Judd Apatow and get to the bottom of this dire situation. "Ma! Netflix won't let us watch." Dear God in heaven, how dare they deny the newlyweds access to my account? "Oh, no! No! What fresh hell is this? Why are they doing this to you? Who else is watching?"

His brother. Of course. So it's his fault, but somehow, it feels like mine. "They must've changed policy not to allow three viewers at a time," the eldest reports. "Those bastards!" "It's horse sh*t." "Let's sue their asses!" Just between us, all I want to do is go back to Judd Apatow. I mean, whose account is this, anyway? What are my maternal rights, if any? In a shocking, year-end development, I claim a slice of ownership. Aren't you proud of me? 

"The show is over soon," I text. "No worries, enjoy, Ma," he says, granting his mother permission to continue watching. Is he a mensch, or what?

Maybe You've Noticed

Maybe you've noticed that the SJG volunteers the most random info about myself, but only on a daily basis. Some are born to save the planet, fight injustice, cure horrible diseases. I, on the other hand, was born in a car, new then, vintage now, much like myself; born to travel down a very silly road with no particular destination in mind. I never really know where I'm going, but that's okay by me, as long as I wind up somewhere relatively safe where they serve hot coffee. It's got to be hot, or I start to kvetch, "It's not hot enough."
Anyway, going nowhere but enjoying the ride pretty much sums up this ol' blog of mine. I've been doing it for quite a while now, eight years or so, but who's counting, and since nobody out there has started a nasty petition entitled "Make Her Stop! Please! We're Begging You!" I guess I'll just keep ramblin' on. It's better than the alternative, which in my case, means staring into space, questioning my existence, and trust me, that's never a good thing.

Oy, What A Year

Not soon enough we say shalom to 2017, an endless stream of bad news, political insanity and deep global concern. What with the hurricanes, the fires, the shootings, the harassment, the overall unraveling of security, we end the year exhausted and more than a little afraid of what comes next. All we can do is cling to the happy stuff, the gratitude and joy for the wonderful things we kvell over daily in our personal lives: Family, friends, pets, and God willing, good health, and maybe a little mazel now and then. That's all we need. That, and a roof over our heads. Come to think of it, there's still plenty to feel good about, we just have to look a little a harder to find it.

Phone Calls From The Dead

"Is anybody there?"

Every time the phone rings, land-line or cell, no diff, I tend to overreact. My mind races, my heart pitter pats. It's an internal cluster-eff of oh no, something's wrong. Is this a healthy way to go through life? Probably not. But bad news seems to find me. I don't have to go looking for it. In the past two days, I've received three collect call messages on my cell phone, all from some correctional facility up north. First thought: Do I know anybody in jail? Not since my Great Uncle Seymour did that naked dance at Nat n' Al's, and that was a while ago. Second thought: Why do I get so worked up every time the phone rings? I believe I've got the answer. I blame a book I read in 1980, when I was a researcher on a TV show. A personal career low point for me, by the way. I got fired after eight days for asking the a-hole producer not to smoke a cigar in closed-door meetings. So much for that correspondence course in assertiveness training.

How I came upon "Phone Calls From The Dead," I can't recall. Maybe I found it in a little place we used to call a book store. Either way, the concept still freaks me out. All that "evidence" of phone calls people received from Grandma, only to find out, uh, Grandma died before you got that call. What up with that? Clearly, "Phone Calls From the Dead" traumatized me for life. Just thinking about it now disturbs me, deeply. Next time the phone rings, land-line or cell, I'm letting it go to voicemail.

"I've told you never to call me."

A Nod To Clarence Odbody

"I was just thinking of a flaming rum punch...Wait a minute...wait a minute... Mulled wine, heavy on the cinnamon and light on the cloves. Off with you, me lad, and be lively!"

Our first attempt at celebrating Christmas Jewishly went pretty well for the most part, except for the failed attempt at Glogg.  

This is what it's supposed to look like, but thanks to an awful online recipe, hubby, the official Glogg-maker, put whiskey in with the red wine, leaving the party-goers cringing, bewildered and altogether aghast. "Who puts whiskey in wine?" someone I gave birth to asked. I blamed the recipe. Why take responsibility when others are technically at fault? But then, a French salvation tip, courtesy of our delightful daughter-in-law.

"Burn the whiskey off," she said. And soon the concoction was ablaze. The room erupted with "oooohhhh" and "awwww" and "uh-oh, where's the fire extinguisher?" Alas, the incendiary spectacle produced unspectacular results. "We'll do better next year," we promised, but just between us, we're never making Glogg again. We quickly went back to champagne, a smart move considering the next failed attempt to merge a little Hanukkah into the Xmas mix.

"Who needs to fry latkes?" I asked nobody in particular. "You can make them in the oven." It sounded so simple, and yet, it was another epic fail. No matter how many times I opened the oven, no miracle occurred. And soon the mushy mess was deep-frying on the stove, resulting in what the eldest son kept referring to as "hash browns, Ma." Once again, I blamed the online recipe. We quickly transitioned to dessert -- buche de noel and Christmas cookies -- a smashing success which the youngest cruelly gave me credit for "not making, Ma." "Fine, I didn't make dessert, but I made you, so there." "Ho, ho, ho, Ma." "Ho, ho ho, yourself."

Happy Everything, Nice People

A roaring fire. An attempt at Christmas lights that, upon closer inspection, are tiny red beer pong cups. A snowman changing colors. A selection of gifts. A Star of David here and there. This is Christmas Eve in the palatial estate. Today there will be champagne and caviar, lox and latkes, French cheese and Finnish mulled wine. A hodgepodge of international treats. And a hunched-over SJG, hobbling around like an ancient elf. All I did was bend down to brush the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. It doesn't take much to throw the aging body out of whack. I'll try to keep the kvetching to the minimum. I can't make any promises. But I can post this: "Hamildolph: An American Christmas Story."

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A Crash Course In Christmas

The eldest's lovely French wife and the youngest's fetching Finnish girlfriend tell me they enjoyed their first Hanukkah, but I suspect they're just being polite. We did bupkis to win them over. We forgot to light the menorah, although we had the best intentions. We forgot to spin a dreidel. Hanukkah, come to think of it, was an epic fail on our part. Unless you count taking them to an annual Hanukkah party, where they ate their first latkes and participated in a "Yankee Swap," where the gift you pick from a pile may get stolen right out from under you, not once but twice. The confused looks on their pretty punims. Welcome to America! Which brings us to Monday. The gals are all about the Christmas, so I'm doing everything I can to make it special. Their relatives are far away. Why shouldn't I overcompensate and do super Christmasy things? The only problem: I don't know from Christmas, French, Finnish or Sherman Oaks-ish.

Christmas-wise, I'm taking a crash course online. Come Yuletide, there will be gifts, but no Tannenbaum. There will be foods from their home countries, but no snow on the lawn. There will be lox, but no bagels. Champagne and mulled wine, but no Mogen David. And thrown in for good measure, potato pancakes to die for. Listen, it's a learning curve. But then, what isn't? Whether you light a candle or hang an ornament, bottom line, it's all about family and love. Like I always say, there's a bissel Christmas in all of us. Even the SJG.

'Tis The Season To Clean Closets

Stack the halls with mounds of clothing

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

To Goodwill we will be going 

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la 

Toss we now our old apparel 

Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la

Lose the ancient duds of Carol 

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

It's All In The Handbag

As hubby and I luxuriate over Season 2 of "The Crown," watching it at a leisurely pace, as opposed to binging it in a day, I find myself obsessing over the Queen's handbag. Claire Foy as Queen Elizabeth carries that thing everywhere, indoors, outdoors, upstairs, downstairs. If she's not carrying it, it's right there on her desk. I'm telling you, she's never without her purse, just like the real queen. Dear God in heaven, what's in there? What? What? Lipstick? A mirror? A royal passport? Well, I couldn't take it anymore, so I went a-googlin' and found the Intel on the Queen's handbag. 

Turns out, her handbag's not just for beauty essentials and cab fare. Her handbag is chock full o' secret signals. If she shifts her bag from one hand to the other, she wants to end a conversation. If she puts it on the table at events, she wants to leave. Basically, her handbag's her ticket out of boredom. If this isn't the most brilliant trick ever, what is? It got me thinking. Is there any royal decree that prevents the SJG from copying and expanding on the Queen's longtime ploy? Let's go with "no." This morning, I handed hubby my top five secret handbag maneuvers and commanded him to memorize each one by tonight. Most importantly, he must follow these rules whether we're at a swanky social event, shopping at Gelson's, or sitting in the living room, watching "The Crown."
1. If I switch my handbag from one shoulder to the other, fetch me a glass of wine.
2. If I zip and unzip my handbag three times, fetch me a cookie.
3. If I hold my handbag over my head and jog in place, find me an unoccupied loo.
4. If I hurl my handbag in the air, rescue me from a mind-numbing conversation.
5. If I dangle the strap of my handbag in my teeth, fetch me another glass of wine.

Fixing The Leaves

A leaf fixing to leave

At dance class last night, in between shaking our middle-aged moneymakers, a gal in pink, a gal raised in Southern Cali, suddenly turned alarmingly Southern-ish while regaling us with the Tale of Her Injured Elbow. The Boo Boo Elbow in question was hidden beneath a fetching pink sweater that matched her pink jazz shoes, but we took her at her word, even though the words tumbled out in a highly confusing manner:
Pinky: "So we were fixing to leave when -- "
SJG: "You were fixing the leaves?"
Pinky: "We were fixing -- "
SJG: "You were on a ladder? No wonder you got hurt."
Pinky: "I wasn't on a ladder."
SJG: "Good. Ladders are dangerous. Go on."
Pinky: "We were fixing to leave..."
SJG: "Fixing the leaves on the Christmas Tree? So you could hang ornaments?"
Tall Shiksa Goddess: "For Christ's sake, Carol, let her tell the story."
SJG: "She is telling the story. It's about fixing the leaves."
Pinky: "There are no leaves in this story."
SJG: "You said you were fixing the freakin' leaves."
Pinky: "I said, 'We were fixing to leave.' "
SJG: "Fixing to leave... oh, wait, as in going out?"
Pinky: "Yes."
SJG: "Why don't you just say, 'We were going out'?"
Pinky: "I spent a lot of time on in South Carolina on my last job."
SJG: "But  you're not in South Carolina. You're in Sherman Oaks at the moment."
Pink: "I know."
SJG: "Is your elbow okay?"
Pinky: "No, it hurts."
SJG: "Then next time you go out, just leave, don't fix anything, and you'll get out alive."

What I Did & Didn't Do

At the end of every year, I like to review the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year just to see how many I actually accomplished. Let's take a look at 2017, shall we?

1. Revive SJG Chakra Cleansing Service.
This I almost did. Then I ran into a few permit issues down at the Department of Holistic Healing in Torrance.
2. Develop cure for bad selfies.
This I did. How? I'll tell you how. I didn't snap a single selfie all year.
3. Teach Sir Blakey how to bow.
This I didn't do. But I did teach him to do a triple back flip.
4. Polka more.
This I did. I polka'd so much, I've decided never to polka again.
5. Take "SJG: Kvetch! Kvetch! Kvetch!" on the road.
This I did. Every time I got in my car, all I did was kvetch, kvetch, kvetch.
6. Embrace random acts of stupidity.
This I didn't do. Not even close. Mainly, I screamed and yelled.
7. Sigh like everybody's listening.
This I did. My personal sighing highpoint: In June, I cleared out a movie theater.
8. Find out who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomb.
This I didn't do. There's always 2018.
9.  End Twitter War with Tweety Bird.
This I did. But it was short-lived. We reconciled briefly until he kugel-shamed me on Instagram.
10. Open SJG SchlepWear Outlet in Reseda.
This I did. We sold out in a day. Then we got shut down for Fashion Violations.

Primitive Impulses

"Don't judge me."

(Sherman Oaks) The Institute of Noshing just released its latest study and the results may knock you flat on your tushy: The SJG eats more in winter. "Listen," the highly-acclaimed blogger told Fressers Daily, "it's my primitive impulse to stockpile calories for the chilly Sherman Oaks winter ahead. Some days, it dips below 70! I need to eat to stay warm. It goes without saying, but if I don't say it, who will, that I was honored to be part of the study. I learned so much! The institute verified what I've suspected all along: I'm actually a descendent of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Why else would I store bagels in my cheeks?"

A few relatives I'm not estranged from. Yet. 

In between sharpening her teeth with a file, and chomping on walnuts still in their shell, the SJG added that the Institute of Noshing's study also revealed how crazy competitive her family gets around the holidays. "Leftovers barely make it from fridge to plate before someone I've given birth to grabs a treat right out of my hand. It's Survival of the Fittest, I tell ya. Why, just yesterday, I was about to pop a reheated latke in my mouth when someone I once pushed in a stroller yelled, 'Look, Ma, Ina Garten's on TV, doing something wonderful with chicken.' The second I turned my keppy, this person I've lovingly enabled snatched my potato pancake and swallowed it whole. Would he have behaved like a starving animal in spring or summer? Hard to say, but I'd like to attribute his total lack of impulse control to scientifically-established, winter hoarding patterns." In fact, she blames her own indiscriminate carbo loading on hereditary. "Oh, it's definitely in my DNA. I was raised on great deli, so it's my parents' fault that especially at this time of year, I can't walk past a nice platter without sampling something altogether delish."

The Scream Heard Round The Delivery Room

Exactly 26 years ago today, the SJG hollered, "GET THIS THING OUT OF ME NOW!'" while giving birth to this handsome guy right here. Little did I know that "this thing" would be so many wonderful things: a sports fanatic since the age of three, a music maven since the age of four, a driveway basketball player providing color commentary on himself, an all-round hilarious, sensitive, thoughtful, well-informed mensch, a drummer, a rapper, a great son/brother/friend... the list goes on and on. So happy birthday to you, Scotty. And many more. You bring me such joy and laughter on a daily basis.

Keep The Han In Hanukkah

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see candles breaking as they hit the prongs
There goes a red one, there goes a blue.
I take more out of the box and try again.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see educational toys stacked in closets
Rejected by the two young sons
Who only wanted Hot Wheels and Power Rangers.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I smell latkes frying in a pan
I hear the smoke detector going off
A reminder to remove the batteries next time.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see Star of David cookies I bought at Ralph's
For the second grade holiday party
A better person would've made them herself.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see me hunting for hidden gifts
Where did Mommy stash them all?
Please God, let there be an Easy-Bake Oven.

When I think of Hanukkah:
My mind spins like a wooden dreidel.
Where did all the menorahs go?
Can we get back the ones our boys made in temple?
(12-1-15)

Spoof Your Troubles Away

"Spamilton: An American Parody"

If you're in search of hilarity, as opposed to more daily depressing crapola, then please, go, I'm telling you, go see "Spamilton" at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in hip, happening Culver City. Go before January 7 when it closes, leaving you with another thing to add to your list of regrets. Last night, I went with John, a wonderful fella who grew up in the same kooky house as me, and forever friend Laurie and her funny pal Felicia. It was a grown-up evening for the SJG. With all the schlepping and dinner-digesting, clapping and laughing, I tired myself out and fell asleep the second I got home. Sir Blakey had to put me to bed: "Good girl! Go schluffy! Night night!"

"Spamilton" is the brainchild of Gerald Alessandrini, who's spent 35 years lampooning Broadway, taking on everything from "Phantom of the Opera" and "The Sound of Music" to "Mamma Mia!" and "Spring Awakening." So why not take on "Hamilton"?

Why not take on Lin-Manuel as Hamilton? Why not call him out, gently, for his abundance of verbiage, his Sondheim fixation -- "And another hundred syllables/came out of his brain" -- his uber-earnestness? "I'm slightly obnoxious/too broad, too pained/My voice is strained/and thin/I'm Lin-Manuel!" Before you doth protest too much, and start saying, "How dare you!" it's pretty clear that the "hip-hop op'ra scholar" who just parodied himself on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" is in on the joke. His "Spamilton" review: "I laughed my brains out!" 

"I wanna be/in the film when it happens!"

Nothing is sacred in this show. Not Beyonce, Babs, J-Lo, Liza. Not Michelle. Not Barack. Not "Lion King," "Sweeney Todd," "Annie," "Rent," or so many other classics I lost count. The Broadway and pop culture asides are, as they say in the original, Non-Stop.

What Hanukkah Means To Me

So many Hanukkah questions pouring in this morning, my head is spinning dreidel-wise. Today's query comes from Molly Blankstein of Tsuris Town, Pennsylvania:  "Hi SJG, how's ba you? Good, I hope. I was wondering if you could share some of your fondest Hanukkah memories from when you were a child."

Well, Molly, ask and ye shall receive a nice warm platter of freshly-made, metaphorical latkes. For some reason that I need to go back into therapy to pursue, I only have one very special Hanukkah memory from childhood. Just one, but it's a doozy. As a wee lass growing up in the wilds of Westwood, what with the chopping of the wood to keep the stove burning, and the schlepping eight or nine miles through the snow to shul, come Hanukkah, my family didn't go crazy celebrating the birth of Judah Maccabee. My parents scrapped together some gelt and maybe a few toys if Daddy sold a script, and did what they could to make their ungrateful... excuse me, grateful children happy. During the lean times, let's just say they got a little creative. Watching my mother ride in on her horse Sassy, carrying a giant gift-wrapped box that I knew in my heart was an Easy Bake Oven, was the Hanukkah highlight of my childhood. You see, Molly, I understood what she had to do to get that Easy Bake Oven. I won't go into too much detail, it's too painful, but I will say she served her time. I'll always treasure that one afternoon we spent together, cooking mini-cakes, pizzas and pretzels before the police came to cart my Easy Bake Oven, and my mom, away.

Hanukkah Latke-Off

Dear SJG,
My neighbor Trixie Van Schwartz (so competitive!) just challenged me to a Hanukkah Latke-Off, to be held in her fancy-schmancy remodeled kitchen, and streamed live on Facebook. But here's the thing. I haven't made a real latke since the early '80s, after my electric potato peeler went rogue and took off a layer of skin on my right middle finger. Should I turn Trixie down? I'll never hear the end of it.
Thanks,
Latke Loser

Dear Loser,
It really depends on whether you want to end the year as a total failure, or face your spud-related fears once and for all. Here's what I suggest. Every day leading up to the Latke-Off, pick up a potato and a peeler - a normal one, not a nuclear-powered one, for Mose's sake, don't be a nudnik - and peel a bisel skin, the potato's - not your own. Then peel a little more on the next day, and keep going, one behavior modification at a time, until, check you out, you've peeled an entire eff'n potato without causing bodily harm. Mazel tov. By the time this competish goes live, you'll have mashed those fears like a short order cook at Maven's To Go-Go. You'll be ready to take that Trixie bitch down and lord it over her for years to come. If defeating your enemy doesn't scream Hanukkah, what does?
You're Welcome,
The SJG
P.S. Maybe have a medic standing by, just in case.

I Can Hardly Wait

A conversation with my sons:

Eldest: "I don't want you to go anywhere."

Me: "Now? Or forever?"
Eldest: "Now. Stay home."

Youngest: "Don't go to dance, Ma."

Me: "You'll be asleep on the sofa."

Eldest/Youngest: "True."

Me: "I'll be back at 6:15."

Youngest: "Don't go to dance, Ma."

Me: "When I'm old, I won't go to dance."

Eldest: "You'll dance at home."

Me: "I'll dance with my caregiver."

Eldest: "By then, they'll have robot caregivers you can dance with."
Me: "By then, I may be too tired to dance. I'll just watch."

Youngest: "Ti-ti-time for your ene-ene-enema, Mrs. Schnei-schnei-schneider."

Eldest: "Ti-ti-time for your sponge bath, Mr. Schnei-schnei-schneider." 

Me: "Ti-ti-time for your Depends."
Youngest: "Ti-ti-time for your nappy-kins."

Eldest: "We're getting you a robot caregiver."

Youngest: "We are so doing that, Ma."

Me: "That's very generous, boys. I can hardly wait."

Hard To Handle

earth friendly & lavender fumed

without you by my side, i'm doomed

so strong, wide and recyclable

you never break, you're pliable

despite your charms, i must admit

there's just one thing i can't acquit

you don't open at my command

i coax, cajole and reprimand

i try this and that, you won't budge

and it's hard not to hold a grudge

i bend to scoop, start to grimace

When I can't fetch my dog's bizness 

Hanukkah Handout

Check out what I discovered early, and I do mean, early this morning, in the upper right hand zippy of my cute puffy jacket with the orange lining: A ten-spot. Call it my personal Hanukkah handout. My mystery gelt. Well. How did it get there? How long has it been there? Beats the kaka out of me. I'm not one to hide mula from myself. I like my cash in my wallet, not the secret compartment of a rarely-worn mini-Michelin.

The only photo I have of myself in the afore-mentioned fashion statement is this one, taken in Lawrence, Kansas on November 6, 2015, by today's celebrity birthday gal, Cathy J. Hamilton. It's quite possible the crumpled bill has been hiding in the pocket ever since. Not anymore. And I owe it all to Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. Had he not needed an early-early morning walkie, I might not have donned my puffy jacket... unzipped the secret compartment in which to hide my key from myself, so that when I returned, I could experience a moment of "where'd I put the key?"... found the long-lost $10 and turned into this decorative Hanukkah Hamilton.

Another Life Lesson

It's true, life offers so many lessons. 

Every day, another lesson. 

Today, a lesson in humility.

If you want toast

Make sure

The toaster oven

Is plugged in.