Dependence Day

Dear SJG,
Is it true that you've launched a campaign to re-name the 4th of July "Dependence Day"? If so, please explain yourself, cuz it sounds a little un-American.
Thanks,
Outraged in Omaha

Dear Outraged,
Listen Buster, I'm about as un-American as the recent attempt by my favorite newlyweds to make tarte tatin, which was really a fancy name for Apple Pie. I'm plenty American. And like any real American, I'm depending on my loved ones and close personal people to get me through this bleepity-bleepity time when nothing makes sense. I mean, seriously. Aren't we all just hanging on by a thin thread? Clinging to our beliefs for dear life? And if my beliefs aren't your beliefs, than bleep you and the horse you rode in on? So why not call it what it really is: A National Day of Dependence on whatever helps us forget how completely screwed we are on every level. Hence, the requested name change.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

"Yes, that's correct. And the horse you rode in on."

Out of Reach

Last night, the SJG hit bottom. Literally. No, I didn't fall on my bottom. How dare you! My bottom is my business. It has its own sphere of gravity. It's been keeping me upward for some 60 years, but who's counting? The bottom I hit was opposite of the ceiling, an area some call the floor. I got prone on the bamboo in search of something I dropped in a very inconvenient locale. Did I ever tell you about the time I dropped my dreams down the sinkhole out back? This time, I dropped something so tiny, it's small enough to fit on my two top teeth: the upper part of my anti-grinding thingamabob. No, not that kind of grinding. Seriously, what's wrong with you people today? Get your head out of the gutter and focus. The SJG is an internationally renowned teeth grinder. Various expensive dental devices have been called upon to stop the grinding. But I just keep grinding, I just keep grinding along. In this moment, I had no choice but to hit the floor on my belly and try to reach... well, fine, let's just give it a name. My Retainer. Here I am, still enslaved by orthodontic items. It's so humiliating. But then, what isn't?

The minute I hit the floor and extended my arms, I realized my arms were going to be of no help, whatso. My arms come in handy for many things, just not reaching what can only be deemed out of reach. So I reached deep into my soul and called on other options to help in the retrieval of the rinky dinky retainer residing beneath the bed at the very end of the end. At this juncture, I knew what I had to do. I had to Macgyver it.

"A paperclip can be a wondrous thing. More times than I can remember, one of these has gotten me out of a tight spot."

As in, take an everyday whatsit and solve the issue. The rescue mission involved a towel, an extension card and a string of juicy expletives I didn't even know I knew. Well, MacGyver failed me, that bastard.  The tiny top part of the dental appliance just sat there, mocking me. I had to bring out the big broom, which meant I had to walk downstairs. And it was already past my bedtime.

Broom in hand, I got back on the floor on my belly, commanded the broom to fetch what needed fetching and the broom flipped me the bird, shoving the much-desired dental aid behind the right leg of the bed. The next stage was the most challenging and took till morning. I had to move the nightstand  and reach around and let's just say this about that.  Score. The moral of this story is: Don't drop things out of reach unless you're willing to risk your life to reach them.

Ice Cream Headache

The Short Jewish Gal recently spoke to Nu? TV at the 6th Annual Pipik-Gazing Gala in swanky Encino, where she got candid about her search for the perfect ice cream that's more or less real, or a close approximation thereof. "You know," the SJG said, "it's very different at my age. It's like, when you're young, no problem. You want to eat a pint of real ice cream, you eat a pint. Then you don't eat again for three weeks and you're fine. You step on the scale, you haven't gained an ounce. You're a little dehydrated, a little weak, but you'll live. At this age, it's not as easy to survive on three weeks of air. So you say, eff it, you eat the pint of real ice cream, your blood sugar goes through the roof, you wind up borderline diabetic and so bloated and gassy, you have to admit to yourself and anyone willing to get without two blocks of you, that you've become... oh, this is painful to admit, lactose intolerant. Is it time to switch to dairy-free? God forbid."

The mother of two, the wife of one, the dog owner of a royal rescue pup (of questionable lineage) says she's currently trying fat-free alternative ice creams, but there's a hitch. "They're disgusting. The other day, I tried one that was made out of old balloons. Sure, it filled me up, but not in a good way. So, at the moment, I'm not seeing any ice cream, fake or otherwise, that makes me happy."

De-Stress For Success

Some people meditate. Some people space out.

When the SJG needs to de-stress, I do this: 

I talk to Sir Blakey.

Discussing my problems with my dog is a great way to clear my keppy. Simply talking things out with the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage gives me a whole new perspective. My dog just gets me. He really does. Sure, sometimes he's napping while I ramble on. Sometimes our conversations are a little one-sided. Sometimes he's barking over me. But that's okay by me. The barking drowns out my own thoughts. And just knowing he's in my corner and will always be there for me, especially when I offer him a treat, gives me that extra confidence to tackle any situation. Sir Blakey is my Canine Zen Master. Who's yours? 

Lost & Found

One Sunday, little Rachel and her bubbe go to the crowded mall to buy a present for Rachel. Unfortunately, while shopping, Rachel gets separated from her bubbe and immediately starts to cry. A security guard sees the sobbing little girl and takes her to the lost-and-found office. 

When they ask Rachel for her name, she replies, "Shana Punim Kina Hora Poo Poo Poo." 

So they again ask her for her name and she replies, "My name is Shana Punim Kina Hora Poo Poo Poo." 

So the office puts out the following message over the loud speaker:

"We have in our lost-and-found office a cute brown eyed, blond haired little girl who has lost her grandmother. If you are that grandmother, please come and claim your granddaughter, Shana Punim Kina Hora Poo Poo Poo." 

Five bubbes immediately come running to claim her.

http://awordinyoureye.com

Pronounce This!

Laura Bell Bundy in "Sweet Charity" Reprise 2.0

The friendly brother-sister disagreement started at dinner. 

John: "I remember seeing ri-Preez when it was -- "

Me: "You mean ri-Prize."

John: "No, I mean ri-Preez." 

At this juncture, our dinner/theater companions, Carla and Norman, exchanged looks. 

"Which is it?" I asked them. "Isn't it ri-Prize?"

I could see they didn't want to mix in.

"It's ri-Preez," John said.

Norman weighed in. "I always thought it was ri-Preez."

Carla nodded. Traitor.

"So it's not ri-Prize?" I asked the table, not quite ready to humbly admit defeat. 

Krystal Joy Brown, Laura Bell Bundy, Yvette Gonzalez-Nacer

Not until Marcia Seligson, the producing/artistic director, stepped onto the stage of the Freud Playhouse at UCLA to welcome us to ri-PREEZ 2.0. And I guess she should know. She'd launched the first version of Reprise in 1995. And every time she said ri-PREEZ, and she said it a lot, John attempted not to lord it over me. I quickly caved.
Me: "You win."
John: "Thank you."

And there you have it. A one-word reprise of our entire childhood. Smarty pants younger sister taking on theater-centric/trivia maven middle brother, a trend that continues to this day. (Okay, fine, but just between us, when Frank Sinatra founded Reprise, his own freaking record label, he pronounced it ri-PRIZE. So there.)

Laura Bell Bundy and Robert Mammana 

No matter how it's pronounced, the Reprise 2.0 version of "Sweet Charity," directed and choreographed by Kathleen Marshall, is an exhilarating blast from the past, 1966 to be exact, full of great songs -- "Big Spender," "If My Friends Could See My Now" -- and fabulous Fosse-inspired dance numbers. Go see it. Tell 'em the SJG sent ya.

Laura Bell Bundy and Barrett Foa

Through July 1st. Tickets:  https://www.reprise2.org 

A Lot To Ask

"I'm off to get gas."
"Bye."
"Bye."
"Drive safely."
"Okay."
"Oh, wait. Are you going by that place?"
"Which place?"
"You know... the place where they sell the stuff."
"Can you be more specific?"
"The place where they sell the ... um... whatchamacallits."
"Food?"
"Yes."
"You want me to go to the market?"
"No. Not that place, the other place."
"Restaurant?"
"No."
"I need more to go on."
"The um... the um... drug place."
"CVS?"
"Yes! Are you driving by CVS?"
"No."
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye."
"Drive safely."
"You want me to pick up something at CVS?"
"You'd do that for me?"
"I might, if you can tell me what I'm picking up."
"That's a big ask."

The Disinvited List

The following carousers shall be disinvited
from the SJG's Summer Spectacular:

Unruly Hippopotami
Foul-Mouthed Unicorns
Pedantic Unicyclists
Litigious Lion Tamers

Toxic Tuba Players

Watermelon Seed-Spitters
Bouncy Castle Deflaters
Insufficient Funders

Running Through The Sprinklers

On a hot summer day, my mom would announce, "Who wants to run through the sprinklers?" "We do! We do!" we'd scream with delight. After all, we were swimming pool-deprived kids. What was the alternative? So, we'd put on our swimsuits and run back and forth through the sprinklers, darting around those deadly round toe traps, whooping it up like this was the best activity ever. Sure, there was the occasional stubbed tootsie, and there was only so much prancing through the soggy grass before the whole enterprise lost its allure. Still, we managed to milk the fun factor for a good 10 minutes. The truth is, we really wanted one of these:

Oh, how we begged for a Slip 'n Slide. "Everybody else has one," we argued. This tactic never worked once with either of my parents. "Let everybody else break their necks," my daddy countered. According to my folks, the Slip 'n Slide was an invitation to severe bodily harm, if not total paralysis. I grew up thinking that the Torah clearly stated: "No Jews shalt ever purchase or partake in the Whamo-Slip 'n Slide." Just between us, I must have taken a near-lethal ride down a Slip 'n Slide once or twice, but I've blocked the memory of sheer unbridled nirvana. So, you're probably wondering, did I ever reverse policy and buy my sons a death-defying Slip 'n Slide, still sold today on the open market? 

What do you think? 

Happy First Day of Summer!

Words To Live By

Every day, I ask myself this: 

1. Where am I? 

2. Where's the nearest exit?

As you strut through life, try not to trip on your stilettos.

There are two ways of spreading cream cheese: with a dainty flourish or a hefty schmear.

My Mannequin-Husband

(Sherman Oaks) SJG Productions is pleased, and maybe a little disturbed, to announce an upcoming rom-com called "My Mannequin-Husband," about a little Southern gal who falls madly, insanely, over-possessively in love with a boy mannequin in a discount store. "He's my boyfriend-husband!" she declares. "Daddy says stop flirting with the mannequin!" her mother says. In an exclusive interview with the award-losing "That's Show Biz," the SJG shared her excitement. "Let me just say that 'My Mannequin-Husband' will be my production company's first exploration into a non-Jewish arranged marriage. We think it breaks new ground, as we follow the little Southern gal into adulthood, and track her disappointment when she quickly discovers that no one can compare to her first mannequin boyfriend. Her biggest complaint about the non-mannequin guys: Why do they have to talk? Finally, she hires a private detective to find her childhood mannequin-boyfriend, and well, as you can imagine, hijinks and hilarity ensue. 'He's shacked up with a mannequin girlfriend,' the detective informs her. The news doesn't go over well. After a brief stint in the loony bin, she sets her heart on winning him back." Coming soon to your nearest SJG Cineplex, where bagels and lox come with the ticket. Here's just a snippet of the fun that's in store. Double click for full dysfunction. 

The Goat of Father's Day Past

I know, I know, the goat is having a moment, what with the goat yoga and the funny goat videos. I can accept that goats are a gift from nature. They give us wonderful cheese, and do other stuff I can't think of, but let me just say I'm good with goats. What I can't accept is when the youngest calls his own father "The Goat" in a Father's Day card. Parentally, I've rarely drawn a line, but now and then, I simply must draw one.
"Youngest son, come over here right now."
"I'm comfy on the sofa."
"Fine. Answer me this: Why are you calling your father a goat in your Father's Day card?"
"Ma."
"I find that disrespectful."
"Come on, Ma."
"I'm sure your father does, as well. Don't you honey?"
"Doesn't bother me."
"Well, it should."
"I've been called worse."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Remember that time you called me a -- "
"Now, now, let's not dwell on the past. What is it about the goat that reminds you of your father? Is it the way he tends to lock horns with others in a work environment or the occasional traffic situation or whilst discussing politics? Is that why on this day of all days you've chosen to call your father a goat?"
"It's an acronym, Ma."
"Is it now?"
"G.O.A.T. stands for -- "
"Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess."
"Give it a shot, Ma."
"Gregarious. Old. Awesome. Turntable."
"Close."
"Really?"
"No."
"Just tell me."
"Greatest. Of. All. Time."
"Oh. That's very different. Never mind."

Stay Sharp

For Father's Day, I told the father of my two children, "Let's go online and pick out your gift." To which he said, "You don't have to get me anything." To which I said, "We're standing, we're walking into the office, we're buying you a gift." "But I don't need anything." "What part of 'get up' aren't you getting?" Whereupon, longtime hubby made his way to the computer and ordered himself something that I'm sure very few fathers would dream of receiving on their special all-about-me-and-not-you-day: A knife sharpening kit. "I've wanted this forever." "Than you shall have it," I said, clicking on this and that. When it arrived on Friday, he said, "I won't open it till Sunday." "Why?" "It's more fun to open it on Sunday." To up the fun factor, I waited till he was out, then wrapped it and put on a pretty bow. That's how thoughtful I am. This morning, he opened it. "How did you know this is what I wanted?" "You told me."

A Day In Bel-Air

Ladies and jellybeans (see what happens when you travel back in time?), here he is, post-Bar Mitzvah 50th, my brother John. Beneath the tie, the mezuzah he wore in 1968. Just between us, all we* got out of him, Bar Mitzvah-wise, was one "baruch atah adonai..." and maybe one "eloheinu." My Manischewitz Mojito, a signature drink the hoity-toity Bel-Air peeps simply adore, may have interfered with the accuracy of some (if not all) of this blog.

* By we, I mean, (l-r) John, Howie, your humble blogger, 

Allison & Andy.

It took a nice tip, but the manager let us back in the 

Garden Room to recreate this shot. 

It Was 50 Years Ago Today

A few months ago, my brother John, a mensch of all mensches who remembers every momentous occasion in his life, unlike his sister, who can't tell what day or date it is without checking, called me up with the following news: "On June 15, it will be the 50th anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah." "Mazel tov, honey." "I was Bar Mitzvahed on June 15, 1968." "L'chaim." "In honor of my Bar Mitzvah, we're going to the Bel-Air Hotel to celebrate." "Even though your birthday isn't till the 22nd?" "I wasn't Bar Mitzvahed on the 22nd. I was Bar Mitzvahed on the 15th." "Technically, you weren't 13." "Who cares?" "God cares. He cares a lot." "Whatever. Put it in your calendar." "Why the Bel-Air Hotel?" "Are you seriously asking me that?" "I was 10." "What's your point?" "Tell me why, I'm begging you. My brain can only hold so much information." "That's where the party was." "Are you planning to recite your Torah portion?" "I'm performing the entire service." "What do I have to do?" "Just sit there." "I can do that."

Brother & sister at Leo Baeck Temple: 50 years ago today! 

Special Delivery

In school they taught us many things,
Things we liked and/or detested.
One thing never was requested,
But oh, how the pendulum swings.

Today I learned a regimen,
It chilled me from top to bottom.
"Here's a pouch for when you've got some,
Seal and send us your specimen."

"Well, I'll give it deep reflection,
But the thought does disturb me so.
It's beneath me to sink this low,
I say no to this collection."

"It's for your health," she insisted.
"Trust me, hon, there's nothing to it.
Just make up your mind and do it.
Don't be the fool who resisted."

"Okay, okay," I told the nurse.
"On your behalf, I'll do my best.
You want it that much, be my guest."
Under my breath, I said a curse.

I rushed right home and did the deed.
I couldn't help but kvetch and moan.
I was out of my comfort zone.
May the contents be well-received.

Must You Go Shakespearean?

Try and stop me.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's flea infestation?"

"We know what we are, and I know you are, but what, pray tell, am I?"

"If music be the food of love, why the flatulence?"

"Better three hours too soon than one more minute on the 405."

"Brevity is the soul of my blog."

"The dog doth bark too much, methinks."

"No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say bupkis."

" 'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to eat an entire kugel by yourself."

"I give unto my hubby my second best sofa with the lumpy cushions."

"Oy! Let me not kvetch, not kvetch, sweet heaven; keep me kvetch-free; I would not kvetch!"

SJG Rebrands

(Sherman Oaks) The Short Jewish Gal, a self-proclaimed international blogging sensation, has decided to make a bold marketing move that may or may not send keppies spinning like a demonic dreidel. "I've given myself a promotion to goddess. You heard me. From now on, SJG will stand for Short Jewish Goddess. It's about time someone worships me. As I remind longtime hubby on a daily basis, I have many goddess-like qualities. You want examples? Examples you'll get. I'm the embodiment of peacefulness, especially when I'm napping around 4 p.m. on the sofa. You want serenity? Stop by. I'm nothing if not serene. Ask anyone, especially if they're not related to me. Oh, you want to talk purity? If I'm not the symbol of purity, who is? That fact that I swear like a truck driver is besides the point. What else makes me a goddess? How much time have you got? The fact that I represent neurotic women, globally, certainly qualifies me for the title. I give meshuggies everywhere hope, and if that's not something to brag about, I'll eat an untoasted bagel. So, there. I've sent in my application in for a name change, and once it's approved by the powers-that-be, I'll be the Short Jewish Goddess. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I said so."

The Tarte Tatin Took A Turn

Clean-up on Aisle 10

For the rest of time, we'll be trying to figure out what went wrong. All we know is this. An attempt at carmelizing led to burnt buttery offerings that somehow wound up stuck to the bamboo floor. A trash can melted, too. I'm not sure how that happened. I'm not sure how any of this happened. I only know this. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the newlyweds suddenly decided to make a tarte tatin, thanks to a French baking show they've been watching, obsessively. "It's going to be great," the eldest promised, as he searched in vain for items the SJG doesn't possess. I'm not from the bakers. By now, he should know this about me. The only thing I do from scratch is kvetch. Missing from the kitchen: A rolling pin. A pie pan. And I can't remember what else, because, as I may have mentioned, I'm not from the bakers.  

My eldest son, the dough-maker

I kept a safe distance on the sofa, pre-gaming for the Tony Awards, and saying useful things like, "The tarte tatin has taken a tar-tar-turn." And, "It's a tar-tar-tastrophe." Of course, had the newlyweds decided to make their first kugel, I would've been all over it. But instead, dough was happening, and apples were getting peeled by longtime hubby, who just couldn't help himself. Give the man a tool, kitchen or otherwise, and he's going to get busy.

My wonderful D.I.L. re-carmelizes, as one does, post-disaster.

The result: Just between us, it's tarte tatin-adjacent.

And delicious. Did it convince me to start baking? 

Like me think about that. No. Bon appétit! 

A Night In Woodland Hills

A warm evening in Woodland Hills. A delightful volunteer appreciation dinner courtesy of the Motion Picture Television Fund. "Don't say I don't schlep you to the best places," I said to longtime hubby, handing him a drink ticket. "I wouldn't dare."

A lovely party under a big tent strung with twinkle lights. "You know how I love the twinkle lights," I reminded my date, handing him another drink ticket. "You feel strongly about the twinkle lights." "I really do." Twinkle lights are part of my personal belief system, along with dental floss and caffeine. They just make me happy.

A well-established SJG factoid for your files. I'm very easy to surprise, mainly because I'm just oblivious when good things are headed my way. Last night, the wonderful Fredda Johnson, Director, Volunteer Engagement, sent me into total shock when she called my name and gave me this unexpected, very pretty and quite shiny glass plaque.

I mean, come on. It's not often that someone gives you an award for anything. In my case, it's pretty much never. So I was farklempt and honored and did an understated hora on my way to get it. I may have uttered my daddy's famous line: "For me?" Or maybe it was just in my keppy. "Don't get used to this," Fredda whispered later.

Saturday Sanity Scan

I know, I know. It's been a week. What say we have a group check-in to determine whether we're "not all there," "all there" or "there's no there there." Come on, gang. Let's do a quick sanity scan. At this moment in time... do you know where:
1. Your brain is?
2. Your soul is?
3. Your heart is?
4. Your dog is?
5. Your cat is?
6. Your car is?
7. Your spouse is?
8. Your wallet is?
9. Your phone is?
10. Your pupik is?