Gloss It Up

Such a nice feeling when the nice people you've surrounded yourself with every Tuesday for the past five months, the nice people you lavish with praise and Pepperidge Farm cookies, turn out to be keenly observant of your behavior. The afore-mentioned observational prowess became quite clear yesterday, when my habitual usage of lip gloss took center stage in one of my student's hilarious stories. She had the entire class trapped in the parking garage for days on end, and my biggest complaint concerned not the lack of food, the lack of family contact, the lack of caffeine, but my dwindling supply of lip gloss. I must admit I was both honored and alarmed. "Highly astute reference to my lip gloss," I told Phyllis. "I thought so," she said. "But how did you know the importance of lip gloss in my life?" Here, the gal we call Carol Roman Numeral Two chimed in, "How did we not know?" "Meaning?" "Meaning we see you using the lip gloss." "And?" "And nothing." "Well, you know my personal philosophy is lip glossed based." "That, we didn't know," said Phyllis. "Shall I explain?" "You're going to anyway," said Mike at the other end of the table. "It's important to look lovely." "Go on," said Jane. "Tell us more," echoed Nury. "Tell us less," said Bruce. "There's nothing more to tell. It's the way I was raised. Put on your face. Go out there and look lovely." Next lesson.

My Dad's Sammy Davis Jr. Joke

Sometimes when people discover my exciting writerly background, they feel compelled to share some great story they think would make a great movie. As if I have the power to get a movie made. I tend to roll with it, anyway, mainly for the pure entertainment value. Yet I keep my dad's policy in mind at all times. Whenever someone wanted to share a "great idea" with him, he held up his hand and said, "Stop, don't tell me." He knew all too well that ideas burrow into one's psyche and wind up in Hollywood pitch meetings and no one remembers who "owns" the idea until the "originator" sues.  Cue the lawsuits. "The Shape of Water," up for numerous Academy Awards, is tangled up in plagiarism charges right now.

Yesterday, I'm at the gym, not feeling terribly litigious, when a gal, a self-described shrink, corners me. "I have the best story," she says, launching into something she once heard from a studio exec/patient at least 10 years ago. "You can use it," she offers, "for one of your Hallmark movies." Well, now I'm hooked. "There's this magical talking stork," she says, and from that point, logic goes out the window. The magical stork gets shot down on a hunting trip. "But don't worry, it's only a flesh wound," she says. The magical stork forgives the accidental shooter, a grieving widower who didn't even want to go on this stupid hunting trip in the first place. The talking bird hands him a package. "Deliver this to the hospital." And wouldn't you know, inside the package is... a baby and... "Hang on there a minute, Missy," I say. "Are there holes in the box so the baby can breathe?" "I don't know." "Is this an anti-NRA story?" "Stop interrupting me." "I'm not seeing the Hallmark angle." "I didn't get to that yet." "Did this movie ever get made?" "No, he passed on it." The crazy way she tells me her version of this story reminds me of an old show biz joke my dad loved to tell, and it goes something like this:

Right after a big meeting at Harrah's, Sammy Davis Jr.'s agent calls him up. Sammy's all excited. He's been dying to headline there and he figures, here's the news he's been waiting for.
"So come on, tell me, how'd it go?"
"Not great," his agent says.
"What do you mean, not great? What happened?"
"I don't know. I did your entire act. They weren't that impressed."

Operation: Wedding Album

Fully-gloved and ready for action, the Surgical Photo Team operates on the Wedding Album, with an assist from Sir Blakey. The Royal Rescue Pup (of Questionable Lineage) contributes strands of hair as a memento. The delicate procedure lasts many hours. Despite a serious case of the giggles, a testy demand for caffeine and the annoying repetition of the phrase, "Nurse! Pass me that scalpel!", the patient turns out perfectly, needing no recovery time.

The selection process proves deeply emotional, considering the abundance of fabulous pix, 150 or so, but who's counting. Constant pleas from a certain member of the team receive considerable disdain: "Oh dear God, don't use that one. My hair looks flat." "Hush, Mother, we're operating." "Malpractice!"

Highly-skilled hubby uses his trusty T-Square to guide the laser-like trimming of an 8 x 10 horizontal. 

Let's Get Ready To Tumble

This morning, an important text arrived from the youngest, a text that completely validates the SJG: Motherhood Edition. Let's analyze line by line, shall we? What, you've got something better to do? Come on, gang. Grab a cup of joe, and let's get started.

1. "You'll be happy to know I did the laundry here yesterday."
Analysis: Boy, does he get me. To take the time to think about his mummy's personal happiness, and use laundry as a metaphor? Does it get any better than this?
2. "It's nowhere near as glamorous as our Sherman Oaks laundromat."
Analysis: Boy, does he get me. He knows how hard I've worked to glam up the laundry zone at the palatial estate, what with the newly-installed cappuccino maker, the personalized settings, the well-paid Personal Frother. A clever maternal trap to lure my sons over on Sundays? You betcha. So what if he took one Sunday off to celebrate his girlfriend's birthday. Trust me, next Sunday, he'll be back.

3. "I removed someone's stuff from the wash because it was done and then she confronted me, angrily. 'Oh, so you're the one who moved it, you bastard.' I did my best not to cry, but it hurt my feelings. I don't like meanies."
Analysis: Boy, oh boy. Like I always say, the bagel doesn't fall far from the deli counter.

The Early Works of the SJG

"Harry Jones was a mischievous eleven-year-old boy." Right out the gate, you know there's going to be conflict and plenty of it. In reviewing my early works, I can't help but notice a similar theme. Shall I elaborate? If you insist. Now then. In "A Different Kind of Friend," my first elementary school novel, Stacy Schwartz, a Jewish girl, talks her parents into buying her a horse. In "Harry Visits India," the afore-mentioned Harry, a vaguely non-Jewish boy, talks his parents into taking him to India. Hmm. I wonder if I was always trying to talk my parents into something, and constantly bumping up against a big fat resounding no?  I think I've hit on something here. I wanted a dog. I begged, I pleaded. I got a guinea pig, only because I brought it home. "This is my guinea pig.  I'm keeping him."  He... well, he turned out to be a she... was a rescue guinea pig. I forced him/her on my parents. Unlike Stacy or Harry, I never talked them into anything. I dropped subtle hints. I bombarded them with cute notes slipped under their bedroom door. I begged, I pleaded for my own phone. I argued that "all my friends have phones." It didn't help my case. Poor deprived SJG, Jr. I never had my own phone till my senior year of college when I lived in an apartment. Honestly, I don't know how survived.

But back to Harry. Once in India, he's so mischievous, he meets a boy named Krishna and spends the night at his new friend's humble shrine and forgets to tell his parents where he is. Bad Harry! Can you say Selfish with a capital S? His parents lose their minds and Harry's disappearance makes the front page of the New Delhi Times. But it all works out in a happy fictional way. He apologizes to his parents and they forgive him just like that. Can you say wish fulfillment? I would've been grounded for a year.

I'm happy to report that "About The Author" paints a more evolved picture of the SJG. Six months back, when I wrote "A Different Kind of Friend," I collected pennies and wanted to be an on-and-off interior decorator/housewife.  After sharing my birthday and other fascinating details, it's clear I've moved on from penny collecting. "Carol is eleven-and-a-half years old." Remember when "a half" was a big deal? "She enjoys all sports, especially horseback riding and swimming. Her favorite hobby is playing the guitar." I've now entered my Joni Mitchell phase, which will last a very long time. "This is Carol's second book and she hopes to continue writing." And there you have it.
(3-12-14)

What Women Talk About At The Gym

Mainly, we talk about health, all aspects of it. We talk body parts -- the ones that are falling apart, the  ones that are getting better, the ones we can no longer identify. A few weeks ago, Genie, my gorgeous friend who has no right to be that tall, and the SJG had a lengthy discussion about doctors and why they should never be too good-looking, especially gynecologists. It's just wrong. It makes us uncomfortable. I once had a handsome gyno and had to break up with him. Next appointment, Icalled up and cancelled. "I can't see him anymore," I told the receptionist. "Reason for leaving?" "He's way too hot. Can you recommend an ugly doctor?" "Hold,  please." Not only do we discuss our own health issues, which keep getting weirder with age, but Genie and I like to dole out unsolicited advice to unsuspecting gals we take under our wing. The other day, we did our best to cheer up Erica (*name changed to protect her good reputation), who is facing her first colonoscopy. Genie and I are veterans of this procedure, and regaled Erica (not her real name) with stories of blocked plumbing, 911 calls to Roto-Rooter, jello that sits in the fridge for months, reminding you, "Oh, crap, I could only eat jello before my colonoscopy," and other unappealing side-effects that the SJG is far too classy to mention here. We also helped clear up how to say colonoscopy. Erica just couldn't bring herself to say it right.  She kept putting the accent in the wrong place, omitting the second O, so it sounded like "co-LON-ska-PEE." The more I said co-LON-ska-PEE, the more it started sounding like a fun ride at a Swedish county fair. "Ride the Co-LON-ska-PEE, if you dare-ska!" If not a ride, then, at the very least, a fabulous new product, advertised, with great enthusiasm, on late-night TV. "New, from Ronco, the revolutionary At-Home Co-LON-ska-PEE. Order now and we'll throw in a free instructional video." Genie and I did ten more minutes brainstorming about this sensational idea, before we noticed that Erica (not her real name) had vacated the premises.

Keep On Keeping On

My dad was the eternal optimist. Where this optimism came from, I can't tell you. Maybe it came with the original packaging. At the nice people factory, someone slipped in some extra-strength positivity. His Depression upbringing didn't strike me as the most upbeat recipe, yet he went through his entire life looking on the bright side, even when things turned to absolute kaka. Any setback was "character building." He didn't dwell on the things that didn't pan out. He was always on to the next "whatever."

When I'd call him up and talk about some career disappointment, he'd say, "Onward." That was shorthand for, "Keep on writing." When I'd call him up and talk about some life disappointment, he'd say, "Onward." That was shorthand for, "So, what else is new?" "Onward" is part of the SJG lexicon. As is, "Life is life," another beloved family expression. "Onward" keeps me schlepping forward. "Life is life" keeps me grounded. Come to think out it, wouldn't that be a great tombstone? "Life is life." Then again, "Onward" would be a great tombstone, too. Well, this blog just took a dark turn.

Kiss & Cry & Cringe

Nathan Chen goes boom in the short program

Watching some of the U.S. skaters falling short of their Olympic dreams has been painful for the SJG. Yesterday, I needed a strong dose of Advil and an emergency face massage for all the cringing I've been doing. You see, when the skaters go boom, I'm plunged into all the stages of grief before settling into my favorite stage: blame. What's that? Blame isn't one of the categories? Oh, get over yourself, you. Maybe not officially, but trust me, blame is embedded in there, too. Not that I blame the skaters. They've done nothing wrong. I blame the ice. I blame the ice skates. Thank God, I don't blame myself, because come on, that would be a waste of blame. I'm just sitting there, rooting for them. And when they tumble, I go right down with them. "Do you have to fall off the couch?" hubby asked me the other night. "How else can I show my support?"

Nathan and his coach at the Kiss & Cry area, awaiting his disappointing scores. But listen, the Quad King redeemed himself in the long program, making ice skating history! Proving the SJG theory which I'm happy to loan you for a small fee: "When you fall on your ass, get back up and go for it. You've got nothing to lose, bubbie. Nothing!"

 

Ashley Wagner goes boom. Ouch, that hurts!

A double boom for Madison Chock & Evan Bates

Listen, just between us, I can't wait till this whole Winter Olympic thing is over. There's only so much suffering I can take on behalf of these hard-working skaters. It's getting to me. I need a rest. 

Go Dog, Go!

On a chilly Presidents Day in Sherman Oaks, the Royal Rescue Pup (of Questionable Lineage) is walking me around the neighborhood. He's starting to run. I'm trying to keep up. Either Sir Blakey has to go, or he has to go after a squirrel. Which mission is he on? There's only one way to find out. At the top of my lungs, I yell, "Do you need to poop?" Just then, a workman schlepping heavy planks hurries by on the way to his truck. "No, I'm good," he says, "but thanks for asking."

The Heartbreak of Celebrity Splitsville

The news that Jennifer Aniston and Justin Theroux are kaput after, what, two and a half years of marriage, has hit the SJG hard. I'm walking around the palatial estate in a daze, mumbling to myself, why, why, why? This morning, hubby expressed his concern.
"What's wrong now?"
"I think he called it off."
"He who?"
"You know who."
"Oh, him."
"Yes, him. Justin Thereoux of the leather jackets and the sexy stare and the mysterious eyebrows."

A man of many eyebrows

"How do you know he called it off?"
"Just a hunch."
"You were reading People again, weren't you?"
"Maybe."
"I thought you were doing a Celebrity News Detox."
"Whoever gave you that idea?"
"You."
"When?"
"Last night you said, 'I'm so done with these celebrities and their short-lived marriages and all their mishegas. Why can't they be happy like the rest of us?' "
"Oh, honey."
"What?"
"That may be the first time you've ever quoted me accurately."
"I was listening. I know how much you wanted it to work out for them."
"I really did."
"Jen and Justin gave you hope."
"You get me."
"Well, we've been married a long time."
"Does that mean from this point on, you'll always quote me accurately?"
"What's that line you always quote from that old movie?"
" 'Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars'? "
"Who talks like that?"
"Bette Davis in 'Now, Voyager.'"
"Let's not talk like Bette Davis."
"Why'd you bring it up then?"
"I wanted to give you a way to end your blog."
"You think of everything."

Buckle Up For Safety

Rifka, a young mother, is teaching her six-year-old daughter Ruth how to unbuckle her seat belt. 
Ruth asks, "Do I click the red square, mummy?" 
Rifka says, "Yes, darling." 
Ruth then asks, "Single click or double click?"

Lionel is wandering around Bloomingdales one day, looking quite worried. Then he notices a beautiful lady doing her shopping. As she is on her own, he goes up to her and says, "Excuse me, but I need your help. I've lost my wife Sadie here in the shop. Could you please talk nicely to me for a few minutes?"
"Why would that help you?" she asks him.
"Because every time I talk to a beautiful woman, Sadie appears out of nowhere."

Moshe goes into his local post office to buy some stamps. As he walks up to the counter, he sees a middle-aged man, methodically sticking stamps onto a pile of pink envelopes. He's also placing "I Love You" heart-shaped stickers onto the envelopes. When he's finished, the man takes out a bottle of French perfume and sprays all the envelopes with it.
Moshe has to find out why, so he goes up to the man and asks.
The man replies, "I'm sending out 100 scented Valentine cards, each one signed, 'From you know who'."
"Why so many?" Moshe asks.
"Because I'm a divorce lawyer and business is not so good."

http://awordinyoureye.com/jokes33rdset.html

Meet Me Half-Way

One gal lives in Hidden Hills. The other gal lives in Sherman Oaks. "Let's meet half-way," says the shorter gal. "Tarzana," says the other gal, taller and ever-so-lithe. She names the place, a swanky golf club. "Great," says the shorter gal, as though familiar with the location. But deep down in the shorter gal's preoccupied keppy, she's thinking of another swanky club she went to one time back in the '90s. So, despite the address and a quick look at a map, too quick for it to make much of an impression, the shorter gal, a bit old school, unforgivably ignoring all the fancy smart phone app options, changes out of her schlep-wear into something more presentable, and heads off for her destination, going too far, turning around, finding the street and then driving right past the swanky club without as much as a glimpse. Now she's driving up some random street into the hills of Tarzana, convinced she's supposed to be going to the other swanky golf club, even though she's not.

Soon the shorter gal is lost and pulls over and starts with the satellite map app to get her out of this troubling situation. Finally, she must concede how eff'd up and directionless she is. "I'm a Westsider!" she yells. "I was never meant to live in the Valley." No one answers. So she calls the taller friend, so lithe-like, so calming. "Are you using Waze?" "No." "You're not using Waze?" "No." "Where are you?" "Lost in the hills." "Turn around and go down the street." "I'm doing that." "Okay, where are you?" "I'm going north." "North?" "Toward Ventura." "I don't know from North or South." "Hang on, I think I see the street I was supposed to be on. I'm turning right." "Look for the crane." "The what?" "The green crane in front." "Okay." "You know, the construction crane." "Oh... yay, there it is." "Now turn in the parking lot." "I'm turning." "Do you see me waving?" "No." "Keeping driving." "I see you now. Hi." "Hi." Thanks for meeting me half-way." "I tried to pick the easiest location." 

The Stories Blend Together

the stories blend together
the images start to blur
one after another after another
and we can't help but wonder
what are we fighting for
it can't be that difficult
to set down some rules
to make it harder
to make it impossible
to take down the innocent
at a school
at a concert
at a nightclub
but year after year
nothing changes
the stories blend together
the images start to blur
one after another after another
and we can't help but wonder
what are we fighting for

How Random

It happened a while back. It hasn't happened again. But this morning, the aging SJG felt a bisele nostalgic. So I share this with you once again, in hopes of inspiring you to go out there and do a romantic mitzvah for a perfect stranger. It may work. It may land you in the pokey. If that should happen, God forbid, SJG Bail Bonds is here for you. Give us a call. Until then, read this and keep your heart open. You just never know, you know?

In the parking lot of Gelson's, a nice-looking dude approaches the SJG. How random is that? "Excuse me," he says, a dozen roses in his hand. "Can you tell me what my T-shirt says?" I smile, weakly.  I think, oh great, he wants something. A dollar. A donation, no doubt. I shush my inner-cynic, momentarily. I play along. "Random... Acts... of... Kindness... Everywhere," I say, grinning now.  Getting it. He hands me a rose. "Oh, wow.  Really?" "Have a good day."  I'm touched by this RAKE moment. Surprised and touched. Even, dare I say it, teary-eyed. How often does a perfect stranger hand you a rose and ask nothing in return?  Not that often.  Not often enough.  It's so random. So unexpected. Works for me. So... Happy Valentine's Day to you... and you... and you, too.  Now go out there and be romantic. Go get mushy and overly sentimental. Sing someone a love song.  The whole song. Don't leave out a single verse. Do a dance to love. Do something random. I dare ya.

A dance to love

A Mother's Password Security Questions

1. When is the last time you called your mother?
2. When is the last time you texted your mother?
3. When is the last time you did something nice for your mother?
4. How many grandchildren do you plan to give your mother?
5. How many times has your mother enabled you in the past month?

Make 'Em Shiny and New!

Don't be jealous, nice people. I know how you get. The whole grass is always greener in Sherman Oaks thing. It really isn't. But fine. Go ahead, be jealous of me and filled with envy, if that's how you roll on this Monday mourn, because I get to schlep to the dentist and have my teeth spruced up, and you don't.  "Make 'em shine," I plan to say. "Make 'em shiny and new." To which the very low-key, blunt hygienist with a name I've been successfully mispronouncing for about 10 years now, will reply, "What are you, crazy?" She knows me so well, sometimes, it's eerie. "Crazy, in what sense?" I plan to ask. "Crazy if you think I can make these old teeth of yours look shiny and new. I'm just trying to make them look okay." "Well then, do that." "Have you been flossing?" she'll ask. "Have I been flossing? Dear God in heaven, you know I've been flossing. Flossing is one of the few things I believe in." "Okay, okay, don't get so sensitive," she'll say.  "But you know how dainty my gums are." "I know." "Did you numb them?" "Yes, I numbed them, silly one." "Then let's get cracking, Pardol." "It's Pargol." "No, it isn't." "Only my whole life." "Let's get cracking, Pargol. I've got a day."

Today's Big Questions

Hubby reacts to his gifts

Today's first big question: Did hubby like the leather toiletry bag with his initials and the nice watch I found him online at a huge discount for his birthday? He says yes. Let's go with that. As for the missing item that Yossi from Brooklyn promises will arrive by tomorrow, but may arrive today, kina hora, I'm banking on another yes, because a "no" will send me to a dark place of questioning my gift-giving abilities, and we don't want that kind of existential slippage, now do we? No, we do not.

"Kiss off, SJP."

Today's second big question: All those years I spent watching "Sex and the City," all the joy it brought me, all the laughter and tears, was it just smoke and mirrors? A cruel illusion of four gals helping each other through romantic/personal/fashion turmoil? Was I deceiving myself? Cuz it's hard to fake that kind of chemistry on camera. I really thought Samantha and Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda, after all the episodes and movies, were friends in real life, too. I needed to believe that so much. I needed to believe that, just like their witty, messed up, lovable characters, they could disagree and get mad at each other and kiss and make up.

Sure, it took some work, but I got over the whole cancellation of the third movie thing, and Kim's testy declaration that, "We were never friends." Talk about redefining my entire "Sex and the City" journey. But the other day, a petite glimmer of hope: Sarah JP sent condolences via social media, as one does, to Kim after her brother died, and Kim thanked her (sort of). Alas, the gratitude was short-lived. Here comes troubling new evidence that Kim thinks SJP's just a mean girl in chic clothing.

All the SJG can say is: Yikes! Can't you gals patch it up, just like you used to do on the show? Can't you do that for the SJG? Pretty please with cocktails on top? Then again, it might be time for me to face reality: https://nypost.com/2017/10/07/inside-the-mean-girls-culture-that-destroyed-sex-and-the-city/

A Dance Around The Subject

I used to dance around the subject, but now, I just come right out with it: "What do you want for your birthday?" "You can get me a knife-sharpening kit I have my eye on." "I'm not getting you a knife-sharpening kit." "You asked what I wanted." "There's nothing fun about a knife-sharpening kit." "I think it's fun." "Of course you do."

So tomorrow, after the marching band from Temple Abi Gezundt performs "Happy Birthday" on the front lawn, I won't hand hubby a knife-sharpening kit. Instead, I'll hand him two of the three gifts I've thoughtfully purchased after agonizing for weeks. I can't reveal them just yet, in case I force hubby to read today's blog, something I try never to do anymore. You live and learn. The third gift -- the one that Yossi from Brooklyn keeps telling me is "on the way" -- has yet to arrive and naturally, it's the one gift I'm 100 percent certain hubby will actually use, as opposed to last year's expensive artsy pen, safely hidden away in a cabinet, never to be seen again. Why must hubby's birthday be so challenging for the SJG?  The answer is simple. Why should it be any other way?

A Crime Against Bagels

Here's the scoop. And it's disturbing.

I'm sure you've marked it on your calendar and are already celebrating, but just in case you've forgotten, today is National Bagel Day. You heard me. National. Bagel. Day. In honor of this important occasion, I present you with an old blog about, what else, bagels. Or in this case, the mistreatment of bagels. 

It happened once, many years ago, but once was enough. I'm still traumatized. Of course, I traumatize easily. This particular trauma was bagel-related.  I come from a family of bagel-worshippers. I attended Temple Beth Bagel. An onion bagel from Nat n' Al's is my personal symbol of hope. Give me a great bagel, or even a so-so bagel, and I can get through anything. And so, on the day in question, the hubby and the SJG picked up a dozen and arrived at Trudy and Leo's apartment for brunch. This was in the early '80s, when we all still lived in apartments, as opposed to houses we couldn't afford. Trudy and Leo's apartment was bigger than ours. Not that I'm hung up on comparisons or bitter. Well, maybe a little. Trudy and Leo. Leo and Trudy. Not their real names. I'm using fake names to protect them from getting pelted with bagel dough, should any SJG-followers take my blog to heart.

As we sat down to eat, in their much-nicer kitchen nook, Trudy and Leo proceeded to scoop out their bagels with their fingers. They piled the unwanted dough on their plates, unaware that they had just committed the crime of the century. At least, in my opinion. Tears came to my eyes. I started to shake uncontrollably. I hurled my fists in the air. I started to shout and curse. Typical SJG behavior, but still, I was heated. "Oh, dear God in heaven, what the @#$% are you people doing?" One of them -- I can't remember which one, for I was booted out shortly thereafter -- said, in a calm, cult-like voice, "We're scooping our bagels." "But why? Why? Why would you do such a thing?" "It's less fattening," one of them answered, robotically. "Then eat half an eff'n bagel, or half of a half. Or just one delicious bite of heaven. Don't scoop it out. Scooping a bagel goes against the Laws of Delicatessens everywhere. It's unnatural. Not to mention, wrong on every level." At that point, Trudy and Leo's bigger, nicer kitchen nook started to spin. Everything went black. The rest is a big blur, although I remember getting beaned on the keppy with nine or ten unscooped bagels on the way out. We were never invited back to Trudy and Leo's. I still can't figure out why.

Winter Olympics To Debut Co-Ed Kvetching Event

(Sherman Oaks, CA) – The exciting sport of Competitive Co-Ed Winter Kvetching will finally make its debut at the 2018 Winter Olympic Games, and it's the first time male and female kvetchers will compete, Olympically, against each other. Just how cold is it in PyeongChang, South Korea? We're about to find out. According to the Short Jewish Gal, president of USA Competitive Kvetching, the 16 American men and women who have qualified for this first-ever Winter Olympic event are all outstanding kvetchers, proud to represent their sport and country in a first-class fashion. "In preparation, they've dedicated endless hours in overly-air conditioned restaurants without even a sweater to protect them. They've slept in ice rinks. They've schlepped down ski slopes in nothing but their long johns. They've snowboarded in their birthday suits. They've curled back and forth in meat lockers. Even more impressive, they've perfected their whining, grumbling, moaning and extreme shivering, while alienating family, friends and co-workers. Pretty much no one is talking to them, or rooting for them, at this point. It's one thing to kvetch. It's another thing to kvetch in winter while turning blue and facing frost bite. There's an art to it."

The SJG went on to say, "You may think men and women kvetch differently, but in this area, we're 100 percent equal. We kvetch about the same things, with varying degrees of anger, resignation and bitterness, which explains the three areas the Olympic Winter Kvetchers can medal in. All I can say is good luck, may you not break any bones, kina hora, poo poo poo, and may you kvetch big for America, because God knows, America has plenty to kvetch about it these days."

"Oy, can you say brain freeze?"

There's An Idea

A conversation with hubby:
"Every day, I get the most depressing emails."
"About what?"
"Eldercare. Burial insurance. Just now, I got one for stairlifts."
"I'm just going to get a sherpa to carry me upstairs."
"There's an idea."
"Sam the Sherpa."
"What about me? I want a sherpa."
"I'll get you Shirley the Sherpa."
"Sam and Shirley Sherpa."
"The Sherpas of Nepal."
"So, how do we make this happen?"
"I'm sure there's a website."
"Oh my god, there is. I just found it: Sherpahire. Start your adventure."
"I knew I was onto something."
"Do you think we have to climb a mountain to meet them? Cuz I don't have the energy for that."
"No. We'll make them come to us."
"You think they'll do that?"
"All it takes is money."

Lady-Friendly Snacks For Ladies

(Sherman Oaks) The Short Jewish Gal, Chief Executive Kvetcher of global giant SJGCo, says she wants to solve women's "least favorite things" about Extra Crunchy Kugel Bites, by developing a quieter, daintier, less manly version of her widely popular snack. "Online, they sold out in a minute and a half, pre-Super Bowl. In Gelson's, they caused a riot.  Personally, I'm kvelling," she said in an interview with SJG-TV's Fressernomics. "But the truth is, and this may sting a bit, men and women eat my delicious kugel bites differently. Men, who are basically pigs, no offense, lick their fingers like they were raised in a barn. Have you seen the way they pour the last few broken kugel crunchies from the bag into their mouths? God forbid they should miss a morsel. It's gross. Who raised these animals? Does anyone know? But women... please! Women don't like to crunch too loudly because it could bust an eardrum, and who needs that, not to mention, it's beneath them. We gals didn't spend all those years at cotillion only to smack our lips and lick our fingers. It's altogether uncouth. So, the people are asking me, the mah-jongg ladies in particular, to develop two versions of my award-winning kugel bites. For the men, I'm thinking Extra Crunchy Glow In The Dark Kugel Bites, so they'll eat them in the dark and watch them glow cuz men are so easily amused, and even better, no one has to witness the spectacle. And for the ladies, Low-Crunch, Low-Crumb, Low-Cal, Purse-Size Kugelies for the gals on the go who need a nice snack with an adorable name. Am I on to something great, or what?" When told that the Internet has responded unkindly to her idea, deeming it "lame-ass and stupid and an insulting, misguided marketing ploy that sets women back thousands of years," she said, "Oh, get over yourselves, for eff's sake. To anyone who doesn’t approve, may you grow like an onion with your head in the ground."

A Half-Time Defense of JT

"Can't stop the feeling..."

Super Bowl Sunday, the SJG-version: When I came back from dance class, taught by a 79-year-old dance maven who admitted to feeling "meh," or, as I like to call it, Yiddishly, "schva," I knew I'd be entering a happy house. The Eagles were ahead... oh wait... then they're weren't... then they were and they won. Hurray! Score one for the underdogs! Of course, my main question had nothing to do with the game: "How was Justin?" The family's collective review landed in the vicinity of "meh," aka Yawnsville. "What's wrong with you people?" I asked, fighting tears. "Ma, we're watching the game!" a son snapped. Well, excuse me for living 60 years, each and every one as a fan of dance.

So this morning, only moments ago, I had to watch Justin T's half-time extravaganza myself, as opposed to last night, which was way too emotional, post-"This Is Us." I needed to sit with those raw emotions before cranking up the music. "Come on, Justin," I said to my virus-free Mac, kina hora poo poo poo, "let me see what you're twerking with." He opened with this: "Haters gonna hate." But the SJG? It's a JT love fest -- 13 minutes of much-needed joy and spectacular dancing, a pop medley of hits and a purple tribute to Minneapolis' own Prince.  I mean, come on, how great was that? So great I may have to watch it again. All I can say to the critics, including the ones I personally birthed, is this: "Lighten up, bitches. It's JT."

What The Super Bowl Means To Me

Super Bowl Sunday means different things to different people. For some, it's a reason to live. For others, it's a reason to leave the house. Every year, hubby makes a big pot of turkey chili. His parents come over. They gather in the living room with the sons, and shortly thereafter, someone is yelling.  Someone else is swearing. Someone is pacing. Someone is dropping chips and guacamole on the floor. This year, they'll be joined by the wonderful French daughter-in-law who, much like moi, doesn't give a baguette about football. Is it any wonder why we've bonded so well? As usual, I plan to make a very brief guest appearance, feign interest in the game, toss out a generic "Go, team!" and slip out to dance class -- unless my teacher cancels due to that nasty cough he refuses to treat. Whether I go out or go hide upstairs, nothing much will change. The game will still be on, there will still be yelling. And chili. After last year's success, hubby has decided to take that bowl, go down the field and score again with white chili, courtesy of the late great Beverly Hills restaurant Kate Matilini:

KATE MANTILINI'S WHITE CHILI

2 cups Great Northern beans (Or canned cannelloni beans)

6 chicken breast halves

Salt

White pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 (8-ounce) can chopped green chiles, drained and minced

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

Dash cayenne pepper

2 quarts low-salt chicken stock

1 cup shredded Jack or Cheddar cheese

In large bowl soak beans overnight. (Or forget that part and about the cans!) 

Place chicken breasts in cold water in skillet. Season to taste with salt and white pepper. Bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer 7 to 8 minutes. Cool, then cut into 1/2-inch chunks. Set aside.

Heat olive oil in large saucepan. Add onion, garlic and chiles. Saute until onion is tender. Add 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon white pepper, cumin, oregano, cayenne and chicken stock. Bring to boil. Add beans. Reduce heat, cover and simmer 1 hour 15 minutes or longer until beans are tender. Do not boil beans.

Add chicken chunks and cheese. Stir. Serve with white rice and tomato salsa, if desired. Makes 6 servings.