Have Fun Storming The Castle

 

Oh, dear God, what happened here, and why were three Jews from Sherman Oaks covered in scarves and beanies? I'll tell you why. Because we were colder than borscht. Our keppies were frozen. We needed a support team, and we got just that, courtesy of Chloé, who taught us how to bundle up, Frenchly, so that we weren't booted out of her hometown of Charleville-Mézières, for numerous fashion violations. The last thing we wanted to do was humiliate her in the Ardennes. We could humiliate her later when we got back home.

Well, you know how much I like to pose near important statues, in hopes that one day, a much-needed SJG Statue will pop up in front of Gelson's as an homage to my very silly existence and love of grocery shopping. Alas, since chances are slim of that ever happening, I had to settle for this regal moment, instead, with Charles Gonzague, the 8th duke of Mantua, and founder of Charleville in 1606.

Who said history wasn't fun? This is Charleville, a place so pretty, you could plotz. But please don't. That's beneath you. (See what I did there? Anyone?)

Sharing the sofa with our amazing French mishpocha (left to right): Chloé's parents Thierry and Nathalie, Chloé, the SJG and longtime hubby, Scotty, Chloé's brother Thibault, Thierry's mother Francoise and brother Philippe. In front, guarding his bubbly, Billy. Within moments of our arrival, they introduced us to the concept of Daily Champagne Drinking and delicious, long, multi-course meals. In return, I introduced them to the concept of poorly-pronounced, occasional bouts of atrocious college French, peppered with fairly decent high school Spanish. None of it made sense. But they pretended to understand me. For that, and their endless hospitality, I will be forever grateful.

 

French Scotty approved of the first course of our 18-course lunch at La Papillote. 

Billy and his In-Laws.

Okay, fine, 18 courses was a slight exaggeration. Can you say foie gras? Turns out, it went with everything. Even chocolate!

 

Thanks to Thierry, who enjoyed schlepping the Americans all the way to Bouillon, Belgium, I finally got the chance to storm the castle, metaphorically. Sadly, this was close as I got to gaining entry.

The denial may have had something to do with this alarming family photo taken on the grounds.

On Christmas Eve, Chloé, and moments later, the rest of us, marveled at the why-have-one-when-you-can-have-two seafood platters. Later, we ate much cheese and many other things I can't remember 'cuz I was beaucoup de tipsy.

And so ends today's blog. I must leave you dangling on Christmas Eve. But don't panic. Tomorrow, we'll jump in the time machine and travel all the way back, via reindeer, to last week's Christmas in Charleville, and a new holiday classic certain to become an animated movie, a merchandising bonanza, and kina hora, a Tony Award-Winning Broadway musical. Working title: "A Boy and His Beer."

Till then, I wish you and yours a Bonne Année. May 2019 be better than 2018, God willing.

The Return of the SJG

I know, I know. I said I'd be back in early January, but voila, here I am, ahead of schedule, semi-coherent après last night's return to LAX, where Immigrations, not the friendliest of folks, only detained my lovely daughter-in-law for some two hours, for no reason other than this is their idea of fun. Did we panic while waiting? Not as much as you'd think. We were just too exhausted from our très fab family trip to France. So before the major jet lag sets in only hours from now, allow me to regale you with a few Parisian moments. God forbid you should forget me altogether. Without my blog, who am I? A non-blogger, that's who. And so, I now present the French version of moi, so relaxed, so up for adventure, on that famous bridge with the locks overlooking the Seine. The big discovery of the trip, in fact, was our collective French doppelgangers, a group of super chill types who never stopped eating and drinking and now that we're home, will pay the price. Let's just say I'm so glad I packed the SJG Expandable Waist Stretchy-Wear. 

Well, who's this guy? I'm so glad you asked. This is Paris Scott, calmly experiencing some umbrella issues. But he's Paris Scott, so he rolled with it. 'Cuz that's how it works in the City of Lights. 

Oh, speaking of lights, here's my artsy shot of the Eiffel Tower. 

And another award-winner of Place Vendôme. Not bad for a short gal with very limited photographic skills. 

French-speaking Billy, the newly appointed Ambassador de Fromage, and his wife, the très jolie French-born Chloé, who guided us and patiently interpreted for us. It's highly possible we drove her more-or-less crazy, but she never let on, because she's far too discreet. 

Okay, fine, I didn't take this photo. Paris Scott captured the pretty red lights.

Here are some nice people I adore at the Musée d'Orsay, where we spent hours bonding with Picasso, Van Gogh and Monet. 

Hmm. My umbrella seemed to work just fine. 

French SJG and Scott a few glasses in. 

And here he is, French Hubby looking so debonair and, dare I say, the most relaxed I've seen him in decades. Just between us, I think it may have had something to do with the vast and on-going consumption of wine. 

What, you didn't think I'd leave out the Yellow Vests, did you? They tracked us down and yelled French things at us, or maybe it was directed at the French guy in charge. A small and lively group of pent-up window smashers. 

Tomorrow, I bring you Charleville-Mézières. Can you stand the suspense? 

Tiptoe Through The Tulips

Well, nice people, I've decided to tiptoe through the tulips till next year. What does that mean? I'll tell you. I'm taking leave of my senses... hang on, that happened years ago. Let me start over. I'm taking leave of my blog till January. Why? I'll tell you why. Because in 2018, I gave you 348 glimpses, if you include today, into the dark yet delightful SJG psyche. That's plenty for one year. Not to worry. Upon my return, I fully plan to bombard you, inundate you, and overwhelm you with charming, travel magazine-worthy photos of myself and my family in very French places. Till then, mes amies, I bid you a fondue. Sorry, still working on getting the college French back. I bid you adieu. 

What I Did In 2018

I see what you did there.

In Two Thousand & Eighteen:
I drank truckloads of caffeine,
I consumed some fine cuisine,
I acquired a flu vaccine,
I worked hard to feel serene,
I spent time in the latrine, 
I followed the same routine, 
I helped dirty clothes get clean,
I sat in the mezzanine,
I skipped the Hollywood scene, 
I felt betwixt and between,
I am ready for Nineteen.

The Beauty Team

You got that right, Sistah.

Inner beauty. They say it's more important that outer beauty. But let's face it. It's nice to look good on the outside, too, or at least, arrive somewhere in the vicinity. To paraphrase the late great Leonard Cohen, something I've never done, but why should that stop me, in my nearly 61 years on Planet Panic, I've come so far for beauty. The lifelong, never-ending, pricey maintenance of my short Jewish personage. The haircare. The skincare. And now, in a starry alignment this former astrology columnist never could've foreseen, as of this week, the SJG Beauty Team, including Renee, commander in chief of my baby fine ka-ka hair, Lenny, commander in chief of my hair color, and Lynne, commander in chief of my punim, shall gather in one, that's right, one locale. What I'm saying is the SJG Beauty Team is together at last. They can all consult with each other over what to do with me and all my beauty issues. They can even hold secret conversations by the bowls in the back. Oh dear, I can hear them now:

"I don't know what to do with that fly-away disaster of hers. Any suggestions?"
"She'd look good with a short pixie cut."
"Great idea. I'll surprise her."
"She loves surprises."
"'Cuz she's not at all fussy about her hair."
"Hahhhaaaahhhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhaaaaa-larious."
"I'll surprise her, too, then, and dye her hair red for the holidays."
"Well, don't leave me out of the fun. I think I'll wax off one eyebrow, just because I can."
"Merry Christmas, little SJG."
"Have fun in France."
"Bon voyage!"

I don't remember signing off on this look.

Reindeer Invasion in the S.O.

Don't panic. Stay calm. My home was invaded yesterday by the cutest reindeer and I never had to call Santa to come pick them up. It went so well, here I am, hugging one of them. She goes by many well-deserved nicknames, but for our purposes today, let's just call her Carol II, the Birthday Gal.  

This is Jane, a gal who really loves Christmas and really hates 

cussing, which presents a challenge for some us in "Laughing At Life." 

Allow me to introduce two more wonderful reindeer: 

Phyllis and Bruce. 

Hang on, there's more? @#$%, yes. Meet Nury and Fredda, a fellow Jewish gal who got fed up with the reindeer antlers and ripped them off her head. Just between us, the festive antlers can mess up a girl's 'do. Fredda is from the spectacular Motion Picture Television Fund. She lets me do this crazy workshop. 

Wait. What? Did we flip the guest of honor the bird? Of course we did, but we did it with love. Carol II, a gifted actress, star of Broadway, film and TV, not only received a statue commemorating her recent induction into the Horror Movie Hall of Fame (for her potty mouth rant in "Friday the 13th: Part V) but also solid gold "eff you" bling, insured by Lloyds of Sherman Oaks, for her Lifetime Achievement In Swearing. She promised to never take the necklace off,
and we believed her. 

Sir Blakey, on the other hand, received no awards, just gobs of attention from Phyllis and all the other attendees. And that, as they say, is a wrap, folks, workshop-wise, till next year. 

SJG Palatial Shake-Up!

Kissy Von Kreplach's resignation letter was a little harsh.

(Sherman Oaks) Can you say Shandalabra! We've just learned, only moments ago, that the SJG's trusted aide, Kissy Von Kreplach, has... brace yourself... skidaddled, leaving only a resignation letter that seemed a little harsh: "I can't stand it another second. I'm out." MENSCH MAGAZINE has it on pretty good authority that Hanukkah was the last candle for Von Kreplach. According to a person who just knows stuff, Kissy -- aka Kissy-Face to her close friends -- reached her tipping pointing after the SJG's Faux Festival of Lights. "Kissy comes from a mispocha that embraces the menorah. Every night, a new candle. Every night, a little gift and a big one at the end. But the SJG only lit one candle on the first night, couldn't even get through the blessing without Googling, and then didn't light the candles until the last night, only because she was guilted into it by her eldest son, who wept a little at the sight of the candle-free menorah. Oh, and please, let's not even get into the frozen faux latkes she served. And gifts? What gifts? Everyone got bupkis, unless you count the feeble attempt to pass off running shoes bought on Cyber Monday as 'eight nights of gifts rolled into one.' No one bought it, especially Kissy-Face, who was given a pair a size-and-a-half too big." 

Kissy Von Kreplach would do anything to get away.

Even before Hanukkah, Von Kreplach had worked up her exit strategy, involving a luxury excursion to outer space. "She always wanted to visit Mars and Jupiter, and now, thanks to a stylish new line of fashion-forward, fiberglass space wear, she can travel the solar system in style." Despite the fact that Von Kreplach's job was a temporary 10-year position, the SJG is reportedly devastated. "Good luck finding a replacement for Kissy-Face," said another poorly-placed source. "She's one of a kind." MENSCH anticipates that the internationally-acclaimed blogger may have to go it alone from now on, given her reputation. Yet in the long-run, this may be a good thing. It will give her something new to kvetch about in her beloved, award-winning blog. 

Take A Guess

I plan to read this to my future grandchildren. Nudge nudge.

And so, as Hanukkah winds down, and mine dreidel runs out of steam, metaphorically, take a guess how many times the SJG has lit the Menorah, including my first so-so attempt last Sunday?

1. Guess all you want. It's really none of your beeswax.
2. That's for me to know and you to never find out.
3. Once.
4. Twice if you include tonight, but then, can anyone know the future?
5. Seven.

I know, I know, this is one of my toughest quizzes. Take a moment to think about it. Really consider the options. Okay. Are you ready?

What's that? You were born ready? Me, too! If you guessed "once," then...

We'll Always Have Paris

Hellody, Darkness, my old friend, how's ba you? I've come to talk to you again about my latest obsession. Paris. Why am I obsessed with Paris? I'll tell you why. Because soon we're going there, at least, that's the plan. We're all, the mishpocha that is, flapping our wings and heading in a Frenchly direction. But, Darkness, are you still listening? Have you had your hearing checked? Pay attention, you. There's a little problem. The City of Lights has gone dark. Everything is shut down. Paris is in lock down, but only for the fourth weekend in a row. There are people in yellow vests protesting pretty much everything. Can you blame them? There are police in riot gear. Tear gas. Water canons. Does this sound like a dream vacay to you, Darkness? Or do you just sit there and ponder what the heck happened to the world? If so, stop that, Darkness. No good can come from that. I refer you to myself. The last time I saw Paris was, what, 40 years ago. I was a student abroad, Darkness. I've been so many places in my life and times. These days, I mostly circle Sherman Oaks in a continuous loop. Gelson's. Club Schvitz. Gelson's. Club... oh, you get the idea. But now I have a French daughter-in-law, a glamorous, wonderful human who can't wait to show us the sights and her hometown and the place where she got her fancy degree. It's my time to branch out, dammit. So of course, my destination should be in turmoil. And yet, longtime hubby, who's never received Optimist of the Year, is shockingly optimistic about the whole situation. "It'll be fine," he tells me. "How do you know?" "It's just a feeling." "Okay, let's go with that." But just between us, Darkness, I reserve the right to worry and obsess. In summation, as the Jewish proverb says:

It's Been A Year

It's been a year, a game of chance

Much like the year before

Can I just have one more moon dance

Through life's revolving door?

It's been a year of highs and lows

Much like the year before

Some days I glide on tippy toes

Some days I hit the floor

It's been a year of good and bad

Much like the year before

The shock of news on my iPad

I try not to keep score

It's been a year, a dreidel spin

Much like the year before

Sometimes I lose, sometimes I win

I'll be right back for more

It's been a year, a game of chance

Much like the year before

Can I just have one more moon dance

Through life's revolving door?

Is There Anything More Fun?

Is there anything more fun than driving in the rain, inching along at a snail’s pace at 7:30 a.m., waiting for the car in front of you to budge just a bissel, and wanting desperately to honk at this schmegegge, but you momentarily refrain, only because as you're just about to hit your horn, your daily Mindfulness reminder pops ups and tells you to practice patience, so you give it a shot, and then you honk? 

Is there anything more fun than sitting in a waiting room, where people don't know how to behave in such a setting, as though they're new to the planet, leaving you to wonder why they can't follow your example and suffer in in silence? 

Is there anything more fun than getting your eye dilated, zetzed with laser and generally harassed just a few days after you went through the same ordeal? 

Asking for a friend.

The Request

Miriam, an elderly lady, is on her way to the Glendale Galleria when she hears music coming from close by. Standing there on the corner is a street musician playing the violin. So she joins the small crowd listening to the music. Suddenly, a flasher comes up to the crowd, opens his coat and bares his all. With a totally straight face, Miriam turns to the musician and says, "How much do you want for playing 'Button Up Your Overcoat?’ "

One day, just as Rebecca was walking past Yiddishe Mama Exclusive Fashions on Fairfax, she saw them putting a new dress in their window. It stopped her in her tracks – it was a pale green Dior evening dress and she was totally entranced by this brilliant creation. She was convinced that it was bashert (destined by fate) – meant for her.  But it was priced at $6,500 and she had to think of a good way to persuade her Hymie to buy it for her. Then she had an idea. She couldn’t wait to get home.
"Hymie, darling?"
"Yes, what is it Rebecca?"
"Last night I had a lovely dream, Hymie."
"So what kind of a dream was it, Rebecca?"
"I dreamed that we passed by Yiddishe Mama, and in the window was this gorgeous Dior dress for only $6,500. And do you know what you did, Hymie?"
"Nu, so what did I do?"
"You went into the shop and bought it for me, darling."
"Did I really?" Hymie said. "That really was a wonderful dream. Please God, in all your future dreams, you should wear it in good health."

Bernie and Shlomo, both in their 80s, are sitting together in the park.
"So, Shlomo, how are you?" Bernie asks.
"Oy vey, I’m getting worse and worse," Shlomo says. "All of a sudden, my memory's decided to play tricks on me. I can't even remember whether it was you or my brother who died last month."
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