The Trouble With The Human Race

Abraham is having his first meeting with Dr. Lewis, an eminent psychiatrist. "So, Abe," asks Dr. Lewis, "why have you come to see me?"
"Because I am having trouble with the whole of the human race, doctor. They are stupid and they won’t listen to me."
"Can you give me some examples of how they …."
"They are calling me a crazy man. It doesn’t matter what I tell them, they call me meshugga. What do you do, doctor, when you meet stupid people who won’t listen to a word of truth?"
"OK, Abe, I’m getting to understand your problem. Why don’t you start from the beginning?"
"Oh thank you doctor. Thank goodness someone wants to listen to me. In the beginning, I created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And my spirit moved upon the face …" 
http://awordinyoureye.com/jokes89thset.html

Don't Egg Me On

SJG: I'd like a plain omelette, no hash browns, fruit instead --
Waiter: We don't serve omelettes.
SJG: But it's 11 a.m.
Waiter: We only serve brunch on the weekend.
SJG: What am I supposed to eat at 11 a.m.?
Waiter: You can eat what's on the menu.
SJG: Oh, man.
Waiter: Are you ready to order?
SJG: No.
Waiter: Well, I'll come back when you make up your mind.
SJG: Wait a minute, I have made up my mind.  I'd like a sunny egg.
Waiter: I'll get the manager.
SJG: Look. (pointing to menu) If you order a burger, for two bucks, you can add a sunny egg.
Waiter: That must be new.
SJG: So, you can make a sunny egg but not a nice omelette?
Waiter: I don't make the rules.
SJG: Okay, I'll make it as easy for you as I can. I'd like a veggie burger, no bun.
Waiter: Hold the bun.
SJG: No French Fries.
Waiter: Hold the fries.
SJG: No veggie burger.
Waiter: Hold the veggie burger.
SJG: Just give me a sunny egg.
Waiter: One egg. Sunny.
SJG: Do you see what I did there?
Waiter: I'll be back with your order.

An egg... make that ode... to "Five Easy Pieces" 

When One Store Closes...

As my Not-So-Great-Great Aunt Kissy of Kiev used to say, "When one store in the shtetl closes, another store in the shtetl opens." This was yesterday's profound lesson. When Coffee Bean in Studio City lost power, a cruel twist on a holiday, leaving much confusion in its wake, my friend and I had to be spontaneous, and who has the energy for that these days? Nonetheless, we had to gather our strength and alter our plans. So, even though we're biased toward Coffee Bean, the only place we ever meet, we had to rejigger our preferences and go all the way down the street to Starbucks. Had this happened today, Starbucks, some 8,000 of them, would've been closed for anti-bias training. What would No-So-Great-Great Aunt Kissy have said then? Wait, I think I know. "Timing is everything."

Apples & Oranges

Sometime in July, let's call it mid-July, my daughter-in-law's parents will arrive for a visit. Semi-ambitious gal that I am, occasionally, if I've had enough sleep, which is almost never, I'm determined to get back all, or even a sampling, of the French I learned in college. It's only been, what, 40-ish years. How difficult can it be? I'm going to be very honest with you now. Very difficult. Make that tres difficile. Even though I did well in French, I never had much confidence speaking French. I could write it, I could read it, but speaking it was painful for me and anyone else in my immediate vicinity. In the presence of Parisians, I got tongue-tied. I got totally farklempt. I failed, linguistically. So here I am, many decades later, with my lovely French daughter-in-law trying to help me, and so far, I've mastered a few sentences that will never come in handy during normal conversation: "Good day. The boy is a boy, the girl is a girl." "It is an apple." "It is an orange." I'm already off to a rocky start.

Yesterday, I may have said in French, "Good day, I am an apple." "The boy is an orange." "The girl is red." So, I've got a ways to go. But the good news is that my DIL's mother is using the same ridiculous app, learning the same silly things I'm learning, but in English. By the time she arrives, I expect we'll be having scintillating conversations about fruit. If there's a better way to bond, I'd like to hear it.

A Swiftly Tilting "O"

I've been trying to find this for the past few days, to honor its creator Robert Indiana, a gentle soul who passed away on May 19. This morning, I found it, this photo I took of the iconic LOVE on 6th Ave, a few blocks from MOMA, in December 2015. What started as a Pop Art print in the 1960s went on to be a stamp, and then a famous sculpture duplicated around the globe in Hebrew, Chinese, Italian and Spanish. No matter your frame of mind, or the state of this swiftly tilting world, one look at those giant red letters, that slanted "O," and you can't help but smile and feel a sense of gratitude. Whether you're seeing LOVE for the first time or the 20th, in New York or Philadelphia, or one of its many worldwide locales, you have to stop and take it in, this oversized symbol of what transcends everything else in life. Because, let's face it. Without love, what have we got? Not much.

My Coat of Arms

Likee? Try Lovee!

(Sherman Oaks) A very special coat of many arms has been created for the Short Jewish Gal after she watched Meg and Harry's fancy-schmancy wedding, you know, the one she wasn't invited to? The design of the SJG's arms was agreed to and approved by the SJG herself, and Mr. Sheldon Knockonwood (Primary Schlepper of Arms, San Fernando Valley). The decision to give the SJG (nee Carolita in an '58 Oldsmobile) her own coat of many arms breaks with Jewish tradition, as it is typically given to no one ever. As she sat on her sofa, she had this to say about that: "As far as I know, I'm the first Jew with my own coat of many arms. Most coat owners prefer two arms, but I say, 'Where's the fun in that? Go big or go home.' By the way, home is the only place I've been this week, what with the nasty cold I've been nursing, courtesy of NYC and Angsty Airlines, so I came up with this idea, with a little help from Sheldon, and may I just say, 'Winner!' If it ever gets cold enough, I can't wait to wear it."

Dirt Magnet

Unfasten your bedazzled belts. It's practically Memorial Day. Which means one thing. It's now safe to move about the world in white. But just between us, I don't think I'm ready. Wearing white just never seems to work out for me. High school history books and secret government files will verify that the SJG is simply incapable of wearing white without attracting instantaneous schmutz. Much like Pigpen, I'm a dirt magnet. How it lands on me, I can't tell you, but there it is, a black smudge of unknown origin, a stubborn spot that will never come out. Oh sure, I can Shout it out, drown it in bleach to no avail. Trust me, this mockery is eternal. An endless reminder: "Don't do it, do it, do it, don't you break out the white. You know what will happen if you put on those crisp virgin Banana Republics purchased at a delightful discount. They'll be corrupted. Deflowered by a demon speck.  But knowing you, gambler that you are, you'll do it, anyway. You'll risk it all just for that brief moment in time. For a millisecond, those whiter-than-whites are perfect in every way, which makes you perfect, too."

My Chart of Adorable Persistence

Some may call it pushy. Others -- as in the two people I've given birth to  -- naggy. But I like to think of it as adorably persistent. That's the SJG in a matzoh box. Adorably persistent. In this weird, no rules universe we currently occupy, it's hard to get anyone to respond in a timely fashion. A gal who clings to the borders of neurosis could start to feel a wee bit insecure. Rather than sit back and feel ignored, I take action. I turn to my Chart of Adorable Persistence. I monitor when I sent the last unrequited email reminder of my existence. More than two weeks? Hello, I'm back. Sometimes I come right out with, "Hi, it's me, guilting you. What am I, chop liver?" I blame my father for this ridiculous approach. He never gave a crap what anyone thought and wanted me to be the same way. When I was first starting out in show biz, he'd advise me to write outrageous notes to TV producers. His logic: "You have nothing to lose." The note that stands out, because it actually worked once or twice: "Hire me or you'll never work in this town again, and this comes from someone with absolutely no influence whatsoever."

These days, instead of sending notes, I write a silly email: "I know you can't stop thinking about me. I have that effect on people." Sometimes it works. Sometimes not so much. At least I gave it a shot. In a perfect world, I'd pick up a phone. But no one does that anymore. Too old school, right? Well, yesterday I gave it a shot. I called a wonderful human who's busier than anyone I've ever met in my life. I figured after two emails and a text, what's the worst that could happen? He lets it go to voicemail? He blocks my call? In my career, I've been through much worse than that. So I called. And... brace yourself... he answered. "I'm not ignoring you!" he said. "So you don't mind me being adorably persistent?" "Not at all." Boy, is he in trouble. He just gave me permission to stay adorably persistent till I run out of steam, which, according to my calculations, is a few years from now, when I downgrade to exhaustedly tireless.
(10-7-16)

Excuse Me...

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Did you just call me ma'am?"

"Yes."

"You're not excused."

Your Concern Is Noted

Dear SJG,
How's your NYC-related sinus situation? I've been up all night worrying myself sick. That's the kind of power you have over me. My thinking goes like this: If the SJG feels like kaka, then I feel like kaka, too. So, please get back to me shortly, because, let's face it, shortly is the only way you roll. (See what I did there?)
Thanks,
SJG-Obsessed

Dear SJG-Obsessed,
I saw what you did there and I dig it. I'm so deeply touched by your thoughtfulness, your caring, your concern over my general health, that I could weep, profusely, but I won't, 'cuz then I'd get all congested and I'm trying to appear semi-human for a meeting at the deli later. So I'll refrain from over-emoting, and you know that's hard for me. Back to your question regarding my health, a question my own children are too busy to pose. When the sons saw me on Sunday, they cruelly kept their distance, yelling this from across the room: "Stay away, Ma, you'll get us sick." To which I yelled back, "Would you like an approximation of how many times you've gotten me sick? Hey, don't walk away while I'm guilting you." Meanwhile, my sinus situation is a bissel improved, in the sense that my RKF (Resting Kvetch Face) no longer resembles a swollen hothouse tomato. So there's that.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Resting Tomato Face 

A Jew Grew In Brooklyn

The secret to reaching 90, according to longtime hubby's longtime daddy: "Drink your booze, and have a wife who's very understanding of your needs, especially when it comes to cooking." 

 

When I told my mother-in-law his "secret," she said, "Wonderful." Just between us, I may have seen her eyes roll. Then again, my vision isn't the most reliable, what with the drippy nose, the watery eyes, the over-pollination of my personage, courtesy of NYC. It's true, my overall aura of congestion, along with the wad of tissues in my left hand, didn't exactly make me popular at the party. "You're probably infecting everybody right now," whispered a retired doctor. "Really, doc? Guilting me at my father-in-law's 90th?" "Is there a better time?" he said.

                                                

Here's hoping no one caught my cold. And happy birthday to this menschy Brooklyn Jew. May he continue to drink his booze, and drive my mother-in-law crazy, for many more years, kina hora, poo poo poo. 

Haven't We Met Before?

Former Brat Packer  

At the swanky CW soiree in NYC, one conversation stayed with me more than others, and who would I be if I didn't share it with you? I'd be withholding.
"Hello, how are you, we've met before," a New York talent agent said to me, with absolute certainty.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, I never forget a face," he said.
"I have one of those punims. People are always confusing me with someone else."
"But I have met you. I'm positive. I remember your kind eyes."
"Okay, well..."
"What's your name again?"
"Carol Schneider."
"Ha! I knew it," he said, victoriously. "I knew I'd met you. You were married to Andrew McCarthy."

Former Wife

"Actually, I've been married to my first husband for almost 38 years."
"No kidding. I must be thinking of the other Carol Schneider. Are you an actress?
"I've been accused of being overly dramatic, but no."
"I could've sworn you were Carol Schneider."
"I still am."
"Nice to see you again."
"You, too."

Scenes From A Royal Wedding

L'chaim! When do we dance the hora? 

Well, I certainly had the best intentions of waking up early to watch the royal wedding I wasn't invited to, but claim responsibility for, anyway, just because I can. Alas, the SJG's circadian rhythm is preposterously out of synch. Am I on NYC time? Am I on Sherman Oaks time? I'm somewhere in between, navigating a strange blend of zones that will align at some point, God willing, once the East Coast Pollen permeating my keppy evacuates, making room for the West Coast Pollen that defines my daily existence. 

The Royal Smooch

Good thing there's plenty of coverage of this made-for-Hallmark moment. 

Another shameless plug of "When Sparks Fly." 

And this time, her wedding dress isn't made out of toilet paper. 

A Tale of Two Jareds

1. Jared Leto of 30 Seconds To Mars performs at the CW Upfronts. The SJG's two-word review: Freaking awesome.

2. Jared Padalecki of "Supernatural" hugs the SJG at the big, splashy CW party, and why wouldn't he, I'm very important. I'm happy to report that this hugs lasts a long time, thanks to longtime hubby taking a series of shots, one more disastrous than the other. The first attempt is a blurry self-portrait of his confusion, to which I respond rather unkindly. "Hurry! You're eff'n up my moment with Jared!" Jared continues to hug me, which is very nice. And then, finally, we get this ridiculous shot, the only one salvageable, keeping alive my lifelong tradition of closing my eyes the instant the flash goes off. "Let go, Jared," I say, gently. "Our time here is done." "I'm not ready." "Jared, honey, let go!" "Fine," he says, storming off. And so ends my stay in NYC. What will tomorrow bring? Jet lag. A wedding I'm not invited to, but I'll watch anyway. A reunion with the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. A heavenly reprieve from the nonstop jackhammering. And, God willing, no rain. 

The Rain In Spain (And NYC)

I'll let you guess which show I saw last night at Lincoln Center, but I will tell you this: It was 100 percent "loverly."

"Ascot Gavotte." Pay close attention to the hats. Why? I'll tell you why:

Don't I look splendid? 

What can you do? Some of us are just privileged. Thanks to Connie Ray's friend Blair Ross, playing multiple roles in "My Fair Lady," we got to go backstage and see the gorgeousnesss of the costumes, and say "How do you do?" to Diana Rigg. I even stood on the stage. Who says I've never appeared on Broadway?

In keeping with the British theme of the week, earlier in the day, I took myself to see "The Play That Goes Wrong," a smashingly hilarious, murder mystery, Monty Python meets Sherlock Holmes romp, during which I never stopped laughing. Not once. Give me slapstick, give me people falling and slipping, give me utter silliness, give me a set that falls apart until it's destroyed, and I'm one happy lil Jew. But then, it doesn't take much to make me giddy. So, what will today bring? The CW Upfronts, the splashy evening soiree, and of course, more rain.

Fashion Statements

Lady Mary's dinner wear

As they say on "Downton Abbey," "Is there anything more thrilling than a new frock?" Well, nothing else comes to mind.  

SJG's day wear

I did my best to look stylish while touring the Downton Abbey Exhibit, mostly with a bunch of gals and a few husbands forced to schlep along. "I've never even seen the show," confided the chap who snapped this fetching photo. 

The fashion of the day

It was hard to pick a favorite gown, so I asked a guard, "Kind sir, may I borrow them all?" Sadly, the answer was a resounding no. 

The fashion of Connie Ray

Here I am, your humble SJG, with the charming and talented star of Broadway, screen and telly, that's right, the one and only Connie Ray, in Central Park, enjoying the 89 degree weather. As pollen rained down upon us, infiltrating our brains, we chatted away, until the torrential downpour spoiled our fun. What followed was panic, heavy drenching and near catastrophe as we waded in the deepest of puddles, battled the wind and gave up on our useless umbrellas. By a miracle, we reached the sushi restaurant alive and sat down, our wet clothes clinging to our aging bodies, as we proceeded to blame each other for the overall sogginess of the situation. "You had to get that photo in Central Park," Connie said. "Excuse me? Who led us two blocks astray in the storm?" I countered. It went back and forth like this, accusations flying, until Bubbles, aka Debbi, arrived, looking suspiciously dry, to referee. "Drink your green tea and move on," she commanded. Easy to be logical when you're not soaked n' saturated from head to toe. 

"On Wednesday we wear pink."

And then, off we went to see "Mean Girls," where I bought an overpriced "Mean Girls" sweatshirt and "Cool Mom" shirt to replace my fully-permeated tee. I almost changed right there in the lobby, till Bubbles directed me toward the ladies room. Thank you for that, Bubbles. Happy to report that "Mean Girls" was hilarious and fun and I almost forgot the dampness leaking into my bones. But at least the top part of me was dry, so there's that. What will today bring? More rain. More glorious Broadway. I remain your Loyal Sogginess.

Tea For Two

"Excuse me, ma'am. You look important, what with the sparkly jacket and the faraway look. Do you know anyone who can make the jackhammering outside my hotel stop?" "No comment."

The wonderful Carla Malden, conveniently in New York at the same time as moi, looks perplexed after I tell her my famous asparagus joke, courtesy of the late Steve Landesberg: "Why is the suicide rate so high in Sweden? The man comes home from work and asks, what's for dinner, snookums?"

"Asparagus?! Not again!" Bam! 

All smiles at the Plaza Hotel's Palm Court... even as Carla makes it abundantly clear that she doesn't understand my lame asparagus joke, no matter how many times I try to explain it. As my daddy, Mr. Ben Starr, used to say, "If you have to explain a joke, it's not funny." The truth hurts. It really does.

Meanwhile, have a scone, a cucumber sandwich, a pastry, a spot of tea, vicariously, on me, and ponder what today will bring the SJG. Hint: "My dear, all life is a series of problems which we must try and solve, first one and then the next and then the next, until at last we die."

You Know I Can't Hear You...

... When the jackhammer's running.

As a welcome back gesture, New York City, skyscrapers and everything, is treating the folks from Sherman Oaks to an early morning chorus of not one, but two industrialize-size hydraulic jackhammers, furiously pounding into the ground at a highrise construction site that happens to be located directly across the street from the hotel. The deafening noise level has already reduced our lively banter to just a few meaningful words, along the lines of:

"WHAT?"
"I'M GOING NOW."
"WHAT?"
"I'M GOING  -- "

And now longtime hubby has left to go do something very important and TV-related, while the SJG remains bedside, wearing my noise-canceling headphones, which so far, have managed to cancel bupkis.

I Can't Come To The Phone Right Now

"Who's calling?" (1959)

Mother's Day used to be so hard. The first year, the second year, and many years after that. A Mother's Day brunch without my mother? What's the point? But then I realized I could still celebrate her and Mother's Day got easier. After all, I have other mothers I could honor in the here and now. My wonderful and hilarious mother-in-law. My wonderful and hilarious friends who are mothers. And another mother I know better than anyone. Me. True, I've had my ups and downs as a mommy. Who hasn't? But only the early years. The teen years. The young adult years. Motherhood is a full-time, low-paying, worry-inducing, highly-rewarding gig. You make mistakes. You say the wrong things. You overreact. You pick the wrong battles. This thing I've been doing for much longer than my own mother has been gone, it's a work in progress. I learned a lot from her. Things I wanted to do the same. Things I wanted to do differently. I'm grateful for all of it. I wouldn't trade this job for anything. So Happy Mother's Day, nice people. And if you still have a mom, give her the biggest hug and don't let go. You're luckier than you know.

The original pouty face 

(5-14-17)

It's Never Enough

A classic joke for you, pre-Mother's Day. Told and re-told in many ways, but always with the best punchline ever:

A Jewish Grandmother loses her grandson at the beach when a tidal wave sweeps him away into the depths of the ocean.

The Grandmother immediately bows to her knees in the sand and prays to God for the return of her grandson. "Please God, I have always been a good person, a good Jew and a loving Grandmother; please return my grandson to me."

Just as she finishes her prayer, a huge wave crashes back on the beach, returning the young boy to his Grandmother's side.

The Grandmother begins to cry and hug the grandson she thought she would never see again.

She is overcome with joy and gratitude.

She looks once more at her grandson, then looks back at the sky and yells, "He had a hat!!!"

Either Way

In honor of Mother's Day, during which I'll be piloting a plane east, or sitting for a very long time, I forget which, here's a brief yet heartfelt summation of the mother-child bond:

Sometimes you make her weep
Sometimes she makes you weep
Sometimes you make her laugh
Sometimes she makes you laugh

Sometimes you make her kvell
Sometimes she makes you kvell
Sometimes you make her mad
Sometimes she makes you mad

Sometimes you make her tired
Sometimes she makes you tired
Sometimes you make her fret
Sometimes she makes you fret

Sometimes you make her yell
Sometimes she makes you yell
Sometimes you make her call
Sometimes she makes you call

If you put in the love
If you hang on real tight
If you learn to let go
If you always make up

This thing that you've built
This bond that you share
This sense of belonging
This journey through life

Either way, day after day,
Week after month after year
Wherever you go, whatever you need
You'll never be alone

Adios April & Arizona

"They're getting rid of us."  "Bastards."

"Honey?"
"Yes, dear?"
"You know tonight is a very special night for me."
"A season finale?"
"Almost."
" 'Grey's Anatomy'?"
"I love that you know that."
"We're both vidiots."
"We really are."
"So who's going to die?"
"Someone I love."
"It was her time to go."
"But why?"
"Her contract was up."

I'm going to miss the heavy emoting.

"Her best friend is leaving, too."

"Is she going to die?"
"She's going to move."
"TV can be so cruel."
"Honey?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Why do bad things happen to good characters?"
"May sweeps."

P.S. Nice fake out, Grey’s.