I Pity The Possum

Oy vey, what has he seen now?

To paraphrase Mr. T., a rare occurrence in the SJG body o' blogs, I pity the possum that runs up against Sir Blakey. Sunday night, in honor of his 5th birthday tomorrow, he decided to do a little early shopping. Longtime hubby and I were watching "Homeland," when I glanced over and saw The Royal Pup of Questionable Lineage staring at something on the floor near the back door, a thing that looked like his favorite, much-abused stuffed bear. But then, caught up in the tension and suspense of the "Homeland" finale, I sensed that my initial observation was off. I looked again. Much of the next 40 minutes is a blur, but it started with me screaming "OHMYGAWD! Honey! Blakey killed something!" "@#$%!" "It's a rat!" "It's not a rat!" "What the eff is it?" "A possum!" "It's dead." "@#$%!" "Blakey, no!" "Get away, Blakey." "Grab him." "Hurry, do something!" "Okay, okay!" "OHMYGAWD! It's not dead. It's... ALIVE!!!!" "Where did it go?"

"It's under the couch!" "Hang on, hang on!" "Why do you have a hockey stick?" "To reach it." "Do you see it?" "Yeah... I'll just..." "HONEY!!!! It ran thataway!" "Which way?" "The living room!" "@#$%!" "Should I call someone?" "Like who?" "Animal Control?" "Don't call Animal Control." "I'm Googling how to trap a possum." "It's playing dead." "Are you sure it's a possum? It's too small." "It's a baby possum." "Is it in the living room?" "Not anymore. It left a crap and moved on." "Not on the rug!" "Yes on the rug!" "Then we need Blakey's help." "Blakey the hunter!" "Come on, Blakey, find the possum." Well, he sniffed it out in my office. The pitiful possum was under the couch. Now it was just a matter of retrieving it. That's all. "Not with the hockey stick!" I yelled. Whereupon hubby ran outside and came back with, what else, the pool skimmer, aka Possum Catcher.

And after much coaxing and swearing and possum-pleading, he got him and set him free outside.  The possum then proceeded to taunt Sir Blakey for the rest of the evening, scurrying back and forth on top of the fence, whispering, "Come n' get me, Sucka." The good new: No animals were harmed before, during or after the writing of this blog! So, how was your Sunday night?

The Quest To Head Off Pollen

Lately I find myself obsessing, once again, over pollen. If I don't obsess over something, then, who am I? Not me, that's who. So why am I obsessing once again over pollen? I'll tell you why. Because in a few weeks, lucky SJG that I am, I'm heading off to NYC where the pollen count is so freaking high, it makes my head explode. After last year's trip, by the time I arrived home in the S.O., I was so sick and pathetic, I had to turn to my allergist, the renowned specialist Dr. Von Drippy, for help. And what did DVD say? He told me that before I go back to NYC, I must head off pollen. "Oh, DVD," said I, "we both know that isn't possible! You know I've been trying to head off pollen my whole life. How many times must I tell you I spent my childhood getting zetzed in the arm, twice weekly, with allergy shots? And DVD, tell me, how did that turn out? Am I still sneezing? Yep. Still afflicted? Hell, yep." At which point, DVD banished me from the office and said, "Lose my number."

It seemed harsher than usual, but I'm over it. This year, I'm going to head off pollen on my own. I don't need no Von Drippy. I've got the Internet. I've already purchased my pink hazmat suit. I plan to fight pollen and make a fashion statement at the same time. So ends my Sunday blog.

A Man And His Donuts

Did I ever mention longtime hubby's first words? No, not to me. Those, I can't remember. I mean, come on, we were in 8th grade, when most guys could barely put a declarative sentence together. I'm talking about his very first words. According to his mother, aka my adorable mother-in-law, he was staring out the window and saw construction guys doing manly things. "Working man!" he said. Well, his very first words have pretty much defined his entire life. He did go into construction, the TV kind, where 30-second promos are built in editing bays. It's been a great ride. Of course, some days are better than others. Yesterday, he let out a heavy sigh, and it wasn't even 7 a.m. "What?" I asked, in the role of Supportive Spouse. "It's Friday," he said. "I gotta get donuts for the crew. Then I gotta go to a @#$%'n meeting." At this juncture, I started laughing, as I tend to do. "What's so funny?" "You." "Me? Why?" "Donuts and a @#$%'n meeting. That's every Friday." "I know." "You really do suffer for your crullers, don't you?" "Someone has to."

All About The Awl

"A very wise man told me once that the awl is an indispensable tool. He said you can do anything with an awl. Now, can I make my wife reappear from Chicago where she is attending her reunion instead of attending to breakfast for our children? No. Can I figure out how to open a jar of never-opened kumquat marmalade? No. After several minutes of working the jar, I have an inspiration. The Ben Starr all-purpose awl. It works! Jam crisis averted. With my eldest now happy with her marmalade and her bread, what does she say to me? 'Thank you' ? Wrong. 'This jam tastes terrible. I think I’ll try the raspberry.' "

-- courtesy of Dan Harrison, who learned so much from his weekly lunches with my daddy, he just had to share this gem. And I'm so happy he did. Just between us, I had to look up "awl." I Googled "what the @#$% is an awl?" Oh! Of course, of course! My whole life, Ben Starr was all about the awl.  

Marriage

Sarah awakens one night to find that her husband Herb is not in bed with her. She goes downstairs to look for him and finds him sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him. He appears to be in deep thought, just staring at the wall. She watches as he wipes away a tear from his eye and takes a sip of his coffee. 
"What's the matter, dear?" she asks tenderly, "why are you down here in the middle of the night?" 
Herb looks up from his coffee. "Do you remember, Sarah, how young we both were when we first started dating?" 
"Yes, I remember," she says.
Herb's voice is brimming with emotion. "Do you also remember when your father caught us in the back seat of my car making love?" 
"How could I forget?" says Sarah.
"And do you remember he put a gun against my head and said, 'Either you marry my daughter or I'll see to it that you go to jail for 30 years?'" 
"I remember that well," Sarah softly replies, taking hold of his hand. 
Herb wipes away another tear and says, "I would have gotten out today."

http://awordinyoureye.com/jokes84thset.html

I Got You Babe

As the self-appointed, unordained rabbi of my writing workshop, I like to the wield my power as much as possible. I've been known to say such tough and controlling things as: "Have another cookie!" "Race you to the elevator!" "Have you people never heard of Spell Check?" Yesterday, I really came on strong. It was the last day of our four-month semester, an arbitrary date I came up with just because I'm in charge, I call the shots, I'm the head honcho, and so I switched things up a bit. Rather than just arranging their cookies on a pretty doily, as I do every week, and watching them fight over the last crumbs, which, just between us, is a little embarrassing, I made them sing for their cookies.

"Enough of this taking me for granted business. I'm a person too, ya know. I may not be as old as you altacockers, but I know what I know. And I know this. It's time to sing! On the count of three... One, two..." "Hang on," said Bruce, overdressed in a suit and tie, fed up with our teasing him for wearing shorts and a baseball cap, but only for the past eight months, "I'm the only guy here." "You're just realizing that?" "No, but do I have sing the guy part all by myself?" "Oh for bleep's sake, yes. Hit it!" Whereupon Bruce pushed something highly technical and the words to "I Got You Babe" magically appeared on the conference room flatscreen. Showtime!

Ladies: They say we're young and we don't know, we won't find out until we grow.
Bruce: Well, I don't know if all that's true, 'cause you got me and baby I got you. Babe...
Everybody: I got you babe. I got you babe...

Well, there's no point in regaling you with the entire song, but I promise you, we sounded pretty great, especially Bruce, with his big booming voice, something he developed during his lengthy tenure with an All Dude Choir. If there's a better way to close out a semester than singing "I Got You Babe," lay it on me, brother. Academically, it's win-win. If only my UCLA Astronomy professor had closed out the quarter with a group medley of '70s hits, who knows, my entire life might've been different. I could be a highly sought-after astronomer right now. But then I never would've met this group of amazing humans. They got me, babe, and vice versa, and at this moment in time, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb.

Stepping Out With My Baby

The Duke, The Duchess, The Royal New Babykins

"Oh, hubby?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Longtime hubby?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Remember when I gave birth to the eldest and appeared in front of the hospital, in a pretty red dress, with my makeup and hair professionally done by The Beauty Team?"
"Funny, I don't recall that."
"Well, it was over 30 years ago."
"The memory I have is a wee bit different."
"Do tell."
"I seem to recall you looking a little tired and swollen and well, there's no nice way to put this, schleppy."
"Schleppy? How dare you. More importantly, did the press notice?"
"The press?"
"You know, the paparazzi?"
"Aw. Well, they never showed."
"Huh. I thought there was a swarm of them, snapping photos, yelling, 'Lookin' good, m'lady.' "
"That didn't happen."
"Perhaps it happened the second time I gave birth."
"Surely, it didn't."
"Don't call me Shirley."
"Forgive me. But there were no paparazzi, my dear.  Just you, screaming at the top of your lungs, 'GET THIS THING OUT OF ME NOW!' "
"Screaming? How unlike me. But did I look lovely while screaming?"
"You looked rather possessed, much like Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist.' "
"How terribly unbecoming."
"Not to mention, undignified."
"So you're saying that each time I gave birth, I never appeared two hours later in full makeup and designer clothes, for the world to see?"
"Afraid not, darling."
"Did it have anything to do with the fact that I didn't marry into the Royal Family?"
"That could be part of it."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Mine?"
'Now we're getting somewhere."

At Last We Meet

"You're the only one in the family who hasn't come by to meet him."
"I know, and I feel awful about that."
"I can't believe you haven't met him."
"I can't wait to meet him."
"When do you think you'll have time to meet him?"
"Um... Sunday. Sunday, I'll meet him."
"He's been wondering, why hasn't she bothered to meet me?"
"Well, Sunday I'm going to a thing nearby and -- "
"Everyone else has been by to meet him. Your own flesh and blood."
"They loved him."
"Your daughter-in-law met him."
"She said he was so sweet."
"But not you. You're the only one who hasn't met him."
"Well, how's Sunday? Around 2?"
"Two?"
"Will you be there at 2?"
"Of course."
"Great."
"So you'll stop by?"
"Yes. At 2."
"It's about time you finally met him."
"Can't wait."
"He'll be at the front door."
"Gotta go."
"Grateful you found time in your busy schedule."
"Hanging up now."
"Maybe bring him a cookie."

Gambino, the adorable rescue pup my 

mother-in-law just adopted. 

Misguided Earth Day Humor

Dear SJG,
Is it weird that I like to snuggle trees? I get such unconditional love from trees. Trees let me lean on them while I contemplate my pipik, poetically. Trees don't give me a hard time for my life choices. Trees don't make fun of me for wearing Earth Shoes. But my family keeps threatening to abandon me in the forest and let me rot there for eternity. What should I do? 
Thanks,
Birch Babe

Dear Birch Babe,
Listen, when it comes to trees, I'm a huge fan. That said, tree-wise, you do sound a little mischuggie, not to mention, lonely. No offense, but I don't blame your family for wanting to dump you in the woods and move on with their lives. Here's an idea. Instead of leaning on trees for comfort, why not lean on a nice human for a change? What I'm saying is, you need to get out more. And I've got the perfect dating app where you can meet other tree-huggers. It's called Timber.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Happy Earth Day, Birches!

When Words Collide

You never know when total strangers are going to pass judgment on you, but based on personal experience, when it happens, it's never complimentary. Take the time, a zillion years ago, when the SJG (Exhausted Young Motherhood Edition) popped into a tiny market on the corner to buy a big gallon of milk for my sons (Exhausting Young Boyhood Edition). It was a hot summer day. As the man behind the counter, a foreigner, rang up the purchase, he looked at me and smiled. "You must be very fat today." I was taken aback. Many responses ran through my keppy: "How dare you!" "It's baby weight." "@#$% you!" Instead, I said, "What?!" "You must be very FAT today," he repeated. Well, it sounded even worse the second time. "Yeah, okay, uh, thanks," I said. Turning to leave, it hit me. Maybe he'd meant something else! I looked back at him. "Do you mean thirsty?" He smiled and nodded. "Yes," he said, "you must be very thirsty." "Yes," I said, relieved not to be fat shamed. "I'm very, very thirsty."

See Ya Later, Babe

Paula & Dad

Whenever I think of Paula, my dad's longtime girlfriend, I remember her Frank Sinatra story. I first heard it when hubby and I went out to dinner with them, and Sinatra's name came up. My dad looked at her. "Tell them the story." "Oh, Ben," she said, "they don't want to hear about it." I reached over and touched her arm. "Oh, yes we do." 

The many faces of Frank

Sometime in the early '70s, after Paula's first husband had died, she went out to dinner with Sinatra and some friends who were trying to fix them up. "He behaved very badly that night," she said. "He was a little drunk, and for some reason, it was so long ago, I can't remember, but he wanted the maitre d's attention. I think he was probably on the phone, but Frank Sinatra had such a huge ego, he thought he was ignoring them. So he picked up the ice bucket where the wine was chilling, and threw it across the room. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look. It was embarrassing. He was like a child throwing a tantrum."

Later that night, they all went over to the house of one of Frank's cronies and spent the rest of the evening listening to Sinatra records. At one point, Paula found herself next to him on the sofa. He was so immersed in his own performance, she felt like she was intruding. "Does it bother you that I'm sitting next to you?" she asked. "If anything bothers me, babe, I'll let you know." 

On another occasion, he drove her home from a party. "Hang on," I said, "Frank Sinatra drove you home?" She shrugged like it was no big whoop. "What happened next?" "Oh, I don't know. I think he reached over, kissed me goodnight, and said, 'See ya later, babe.' " Not long after, Sinatra married Barbara Marx, Zeppo's former wife. "She was one of the few people who wouldn't put up with Sinatra's nonsense," Paula said. 

On Wednesday, Paula Sheinwold, a lovely and elegant lady who made my dad very happy, passed away at the age of 98. 

The Confession

An 80-year-old man walks into a Catholic church and goes straight into the confessional. There he hears a voice. "Yes, my son? Tell me your sins."

"Well, Father," says the old man, "I just had sex with a beautiful young woman."

"Was it consensual, my son?"

"Consensual, yes. Not to mention, wonderful. Just between us, Father, oy gevalt, it was the best sex I've ever had in my life. And I'm 80 years old!"

"Hmmm," says the Priest, "if you don't mind my asking, are you Jewish?"

"Only since birth."

"Then why are you telling me this?" asks the Priest.

"Telling you? I'm telling everybody!"

-- courtesy of the one, the only Dan Harrison

Put A Sock In It

Sometimes you just have to be honest with yourself. Sometimes you just have to reach into the dark night of your soul to see what's lurking there. Yesterday, I reached in -- not so much into my soul, but the second best locale, one of my dresser drawers -- and found the sweetest pair of dainty-girly black socks with scalloped edges ever created, and with zero hesitation, put them on. That's right, I put these adorably soft tootsie coverings on, knowing full well that they didn't belong to me. Sock-wise, it was wonderful. I wore them all day. I wore them to bed. I was in need of comfort and found it, courtesy of these socks. And yet, there were only a few explanations for their existence.

Either a Magical Sock Fairy slipped them into the drawer.

Or a Sock Thief squirreled them away from their rightful owner. 

In this case, the SJG pleads guilty. Someone make a citizen's arrest. For I am the Sock Thief. I am the klepto-sock-squirrel in this disturbing scenario. I am ashamed to admit this, but the SJG didn't even know I was pilfering these short stockings until early this morning, when reality hit me like a frozen challah. Somehow I snatched these petite offerings from either my French daughter-in-law, or my son's Finnish girlfriend. With all the Sunday laundering, all the multi-owned clothing getting washed, dried and sorted, the socks accidentally got left behind. And I called "Mine!" So now I'm coming clean. (See what I did there?) I'm willing to give back the socks to their rightful owner. So gals, if you're reading this, you have 10 minutes to claim your lost property via text, phone call, email or carrier pigeon. Otherwise, and there's no easy way to put this: I call "Mine." 

Now Taking Applications

Well, the SJG always suspected that the family tree had a southern branch, and here's proof, courtesy of Amazon Photos. I was expecting a giant poster-size pic of the newlyweds, in honor of their six-month anniversary tomorrow, to go with the life-size statue I commissioned, but a big ol' glossy shot of these folks arrived instead. At first, I thought Amazon had messed up. But after a few hours of staring at this friendly assembly, I'm starting to see the resemblance.  No question, the adorable dog in the corner is a cousin of Sir Blakey's. The big dude in the cowboy hat is the spitting image of my Grandma Shorty's Great Uncle Moshe from the Shtetl. Let's face it, along with the pretty gal in the middle and the trio of boychicks, this is one photogenic bunch. Yep, these people are clearly my long-lost relatives by way of Texas. They must've seen the ad I posted a while back:

SJG SEEKS MORE MISHPOCHA!

NICE PEOPLE ONLY!

NO ONE WITH A NASTY TEMPER!

GET A FREE KUGEL UPON ACCEPTANCE!

Can an invite to their ranch be far behind? Just picture it: The SJG on a horse! The SJG dancing the hora round the campfire! The SJG in a cowgirl hat! Does it get any better than that? If I ever find out, you'll be the first to know. 

Put Your Money Where Your Basket Is?

Wait, sorry, that's not the expression. Last night at the sushi place, the waiter respectfully picked my handbag off the floor and placed it in a basket. "A purse on the floor is money out the door," he said. "Say what now?" "In Feng Shui, it is bad luck to put your purse on the floor. It means your money will fly out the door." "Oy vey, my whole life, I never knew this." He bowed and went on his waiterly way. But I wasn't done with this theory. I turned to longtime hubby, 100 percent ferklempt (or if you prefer, verklempt.) "Did you know this and not tell me?" "I didn't." Just between us, it's so hard to find something that he doesn't know, I wasn't unreasonably ecstatic, but only for a moment. I still had the whole "purse on the floor" thing to unpack. "I'm always putting my purse on the floor." "You need to stop doing that." "But you don't understand. When I'm enmeshed in any of my many fitness endeavors, flashing the jazz hands, spinning the wheels, stretching the aging body like a humble warrior, lifting the Bang Ball... did I leave anything out?" "What? Sorry?"

Just between us, sometimes longtime hubby's attention wanders, but only when I'm talking to him. "I'm telling you I'm often forced to put my purse on the floor. I knew it was a disgusting locale, and I've learned to accept it. But to know this simple act of resignation has meant near-financial ruin, well -- " "Do you have any proof of that?" "Of what?" I said, the Saki taking hold. "Of financial ruin?" Bring up money and he snaps to attention. "Well, no but -- " "Oh, good, there they are," he said, waving hello to our friends, thinking we were done with this talk of superstition. Fat chance. The minute they sat down, I relaunched the topic. "I keep my handbag on my lap," said the wife, "and money still flies out the door." "Aw, but is your handbag open or closed at the time?" "It depends." At which point, I realized I'd completely exhausted this subject, and, from the looks on their faces, everyone else at the table. It was time to move on to cheerier topics. Like... um... full disclosure. We didn't find a cheery topic. So we talked about life, instead. 

Wisdom On A Saturday

Only I can change my password. No one can do it for me.

Be kvetchy for this moment. This moment is your time to kvetch.

Because of your smile, you may need orthodontia.

Where there is coffee there is caffeine.

Schlep and the world schleps with you. 

A Rollerblading Yoga Dude

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Did Down Dog on a mat today.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Bowed his head and said nameste.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Wore a weird-looking unitard.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Got a vibe that's très avant garde.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Rocked a tight man bun, so trendy.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Struck a limber pose, so bendy.

He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
A free-wheeling, hip Zen guru.
He's a rollerblading yoga dude,
Put a smile on this short lil Jew.

Live Agent!

"If at any point you would like to speak with one of our representatives, just say, Live Agent."
"Live Agent."
"How may I assist you today?"
"Live Agent!"
"Did you say 'go back'?"
"I said Live Agent!!"
"All right. Would you like to hear the menu options again?"
"@#$%!!"
"I am sorry. I do not understand -- "
"Live Agent!!!"
"I am sending you back to the menu again."
"Oh my freaking -- "
"A human will be with you shortly."
"Thank you, Moses."
"This is Nick. How may I help you?"
"Are you alive?"
"I am alive."
"You sound automated."
"I am not automated."
"Okay, good. We're making progress."
"Before we get started, please answer your security question."
"What security question?"
"The security question you had to answer when you opened this account."
"Oh, come on! Nick! You don't expect me to remember that."
"It is mandatory."
"Give me a hint, Nick. Show some humanity."
"Who is your favorite singer?"
"Ummm.... James Taylor?"
"No."
"Bonnie Raitt?"
"No."
"Joni Mitchell?"
"No."
"You're kidding, I love Joni Mitchell."
"Name someone else."
"Don't pressure me, Nick. Uh.... oh, of course. Laura Nyro?"
"No."
"Carole King."
"No."
"Wait, wait, oh my God.... umm.... Just tell me the answer, Nick!"
"Do you remember your pass code?"
"My what?"
"Pass code?"
"I don't remember what day it is, Nick."
"Then I cannot help you."
"Nick! Please, Nick. Gimme one more hint."
"People. People who need -- "
"Barbra Streisand!"
"Yes."
"I put Barbra Streisand as my favorite singer?"
"Yes."
"I wonder why. I mean, I love Babs, don't get me wrong. But Nick... Nick? Are you there?"
"I am putting you on hold now."
"Why?"
"So my supervisor can yell at me for giving you too many hints."
"But I haven't told you my problem yet."
"I will be right back."
"No, you won't, Nick... Don't lie to me, Nick. Come back, Nick..."

Half-Full, Half-Empty

Some say the kiddish cup is half full. Some say it's half empty. What's the big deal? If it's half empty, ask for a refill. Seriously, people. Is the amount of wine in a pretty chalice a good measure of the way we view life? The SJG says nyet. A better indicator is how we came into this world. Was the arrival peaceful, or in my case, hectic?

When you're born in the backseat of your daddy's oldsmobile in the hospital parking lot, something tells you, from a very early age, fasten your seatbelt, it's going to be a bumpy night.

I'd like a refill, please. 

What's In It For Me?

As a kid-size SJG, as opposed to a kid-size adult, whenever my parents went on a trip without us, which was pretty much 100 percent of the time -- my family just didn't travel well as a team, locally, or globally -- my brother John and I had one and only one question upon their return.

Examples of what we didn't ask:
1. How was the hotel?
2. How was the tennis?
3. How was the food?
4. How was the flight?
5. How was the weather?

When you're kid-size, let's face it, you don't care about those things. Those things have nothing to do with you and your personal universe. You only care about one thing:

WHAT DID YOU BRING ME?!!!!

Sometimes we waited till they got through the door to ask. Sometimes we waited till they got out of the car. After all, we were the ones stuck at home with some babysitter from an agency, some middle-aged gal who expected us to follow rules and go to bed on time. We were the ones who'd suffered while they were off having fun without us. We deserved a gift. A nice gift. Whatever they brought us, I can't remember. Well, that's not entirely true. I do remember the best one, a Seiko watch from Japan.  I wore it forever.  I'm happy to report that I've passed this gift for wanting a gift on to my children. We always brought them something whenever we went away, which was almost never. And they bring us something whenever they go away, and it's usually much nicer than anything we ever brought them.

Early on in our marriage, I had to teach hubby about not coming home with bupkis after one of his show biz-related trips to somewhere that sounded fun to me, even if it was torture to him. The first time he came home empty-handed in the early '80s didn't go over well. So now he always brings me a little something. Yesterday was no different. After returning from his 18-hour trip to Las Vegas, he handed me a little brown box. "Oh, boy, oh boy!" I opened it, slowly, just to keep the suspense going. "Oh honey, what did you do now?' "You'll see." And there it was: rolled up neatly in an artsy way, something I love so much, I've written about before: A shower cap. The man knows me so well.

Give & Take

1. If they give you -- take; if they take from you -- yell! 
2. Charge nothing and you'll get a lot of customers. 
3. Don't spit into the well -- you might drink from it later. 
4. Don't worry about tomorrow, because you don't even know what may happen to you today. 
5. If one person tells you that you have ass's ears, take no notice; should two tell you so, procure a saddle for yourself. 
6. You can't chew with somebody else's teeth. 
7. If you spit upwards, you're bound to get it back in the face. 
8. You can't sit on two horses with one behind. 
9. Had you gotten up early, you wouldn't have needed to stay up late. 
10. One who has the reputation of an early riser may safely lie in bed until noon. 
11. For dying, you always have time. 
12. When a fool is silent, he too is counted among the wise. 
13. Silence is the fence around wisdom.
http://www.hebrew4christians.com/Humor/humor.htm:

Disco Party: Gospel Version

She's got the itty bitty disco ball in her hands 

She's got the itty bitty disco ball in her hands

She's got the itty bitty disco ball in her hands

She's got the whole disco in her hands

She's got the gal named Joanie in her hands

She's got the gal named Joanie in her hands

She's got the gal named Joanie in her hands

She's got the whole Joanie in her hands

Joe's got the gal named Candy in his hands

Joe's got the gal named Candy in his hands

Joe's got the gal named Candy in his hands

Joe's got the whole Candy in his hands

Carrie's got the whole other Joe in her hands 
Carrie's got the whole other Joe in her hands 
Carrie's got the whole other Joe in her hands 
Carrie's got the whole Joe in her hands 


She's got the longtime hubby in her hands 
She's got the longtime hubby in her hands 
She's got the longtime hubby in her hands 
She's got the whole hubby in her hands  

Friday Night Fever

The invitation arrived, as most invitations arrive these days, via email. " '70s Disco Party!" Just like that, I found myself boogying on down memory lane until I hit a yellow brick road block. Disco-wise, I have almost zero memories! How can this be? I'll tell you how. Because I mainly enjoyed the whole disco thing cinematically, courtesy of this guy:

And this movie: 

I first saw "Saturday Night Fever" by myself in a little movie theater in Brighton, England. It didn't hit the UK till March 1978. While I was a student abroad, disco took off, along with roller disco (oy vey). Two big crazes, and I pretty much missed both. I have a vague memory of dancing at a disco on a Greek isle, but I seriously doubt I did any moves like this:

I saw "Saturday Night Fever" again in the summer of '78, in Israel, with Hebrew subtitles and a forced, weirdly-timed Intermission. It was a Cultural Experience. By the time I got back to Los Angeles, the disco craze had peaked and was on its way out. The late-'70s roller skating mania was still going strong. I made my one and only attempt on the Venice boardwalk, fell on my knees and ripped my favorite jeans. A personal low point for me.

But tonight, in honor of my dear friend Nadine's birthday, I will bring forth my best "Friday Night Fever." I will wear chunky gold chains I found in an old jewelry box. I will wear metallic sandals (close enough) and a '70s-ish party dress. As God is my witness, I will do the Hustle. I will do whatever Nadine tells me to do. As Tony Manero says, "Look, tonight is the future, and I am planning for it!"

Royally Snubbed?

For months, it's been reported by the SJG, Prince William and Duchess Kate's royal consultant on all things Jewish, that she would indeed be invited to the upcoming Royal Wedding of Prince Harry and the lovely Meghan Markle, star of "When Sparks Fly," written by... who else? But tragically, that might be a bunch of self-invented bupkis. "Methinks the invite got lost in transit," she said, in her worst Shakespearean accent. "Either that, or I've been royally snubbed. I'm deeply hurt and humiliated on many levels. I can't figure out what went wrong. Unless I made a big boo-boo regarding Meghan's recent baptism. I kinda misread the announcement and thought it said Bat Mitzvah. Not only did I personally plant a tree in my backyard in her honor, but I also sent a nice, tasteful gift -- a pretty pink yarmulke bedazzled with Mazel Tov! -- and offered the princess-in-training my kugel recipe. I thought it was a classy gesture. Maybe not. And yet, given my close ties with William and Kate and all the things I taught them, pre-wedding, not to mention the Yiddish expressions they've incorporated into their royal lives, I thought for sure I was a shoo-in, not just for the ceremony, but for leading the group hora at the swanky party. But as Grandma Shorty used to say, 'You can't dance at two weddings with one behind.' I think it applies to this scenario. Maybe I'm reaching. It wouldn't be the first time. Bitter about the missing invite? A little. I won't lie. But will it stop me from sending silver Shabbat candle holders with Harry loves Meghan inscribed in Hebrew? Doubtful. I've already purchased them at the Judaica shop on the corner. But I'm debating whether to charge the happy couple for the shipping."