SJG Passover Dress

Good for all body types!

The Short Jewish Gal has done it again! The Duchess of Sherman Oaks caused a big fuss in Gelson's this week as she strolled the aisles in her matzoh-themed dress, part of her just-launched SJG Holiday Outfits for the Rapidly Aging, Under 5' 2" Gal. Word quickly spread from Shank Bones to Horseradish that the SJG's matzoh dress was available online and a mini-riot broke out in Get-Your-Gefilte. The unleavened gown sold out before the SJG even got back to her palatial estate. But don't let that plague you, nice people. The SJG plans to re-stock before your second seder. If you're highly gifted, or at the very least smartish, you'll place your orders in the next five minutes, so you can welcome Elijah with style.
(4-18-16)

Make Room For More

Thirteen at table, legend has it, brings you bad luck
But I pay no attention, I'm not that kind of schmuck
A "last supper" reference, a superstitious thing
The more the merrier, when it comes to worshipping

Thirteen at table requires an add-on at the end
Cuz I can't squeeze in thirteen tushies, not to offend
This year called for ten butts, does it get better than that?
Ten can recline in style and break matzoh and chitchat

This morning came an update I didn't plan to hear
Another guest was joining, that's right, another rear
My seder just expanded to, what's that, eleven?
Please make an extra chair fit, I prayed unto heaven

"Fetch me the foldings!" I commanded longtime hubby
To the garage he schlepped, unshaven, looking stubbly
He came back with two, we got busy rearranging
Chairs moved in and out, it was more or less life-changing

And now we're ready for gefilte and horseradish
And award-winning brisket, not to be too braggish
But one thing I'm not telling you, God forbid you judge
My seder's not till Sunday, feel free to hold a grudge

Waxing Nostalgic

Now that I'm, ahem, 60, unlike the cute gal in this photo, I find myself...

Waxing nostalgic, like the guy in this illustration. I'm not sure what he's waxing about, exactly, but he looks deep in thought, remembering a time in the past when things were simpler.

Personally, I never wore pink lace-up tennies, like the gal in this photo, but I was a little gal once...

In shiny black Mary Janes like this cutie pie in the photo, skipping along, happily, unaware of the challenges up ahead. But none of this is what I'm waxing nostalgic about. Shoe-wise, I'm not that sentimental. 

What I'm missing, longing for even, are the good ol' days when talking to humans on the phone was still a thing. An assistant somebody would answer, "Hello, So-and-So's office." And you'd say, "Hi, I'm So-and-So, calling to set up a meeting with So-and-So." "Great. Let me check her schedule." You didn't have to do this: 

Wait and wait, obsessively for an email back from So-and-So. Wait and wait for a text. I've never been good at waiting. And now I'm even worse. I thought I was supposed to get more patient with age. 

I'll drink to that, even though it's not remotely true. 

The Key To Longevity

(Sherman Oaks) The Short Jewish Gal, self-appointed, highly-acclaimed blogging sensation, has recently found the key to a nice long life, and she couldn't wait to share it with her devoted readers. So, she gathered a few thousand media influencers, forced them to find the afikomen somewhere on the grounds of her palatial estate, and then revealed her groundbreaking, earth-shattering, game-changing recipe: "Hold on to your Easter Bunnies, all you emerging adults! Here it is, in plain English, with maybe a little Yiddish thrown in for good measure. The secret is cookies. You heard me. Cookies. All those early formative years we were told to eat our spinach? What kind of bupkis advice was that? All we got in return was icky green stuff stuck in our teeth, and, in my own case, intestinal issues I won't go into, because I'm far too classy to discuss farts in public. I'm telling you that cookies, not just one, but as many as you can shove on a festive decorative plate, are the top ingredient. How do I know this? I just know things. That is my gift. Plus, I've been teaching the greatest group of mensches who aren't exactly spring chickens, and I see the evidence, weekly. I'm not just the teacher. I'm the room mother, too. Which means I bring the cookies. Sometimes I splurge and get a pound from Gelson's bakery. Sometimes I totally cheap out, and get whatever greets me at eye level. Bakery or Pepperidge Farm, it makes no diff. These senior citizens consume vast quantities of cookies. Avoid sugar? Puleeze. Not once have I heard 'no thanks, I'm diabetic.' Or, God forbid, 'I've given up gluten.' So, listen up, youngsters. Stop with the master cleanses and the kompucha, the quinoa and the probiotics. You wanna make it to 100? Fress a cookie or two or better yet three."

L'chaim!

Such A Strange Flower

On a walk with Sir Blakey, as he ran hither and yon, looking for the perfect place to tinkle, as one does when nature calls, I noticed a neighbor's lovely front garden, and in my best Katherine Hepburn accent, said, "The calla lies are in bloom again." Sir Blakey wasn't at all impressed. But that didn't deter me. I needed to know more about the origin of this wistful line. So later, in a moment of quiet reflection, I turned to my personal SJG search engine, Kugel, to explore this cinematic dash of magic:

Well, I learned so much. This scene, as only one person in my life knows, and that would be my brother John, comes from "Stage Door." But that's not all! Katherine Hepburn is making fun of herself and her biggest failure, borrowing the mournful calla lilies line from a horrible flop play she appeared in called "The Lake," a critical bomb, an early career low point. Hear, hear, Ms. Hepburn. Self-deprecation is essential, don't you agree?

The full line, which I plan to memorize, tweak and utter at this weekend's Seder: "The calla lilies are in bloom again, such a strange flower, suitable for any occasion, even Passover."

Brunch On This!

 

To start a Sunday morning with a bagel and a schmear

Is there any other nirvana that even comes near?
And let's not forget the slice of lox adorning the top
If I'm not careful I could lose control and brunch nonstop

Don't worry, I'm not that reckless, I can show some restraint
Even though when it comes to bagels, I'm the Patron Saint
Yet soon my days will be seder-based and matzoh-driven
If I choose yeast, not unleavened, can I be forgiven?

All I Want Is A Little Attention

This morning, I'm reading the newspaper, shaking my head in dismay. I've left a few stray bagel crumbs on the counter. I'm sipping my coffee in my favorite mug, a gift from my sweet friend Kelly, that sums me up in two sentences: "All I want is a little attention. That's all." Just a little recognition is plenty for the SJG. I don't need the fanfare, the parade, the national spotlight. A neon billboard would do. Anyway, I'm considering the state of the world, and I hate to be a buzzkill on a Saturday, but things could be better. I look up and notice that longtime hubby is having a moment of deep reflection. He clears his throat. He's about to say something wise. Perhaps a comment about March Madness and his brackets? Maybe a soliloquy on re-setting the pool pump post-power outage?
"Your hair looks good today."
"Do tell!"
"Nice lift. Good volume."
"Well, thank you, honey."
"Not to imply that it doesn't look good every day. But today, it looks really good."
"I applaud your observational skills. I'm touched. I'm humbled."
"Don't get carried away."
"I'll try not to. I can't make any promises."

Dream State: Celebrity Edition

"Why am I in your dream?"

Every now and then, a famous Hollywood type pops into my dreams, uninvited. Why this happens remains a mystery. I mean, how many times does as a gal have to tell her publicist, "Hey, no celeb pops-ins without a formal invite and my written consent?" The SJG Deep Dream State is a scary place, a topsy turvy exploration of my psyche, a troublesome peek at the mishegas that defines your humble blogger. Enter at your own risk. So, last night, or maybe early this morning, the multi-talented Jason Bateman dropped in for a visit. All I know is this: Jason Bateman's directing a movie,  and using my dream for one of his locations. And I'm acting as his assistant. This I know because in the dream, I tell him, "I'm your assistant." And he says, "Great. Keep me company." And I say, "Oh, I plan to." We get along swimmingly, so much so that at one point, I say to J.B, "Oh my god, I have to tell you the famous asparagus joke."

And J.B. says, "There's a famous asparagus joke?" "Yes, there is," I say, "and I'm going to tell you it right now." "I'm listening," he says. Well, now things go completely off script. I can't tell the joke right to save my tush: "There's a gathering, and everyone wants to know what's for dinner, and when they find out it's asparagus, they start yelling and throwing things and wait, that's not how the joke goes." "And action!" yells J.B. Then: "Keep going, I have to know how this joke ends." "Okay, well, I need to start over." "That's cool." "Okay, so.... so..."

And then, darnie-poo, I woke up and never got to tell Jason Bateman the famous asparagus joke, courtesy of the late Steve Landesberg, but it goes something like this: "You wanna know why the suicide rate is so high in Sweden? The husband comes home from work and says, 'What's for dinner, snookums? Asparagus?! Not again?' " Then you point your finger at your head and make the sound of a gun going off.  Ka-boom.

That's the famous asparagus joke (not again!). I'm pretty sure Jason Bateman would've laughed his keppy off in my dream if I'd told it, correctly. But now we'll never know, will we? As for the meaning of my Jason Bateman dream, your guess is as good as mine, but I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My Umbrella, Myself

In my car, there's always an umbrella. The matter of where remains challenging. Sometimes it's under the driver's seat. Sometimes it's under the passenger's seat. Or maybe it's in my trunk. Or hiding under the mat. Or lounging in the back seat. The point is, when I need that free-floating umbrella, a fleeting need, a SoCal rarity, I can't find it, not at first. And then, when at last I do find it, in some hard to reach automotive vicinity, after I've stretched weirdly and strained my neck and mangled my funny bone and the majority of my aging anatomy, I grab it and perform the awkward open-umbrella/half-way-in-half-way-out-the-door maneuver, and inevitably, 99 percent of the time, the coveted bumbershoot refuses to open, or only half-opens, or opens but then won't close once I reach my exciting destination. So there's that. What with the occasional rains of the past two weeks, I've now busted two umbrellas.

One umbrella, I really loved. It lasted longer than any umbrella. I had it for many years. It was pretty and floral and portable. I got it at Brighton in the mall as a bonus for spending over $100. It went everywhere with me. Sherman Oaks. West L.A. New York City. You could say it was a Broadway Brollie, not to mention, an art lover, to boot. Until...  during a light drizzle, as I was walking Sir Blakey, it failed me. I'm still not over it. But out of necessity, I had to move on, as one does after a loss. I found an ugly, ka-ka portable in the back of the closet and threw it in the car. Yesterday, it wouldn't open, no matter how much I swore at it.

So, onward to the next umbrella, the pricier London Fog. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it.

Soul Searching With Seuss

Dear SJG,
I know you are, but what am I?
Sincerely,
Soul Searching in Sylmar

Dear Soul Searching
You are you. I hope that clarifies things.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
What kind of cockamamie answer is that?
Sincerely,
Soul Searching In Sylmar

Dear Soul Searching,
Sheesh! You want me to spell it out for you?
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
If it's not too much trouble.
Sincerely,
Soul Searching in Sylmar

Dear Soul Searching,
When it comes to matters of personal identity, the whole "who am I, what's it to ya" gestalt, I turn to my favorite shrink, my personal maven on all things nonsensical, none other than Dr. Seuss: "Today you are YOU, that is TRUER than true. There is NO ONE alive who is YOUER than YOU!" God willing you find that illuminating. Otherwise, I got nothing.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
It's a start.
Sincerely,
Soul Searching in Sylmar

Moderately Hopeful

 

You may not know this about me, for it's a fairly recent development, and just between us, the results have been iffy, so far, but in the past two seconds, I put on different glasses. They aren't terribly fashionable, these computer glasses, and as everyone knows, the SJG is all about the fashion. In fact, I'd be happy if no one but Sir Blakey and longtime hubby, who adores me, flat hair and all, ever sees me in these particular specs. Still, in terms of visionary improvement, I remain moderately hopeful. Of course, moderate hopefulness is my main modus-O these days. I just can't seem to muster full-on hopefulness, what with the state o' the world. But thanks to the following sales spiel, maybe I'll get there some day.

"They'll help with eye strain," the nice optometrist said.
"Will they help with life strain?" I asked her.
"No."
"Blunt, but honest. Go on. Woo me."
"There's an anti-reflective coating."
"To stop me from reflecting on things I'd rather not reflect on?"
"No. To eliminate reflections of light on your lenses that can cause eye strain."
"Again with the eye strain. What else you got?"
"Anti-glare treatment."
"To stop me from -- "
"I have another customer waiting."
"How much for the game-changing computer glasses?"
"More than your insurance will pay for."
"Sold."

We Meet Again

When Facebook friends bump into each other, it's a whole thing. A celebration of sorts. And what better place to have such a nice, unexpected encounter than my personal homeland of Gelson's. The happy face-to-face happened in front of the yogurt section. Don't worry, we were both wearing sweaters.

"Oh my God."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I see you on Facebook."
"I see you on Facebook."
"But here you are, in person."
"Hi."
"Hi."
(Hugs.)
"It's so good to see you."
"You too."
"How are you?"
"Good. How are you?"
"Good."
"That's good."
"I'm so sorry about your daddy."
"Thanks."
"How long has it been?"
"Three years."
"Four for me."
"It's weird to be an orphan."
"So weird. But you're okay?"
"I'm okay. You?"
"I've put myself up for adoption."
(Pause for laughter.)
"Well... I should probably..."
"Me, too."
"It was nice to see you."
"It was nice to see you."
(Hugs.)
"Take care."
"You, too."

The Coffee Pot Stops For No One

A Short Jewish coffee thief was spotted this morning in the kitchen of a home in Sherman Oaks, stealing a cup of java before the coffee had even finished brewing. "She does this every morning," said an anonymous hubby. "Why she can't wait till the coffee's done, like normal people, I can't tell you." The anonymous hubby described how the impatient coffee thief manages this daily crime: The coffee maker has barely started up and there she is, complaining about a sinus headache, wielding her coffee mug and mumbling, "Coffee, need coffee, must have coffee."

Oh, and it's not just any mug, according to the anonymous hubby. "It must be a pretty one. She hates the plain beige mug. She says it doesn't work for her. She needs the nice one with the green glaze." He went on to say that the Short Jewish coffee thief honestly thinks the coffee will stop brewing long enough for her to snatch her first morning jolt of caffeine. But it just keeps brewin', it just keeps brewin' along. The coffee pot stops for no one, not even the Short Jewish coffee thief, despite what the owner's manual says.

Theme Park To Open In Sherman Oaks

(Sherman Oaks) SJG Entertainment announces SJG Land, a big deal theme park that will open when it's finished. The 11-acre SJG Land will be based on the neurotically thrilling, roller coaster life of the internationally-acclaimed blogger/enabler/kugel-maker. "I've been up and I've been down," said the SJG, "and I know how to elevate the mishegas like nobody else. Why should I do it alone? Why shouldn't other folks take that crazy ride with me? Why shouldn't they experience what goes on in my personal house of horrors?" SJG Land will include two major attractions. Visitors will hitch a ride on "Reach It Or Die," a mortifying, swirling, topsy turvy, adjective-driven, unstable step stool that hoists them toward whatever it is they're trying to grab out of life, or at least, what's left of it. On the second ride, aptly named "Renegade Rugelach," visitors will board giant replicas of the SJG's favorite pastry and hang on tight, as an orthodontically-enhanced mouth full of unresolved issues threatens to swallow them whole.

Renegade Rugelach! Fasten your seat belts, bitches. 
It's going to bumpy ride.

How Sweet It Is

As one does, or doesn't do, depending on one's level of sanity, this morning, I went to take a "delfie" with Sir Blakey and here's what happened. He smooched me yet again. This dog and his kisses. He just kisses and licks to show his devotion. You could say he's an affection junkie, but then, who isn't? On a daily basis, it pretty much comes down to this: How sweet it is to be loved by him.

Well, That's Morbid

Maybe it happens to everyone at some point. Maybe not. All I know is, today it happened to me. As I do every morning, I scanned the obits. It's a little morbid, I agree. But I just can't help myself. I'm drawn to these tidy paragraphs capturing the highlights of a particular life. I scan up and down the columns and read about accomplishments and loved ones left behind. I look for a name I might know, because God forbid I forget to send a condolence card. Well, today I saw a name I know very well. My name. There it was, maiden name excluded. Carol Schneider had left the building. Immediately, I checked my pulse. I still had one, so that's good. I thought of Mark Twain and the famous quote that has many variations, but boils down to this: "The report of my death is greatly exaggerated." I recovered my equilibrium and read the obit of a different Carol Schneider, a gal born in 1927. Looks like she enjoyed a nice long life. May her memory be a blessing. And may seeing my name in this morning's obits remind me, once again, that much like my height, life is short.

Questionable Behavior

Why did the SJG cross the road? Let's go right to the source and ask her. But be forewarned. She's a little cranky this morning. "Why did I cross the road? Not that it's any of your business. But fine, I'll tell why, but you might not approve. I crossed the road to get to the other trash can, the black one, not the green one, a trash can located on a street where I don't reside. I did it and I'd do it again. I had one objective: to toss Sir Blakey's doo-doo deposit. Does this make me a bad person? I'll leave it up to you to decide. But the way I see it, if you're going to leave your trash can out on a non-trash day, it's on you, buddy. We're talking fair game. Sure, I could've dangled the doody bag from my pinky till the Royal Rescue Pup (of questionable lineage) and I got home. Sure, I could've dumped it in my own dang trash can. But listen. Now and then, I like to live to on the edge. As everyone knows, by nature, I'm a gambler. I like to task risks. Small, inconsequential risks. So, if we're done with the interrogation, shalom to you an yours."

Sleep Blogging

(Sherman Oaks) History was made today when the Short Jewish Gal, the annually shrinking, self-proclaimed blogging maven who suffers deeply from Daylight Saving Time (that's right, people, it's Saving singular, not Savings plural) attempted to write her morning dose of silliness while asleep. Even though her entry makes no sense and won't solve anything, we at the Institute for Sleep Productivity applaud her effort, and thank her for the nice warm kugel she left on the counter for our research team. The SJG sleep blog started off fairly promising: "This cloud is such a stupid dance floor. Catch me, Hugh Jackman." A long string of incoherent swearwords followed, half-Yiddish, half-god-knows-what, but at least she ended on an upbeat, philanthropic note: "I pledge a thousand dollars."

Clock Tampering

Oh, well.

That's one hour...

of my life...

I'll never get back. 

Yee-Haw!

Yee-haw! I'm goin' rogue!

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG, self-appointed domestic goddess of kvetching, has just announced ahead of schedule so she shouldn't forget, that she's officially going rogue and refusing to obey the Laws of Daylight Saving Time come Sunday. She explained her lack of logic while sitting on the porch of her Sprawling Southern California estate, sipping a mint julep at 7 a.m., which seems a little early for her to hit the booze, not that we're judging her. "So listen, my whole life, I've been dealing with this daylight saving hazarai. Fall back, spring forward. It's a lot of activity, not to mention, dangerous. In either direction, you could hurt yourself. Are you listening? You could break a bone. You could put out an eye as you tumble into the abyss. Even worse, you could bump your keppy on a rock and it's lights out, folks. Shalom and no more pleasant tomorrows. The rest of you, go ahead and risk bodily injury, exhaustion and clockwise confusion. Just don't stop me on the street and ask me what time it is. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I no longer give an eff. From now on, I'll be observing SJG time. You heard me. I'm calling the shots. I'm done pleasing the world. I'll either be early or late, depending on the season, so don't wait for me, don't try to reason with me, I've had it. I can't afford to lose an hour of sleep, capiche? I've been through too much sleep deprivation. I need all the sleep I can get. I'm tired of compromising, tired of taking orders, tired of keeping up with the times. So, go ahead, nice people. Spring forward all you want. But the SJG is staying put, behind the times, where I belong." (3-8-17)

The Lost Art of Conversation

Sometimes, trying to talk while watching the news is a lost cause. There are just too many distractions.
"So your day was okay?"
"It was..."
(A political update distracts hubby.)
"Oh, @#$% him. What a moron."
"So not a great day?"
"The day was good. I ran around a lot. How was your day?"
"Okay. Not every exciting. But there was one thing I wanted to tell you. Hey, did you know that -- "
(A report about Mexico distracts him.)
"Hang on. Is that the resort he's going to for that bachelor party?"
(He's talking about the eldest.)
"I don't think so. It's months from now."
"Okay, good."
"I'm going upstairs."
"What did you want to tell me before?"
"I have no idea. It's gone."
"Sorry."
"That's okay, it'll come back to me at some point."
(Two hours later, I reappear, as if by magic.)
"I remembered what I was going to tell you."
"Hang on, let me hit pause."
"You know the machine thingy at Gelson's, where you insert the debit card?"
"Uh huh."
"Before, you didn't insert the card till the end, but now, you get to insert the card right away."
"Game changer."
"I thought so."

What To Do When You Have Nothing To Do

 

Now and then, I long for a day when I have nothing to do. A day like today. I have absolutely nothing to do. But instead of rejoicing, I find myself overthinking my options. Here are a few possibilities I'm simultaneously considering and rejecting on this do-nothing day:
1. Question my existence.
2. Tell myself to stop that.
3. Follow Sir Blakey's example.
4. Tell myself that peeing outside is undignified.
5. Go to Gelson's.

6. Disturb the peace.
7. What peace?
8. Watch MSNBC.
9. Get very depressed.
10. Go to Gelson's.

Good Riddance

And so Junior left, it took him a while

To get up and flash his signature smile

She stayed behind to cry with abandon  

As he went off to woo back her stand-in 

Bachelor Nation, they gave a geshrei

They wanted to know: what's wrong with this guy?

How could he flip flop and bolt from the scene?

Is that how he rolls, is that his routine? 

But sometimes these things work out for the best 

The gal who got dumped is rid of this pest 

She's over her heartbreak, her future's bright

And now it's her turn to find Mister Right