Knock, Knock

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"
"The police."
"The police who?"
"The police who investigate typos."
"I didn't know that was a thing."
"It is."
"What are your qualifications?"
"I get annoyed when I see typos."
"Who doesn't? Come on in."
"Don't mind if I do."
"If you don't mind my asking, why are you here? I pride myself on my lack of typos."
"You might want to downgrade that a tad."
"What? Why?"
"On the way over, I found 82 typos in your blog."
"Oh dear God. I always do spellcheck."
"Do you now?"
"I thought I did."
"Well, your typos are a special case."
"Aw, gee. Thanks."
"You add words that shouldn't be there."

"Like?"
"Like."
"You lost me."
"Like like. I found an extra like in yesterday's blog."
"Does an extra like qualify as a typo?"
"It does in my book."
"Wow. You published a book?"
"Self-published. But still."
"Hazel tov."
"You mean mazel tov."
"What did I say?"
"Hazel tov."
"I meant mazel tov. Spellcheck is anti-semitic."
"So you've said 53 times."
"Coffee, officer?"
"Sure. What kind?"
"David Lynch."
"I hate to correct you --"
"You love to correct me."
"But David Lynch makes movies and creepy tv shows."
"I know. But guess what? I found out the other day he makes coffee, too."

"Everyone makes coffee. Even movie directors."
"In Hollywood, movie directors have coffee made for them."
"Have you verified that?"
"Oh, so now you're a fact checker, too?"
"It's a sideline."
"Well, check this out, officer. David Lynch has his own brand."
"Since when?"
"Since I don't know, but I saw it on a menu of Ivy At The Shore. Cookie?"
"Why not."
"So I'm looking at the menu, and right there at the bottom, it goes, 'We serve David Lynch organic coffee.' I turn to my lovely lunch mates and say, 'Why are they making a big deal about serving David Lynch coffee? Is he a regular customer?' "
"Does anyone laugh?"
"Not only does no one laugh, no one gives a rat's patootie about David Lynch or his stupid coffee."
"According to Google, he really does have his own coffee."

"And it's totally delish."
"Did you tell your friends that?"
"At least 10 times, I said, 'Man, David Lynch makes a damn fine cup o' joe.' "
"That's overkill."
"When has overkill ever stopped me before?"
"I can point to at least 84 blog examples when overkill didn't stop you."
"Exactly. So, how do you take your David Lynch?"
"Dark, disturbing, cinematic and surreal."
"You've come to the right place, officer."

The Incredible Shrinking SJG

This morning my gynecologist, a nice gal who delivered my uterus 15 years ago, will casually remind me, once again, "You're shrinking." After that update, the conversation will go something like this:
"How much?"
"Half an inch since last year."
"What gives?"

"Gravity."
"Gravity's to blame?"
"Gravity's dragging you down."
"Great."
"Eventually, gravity will drag you six feet under."
"Wow. You really went dark on me."
"Slide forward and put your feet in the stirrups."

A Toast To Colorado

Then

Can you wax nostalgic about a street? I don't know about you, but I can wax nostalgic about anything, inanimate or still breathing. I'm not that picky. Yesterday I teared up as I crept along Colorado Avenue on the way to Ocean. You see, nice people, when I was a Westsider -- up until the mid-80s when hubby and I made the trek to the Valley -- Colorado was my go-to street. Colorado was my happy street. I just loved it so much. It was quiet and wide and got you to Santa Monica in record time. These days, getting to Santa Monica from Sherman Oaks for a swanky early bridal shower-type celebration takes serious navigational skills. Naturally, I relied on How-Waze. Longtime hubby knows how to get you where you need to go. Use a traffic app in his presence? I don't think so. All you need is How-Waze. "Take Colorado," he said. He'd taken it the day before to schlep his daddy to the DMV. "I'm taking Colorado," I said. And that was that.

Now

Only How-Waze didn't take into account that Colorado now shares its once-spacious turf with the Expo line. Colorado narrows into a bumper-to-bumper slo-mo ride to Hell. The Colorado of my youth is now a ticket to tardiness. "You're never late," one of the gals said, a Westsider, when I arrived 10 minutes behind schedule. "I blame Colorado," I said. "The street, not the state," I clarified. The Westsiders in the party offered no solace, no sympathy. Only the Valley gals understood my pain. They embraced me in a healing group hug and offered champagne. "You're here now, honey," a Calabasan goddess whispered. "Going home, you'll go another way," said an angel from Agoura Hills. I felt better once the booze kicked in. And after we toasted the lovely bride-to-be, I toasted my Colorado of yore. "Let's raise a glass to Colorado Ave., the way it was. We had some good times. didn't we? Progress is a bitch. L'chaim." Only the Valley gals joined in. No surprise there.

Morris The Samurai

There once was a powerful emperor who needed a new chief Samurai. So he put up posters throughout the land, saying he was searching for a new chief Samurai. But after two months, only three applied for the job, a Japanese, a Chinese, and Morris. So he interviewed all three. The emperor first asked the Japanese to demonstrate why he should be his chief Samurai. 

The Japanese opened a little silver box and out flew a little fly. Whoosh went his sword and the fly dropped dead in two pieces. The emperor was impressed. 

The emperor then asked the Chinese to demonstrate why he should be his chief Samurai. The Chinese opened a small pearl box and out flew a smaller fly. Whoosh, whoosh went his sword and the fly dropped dead in four pieces. The emperor was very impressed. 

Then the emperor asked Morris to demonstrate why he should be his chief Samurai. Morris opened a small gold box and out flew a wasp. Whoooooossshhh, whoooooossshhh, whooooooossshhh, whoooooossshhh, whoooooossshhh went Morris's sword, but the wasp was still alive and buzzing around the emperor. The emperor was very disappointed and asked Morris, "After all your sword play, why is the wasp not dead?" Morris replied, "A circumcision is never intended to kill."

http://awordinyoureye.com

A Visit To The Dispensary

Salvador Dali is watching you

Recently, as in a week ago today, that's how recently I mean, a friend who shall remain nameless, a dear, wonderful friend who hails from... elsewhere, a real friend, not an imaginary friend people refer to when they're "asking for a friend," asked me to take her to a place I've never been before, man. The kind of place your humble SJG drives by daily, because they're practically on every corner, and go by many clever names: The Secret Stash, Green Cross, Nirvana Clinic, Kush Mart. My friend required something vape-worthy, an instrument of calm and relaxation she can't procure in her unnamed state. And who better to schlep her to the Gelson's of Ganja, the place voted "Best Dispensary in L.A.", than moi? Only the best medically beneficial CBD for my out-of-state gal.

As we entered this most mellow zone, I immediately got the giggles. It wasn't what I expected, what with the security guard, the velvet sofa, the hipster music. On second thought, it was exactly what I expected, except for the security guard. I stared at my surroundings like a goofy, wide-eyed visitor from Tralfamadore. "Be cool," my friend whispered. "Don't harsh anyone's buzz." Okay, she didn't say that. Not out loud. But she was probably thinking it. I mean, when it comes to cool, I'm pretty much the opposite. Sure, I indulged in the substance as a youngster way-way-way back when, but after the Infamous Bourbon Ball Incident of 1980-ish, when newly-minted hubby had to pry me off the ceiling, I haven't gone near the stuff. Okay, maybe a few more times. But that was decades ago. So I sat down on the blue velvet, highly amused and feigning coolness. As I watched my unnamed friend in action, I gotta say, I was impressed. Clearly, this wasn't her first rodeo in Hemp Town. So smooth. So chill. And for this, she was rewarded. Lucky gal bellied up to the Mary J bar at just the right time. It was Customer Appreciation Day. She got what she came for, and then some. A mug and a water bottle emblazoned with Higher Path. A free "cookie." A free bag of gummies. I've never seen her so transformed, and I've known her a very long time. So I was happy she was happy. And at the end of the day, isn't that what friendship's all about?

Nostalgic Air Fresheners

The Short Jewish Gal is excited to announce a new line of nostalgic air fresheners sure to take the  multi-million dollar home deodorizing market by storm. The makers of Fabreze and Glade will be  scratching their keppies, wondering why they didn't think of this sooner. The SJG line will include a variety of irresistible, highly-hamish aromas:

Who could resist "Matzoh Ball Soup Plug-In," continuous delivery with just a hint of guilt? You'll feel like you stepped back in time and landed in your grandmother's kitchen in Brooklyn. You'll wonder why you never got the recipe. You'll feel bad about that for a while.

Want something richer? Try "Kugel Metered Mister," to remind you of that first moonlit Rosh Hashanah when you fell deeply in love with noodle pudding as a child, and vowed that one day, you'd make a kugel that's just as delish as Aunt Kissy's, if not better.

Maybe you'd prefer "Blast of Blintz," for those Sundays when you don't have the energy to wait for a table at Art's Deli.

How about a neutralizer of "Nice Coffee Cake," so you shouldn't forget all the condolence calls you've made, and remember to count your blessings, not to mention your good spoons. Someone may have "accidentally" walked off with one at the last Sisterhood luncheon you hosted.
(June 2013)

What Should I Eat?

I'm pleased to report that my recent house guest, my beloved friend, my co-conspirator in playwriting and other silly endeavors, the lovely and hilarious Cathy Hamilton, has transformed herself, and I say this with no judgment, only love, into a Gluten-Free Vegan-Type of Gal. Rather than stock my fridge with sinful treats for her visit, I confessed, "Honey, I have no bleepin' idea what to feed you. To Gelson's we must go." Upon arrival in my personal homeland, she started selecting the healthiest of the healthy, what with the beets and the almond milk and oh dear God, a very scary, fizzy coconut concoction that boasts of Billions of Live Probiotics.

It's alive!

Naturally, I did what I always do. I laughed, uncontrollably, especially on our first day of rehearsal, when I caught her spitting out the first and only spoonful she took of that Cocoyo affront to humanity. As my tiny blogosphere knows, I belong to the Temple of All Things Gluten. I worship at the Shrine of Cream Cheese and Lox. Give me Half-and-Half in my coffee, or give me bupkis. That's my motto. But all of this healthiness on Cathy's part got me thinking: Holy Guacamole. Am I eating right or what? The answer: More often than not, I'm eating fine. I view food as fuel. A little protein. A little caffeine. A slice of avocado. A spoonful of reduced fat peanut butter. A low-carb tortilla made of styrofoam and straw. A banana. A cup of non-fat Greek yogurt. These are the essentials of the SJG diet. These are the foods that get me out of bed in the morning and keep me upright most of the day, give or take a nap. I've got plenty self-control. Until I don't. Until a bagel, a cookie, a Reese's cup, an ice cream sundae, a bowl of M&M's, cross my path. Then I indulge. I let go. I can't say no. It would hurt the bagel's feelings. It would make the M&M's melt with sadness. While I'm in awe of Cathy's gluten denial and super healthy ways -- and she feels and looks wonderful -- I can't accompany her on this journey of deprivation. But I'm happy to offer support from the sidelines, while nibbling the occasional brownie. 

Plenty LOL

Ye Olde Extreme Makeover: Connie Mellors, Ashley Taylor and Andrew Villarreal take us back to Medieval England, the kind of thing that happens in the wacky world of, what else, 

"Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs."

The cast: Andrew Villarreal, Connie Mellors, Deanna Gandy, Heidi Appe, Ashley Taylor

So grateful for all the crazy laughter in the theatre. 

So grateful Theatre West was nearly full.

So grateful. Period. 

And now, as my sweet daddy would say, 

"Onward." 

Tease It To Jesus

Heidi Appe learns how to "tease it to Jesus" from 

"Big Hair" specialist, Deanna Gandy 

Ashley Taylor channels Lady Godiva,

as one does. 

My Zen Master Horo Hora Juju told me to visualize this place

right here, Theatre West, filled with a laughing audience. 

He forgot to give me a date. 

So I'm picking tonight at 7 p.m. Stop by if you're so

inclined. You'll get a nice cookie after, and maybe a plastic cup of wine.

 3333 Cahuenga West

Gettin' Wiggy With It

The afternoon arrival of the wigs, courtesy of a wonderful wigmaker named Judi Lewin, created quite the spectacle over here at the SJG palatial estate. It was Sir Blakey's first encounter of the wig kind and he drew all sorts of erroneous conclusions. The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage mistook the wigs for a variety of creatures, including tiny furry dogs, squirrels, possums and very large rats. He spent the remainder of the day circling the table and keeping an eye on the wigs, ready to pounce if necessary. Luckily, the wigs never made a move. The only move they're making will be into the SJG limo, for the ride to Theatre West, where the hilarious cast will rehearse "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs." And let's be honest. You can't have a show about hair without wigs. You just can't.

The Return of The Travelin' Kansan

Two years ago, the updates started early in the morning, along with the photo I will not post, for fear of retribution:
"Well, I've been up since 4 and spilled coffee on myself in the car."
My reply: "Oy vey. I can Shout it out for you."
A few minutes later, the next update, more alarming than the last:
"I can't get the top of my Smart Water bottle open."
My reply: "Oh, dear God! Ask a tall, dark and handsome stranger for help. This is an emergency."
Then, 30 minutes later, this:
"Just figured it out. Only took me a half hour. I'm on the aisle with the tiniest person in the middle seat. Ba-bye."
My reply: "Perfect. I knew you could do it. Safe travels!"

And so, today, she's on her way. Again. Cathy Hamilton is officially flying in from Kansas for our big weekend of rehearsals and the staged reading of the show we wrote together -- "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs." It's my second turn to host her after she's hosted me more times than she probably wants to remember. She's been upgraded to a better room. This one has a TV. And a portion of a cluttered closet has been vacated for her wardrobe. This in itself is a miracle. To welcome her once again to sunny, hot, sweaty Sherman Oaks, I'm blasting the AC and telling Sir Blakey not to jump on her. But you know how he is when it comes to orders.

Operatically Unwise

Dear SJG,
Every year I audition, and every year I get rejected from Opera Singer Shul. Confidence-wise, I'm at an all-time low. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Operatically Adrift In Ojai

Dear Adrift,
Every year you write me, and every year I tell you the same thing. You can't sing for ka-ka, operatically or otherwise. It's time you accept your vocal limitations and pursue something you're truly gifted at, like, oh, I don't know, kvetching. If there's a shul for kvetching, you're a shoo-in.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Ho-Ho Hee-Hee Ha-Haaa

It has been well-established, mostly by, who else, me, that there are moments in my life when I laugh like an unhinged hyena. I can only conclude that this particular brand of hysteria is my way of letting off steam and/or avoiding a lengthy stay at the Ho-Ho Hee-Hee Ha-Haaa Farm, depicted in one of my favorite Dr. Demento selections, "They're Coming To Take Me Away." My hyena fits are legendary, let me tell you, especially the one I had while giving birth to the eldest way back in the late 80s. They'd given me something to get things going, and boy, did it get me going, laughing so maniacally that a crowd of nurses gathered to watch me lose it. But now I've done something to rival that incident, and this time, no one rushed in to put an oxygen mask over my punim, so that's progress. Yesterday during my writing workshop, I decided to read a New Yorker humor piece to the group, hoping they'd find it as funny as I did: Encouragement For Struggling Creatives.

And as each line landed like this... 

And as each stare looked like this... 

I lost all sense of decorum and started howling with laughter. "What's so funny?" Bruce asked. "It can't be what she's reading," Phyllis added. "Should we call the paramedics?" Jane pondered. "I've got them on speed-dial," Nury chimed in. "I thought you'd find this funny," I said, between giggles and gasps for air. "Listen to this and tell me it's not funny: 'Remember that just when the caterpillar thought the world was over she became a beautiful butterfly. Which is to say, we can't pay you at this time, but, in a way, doesn't the exposure more than make up for it?' That line sums up my entire career." Crickets. Followed by a group grab for the cookies.

Please God, if you're listening, let this not be the case at the FREE reading of "Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs," this Sunday, July 22 @ 7, at Theatre West, 3333 Cahuenga West.  (See what I did there?)

Factory Recall

(Sherman Oaks) The factory that designed the SJG from scratch announced today a recall of the internationally-known blogger, due to a major glitch in her electric power system.  "We forgot to install an off-switch in the SJG," said factory spokeswoman Lavinia Pepper Morganblatt. "She's one of our earlier models, built in the late 50s and recently discontinued. Our highly-trained mechanics gave her a portable off-switch, but she kept losing it. So now, we're thinking of letting the SJG idle indefinitely in our vintage museum, unless, by some miracle, she learns to shut down on her own."

Scenes From A Millennial Wedding

The long-marrieds

Celebrate the newly-marrieds

A sweet gal we've known since babyhood.

A sweet guy who vows to fulfill her every wish.

And what could be better than that? 

A very hip and happening, Pinterest-ready downtown venue called the Millwick, where even the rapidly aging, yet glittery and glam SJG felt "like this" with the millennials in attendance, until they shoved me off the dance floor during the death-defying hora.  

Exclamatory Soccer Commentary!

Live! From the Palatial Estate of the Short Jewish Gal! The World Cup Final! Starring France vs. Croatia! Commentary by Longtime Hubby!

"Yep."
"Yes."
"That's a handball."
"You can't be any clearer than that."
"Penalty!"
"Yes!"
"Come on!"
"Who's gonna kick it?"
"Come on!"
"Come on!"
"His arm was away from his body!"
"Put some pressure on him!"
"Come on, baby!"
"Come on!"
"Yes!"
"A good first half!"

Well, thanks for stopping by. Help yourself to some coffee and a nice pre-sliced bagel. We'll be back after this message from Gas-X.

I Thought You Were Dale!

Exercise and the right kind of foods. Like a Post Grape-Nuts'

breakfast. It helps you stay in good shape. Fills you up, not out.

For absolutely no reason at all, I woke up this morning, took one look at myself in the mirror, and said, "I'm sorry, I thought you were Dale." Maybe I expected to see a much younger version of myself. Maybe I was feeling nostalgic. I haven't eaten a bowl of Grape-Nuts since the early '70s, when a few bites of that tasty gravel lodged in my braces, setting off a world of orthodontic tsouris. I think I finally understand how Mrs. Burke stayed so thin. She must've damaged her jaw eating Grape-Nuts, developed excruciating TMJ, and could only manage a sip of soup before the pain set in.  Please, enjoy this trip down memory lane, courtesy of, who else, your humble SJG. (7-30-12)

Le French Hello

Le French Hello 

Well, I was so excited and un peu nervous to meet the parents and brother of my French daughter-in-law that all my wonderful linguistic plans flew out the car window on the way to the restaurant. Longtime hubby and I rehearsed all sorts of hello's and nice to meet you's. He planned to say "bienvenue" and I planned to say "bonsoir." We practiced saying their lovely French names. The one thing I hadn't thought about, despite my recent binge-watching of the French series "Call My Agent," was the way the French greet each other. I didn't give it a thought.

The American Hellody Hug 

And so the minute they arrived, jet-lagged from the long flight and parched from the L.A. heatwave, I went in for the standard full-body SJG hug. It may have startled them, but did that stop me? Non. Not even when I heard my D.I.L. whisper to her mother, "She's a hugger." Longtime hubby course-corrected, offering a series of friendly handshakes/half hugs that achieved a nice balance of warmth and cultural respect. As opposed to my way of affectionately invading their space. Dinner was a delight, as the newlyweds did their best to interpret and I threw in any French word that popped into my brain, such as "peut etre," "fromage" and countless "oui"s. I even managed a few sentences, including, "J'adore Chloe," and "Je mange le pain." I could tell they were impressed. On the way home, the man I married a while back said, "We need to work on our French." "Speak for yourself," I said. 

Hedging My Bets

This morning, I rang up my personal shrink, a gal I keep on retainer, Dr. Stormy Schwartz. It went something like this:
"Thanks for taking my call, Dr. Schwartz."
"You're welcome. Who is this?"
"It's the SJG."
"Aw. You again. You realize I charge double for unexpected calls."
"How can I forget? You tell me every time I call."
"Do you have Vey-Mo?"
"Who doesn't?"
"When you're done kvetching, you'll Vey-Mo me the fee."
"It'll be an honor."
"So, what's the problem now, my short little Jewess? Is it height-related?"
"Dream-Related."
"Aw. For dreams I charge triple."
"You're kidding?"
"Gotcha."
"Ha ha hilarious."
"Go on, ma petite meshuggie. Tell me."
"Last night I dreamt about a hedgehog. He came in through the back door, hopped on the sofa and made himself comfy."
"Aw. The Hedgehog Dream. You're in luck. I wrote a paper about this very dream when I went to NYU."
"You went to school in New York?"
"No, here."
"But you said NYU."
"Neurotic-You-University. It's online. Very prestigious. Not everyone gets in."
"Back to the hedgehog, Doc. What's it mean?"
"You want to know? I'll tell you. To see a hedgehog in your dream means you are being overly sensitive to everyone around you."
"Only for my entire life."
"A hedgehog in your dream means you're misreading their intentions by taking everything too personally."
"Only since birth."
"A hedgehog in a dream means you tend to act a little defensive at times."
"Have you been talking to my family behind my back?"
"And yet, there are good things about a hedgehog in a dream. You want I should tell you?"
"Sometime today would be great."
"A hedgehog in a dream can mean you're looking forward to seeing someone you haven't seen in a long time."
"Oh my God, that is so true. My dear friend Cathy is coming to visit next week."
"Mazel tov. I'm not done yet."
"Sorry."
"A hedgehog in a dream can also represent loyalty and honesty."
"No one is more loyal and at times too honest than me."
"So, there you have it."
"What should I do if I dream about the hedgehog again?"
"Welcome it. The hedgehog is your prickly teacher. Don't be scared. Don't be afraid to take risks."
"In other words, don't hedge my bets?"
"It couldn't hurt."
"Thanks, Doc."
"All better?"
"Sure."
"Till next time, my elfin nutcase."

Reclaiming Ten Percent of French

"Ten Percent" aka "Call My Agent" 

Things I've done to relearn my college French by tomorrow, when I meet my daughter-in-law's parents and brother:

An app called Duolingo. 

Result: I can now say, "The girl is eating an apple." "La fille mange une pomme." That's about it. After a few minutes, the app wants money. To that I say, "Non, merci!" 

A CD series called Pimsleur.

Result: After one disc, I can now say, "I speak a little French, not well." "Je parle un peu francais, pas tres bien." 

The best prep of all: a wonderful French series on Netflix, recommended by my DIL, of course. "Dix Pourcent." aka: "Call My Agent." 

Result: I've reclaimed 10 percent of my French. Listening to French people speak French is something I excel at. And my ability to read English subtitles? C'est superbe. Even better, a show about French talent agents and their crazy movie star clients has rebooted my gift for swearing in other languages. Why say sh*t when you can say merde? 

Listen to your SJG and watch "Call My Agent" on Netflix. 

The Return of Blogger & Dogger

Coming this fall to SJG-TV: "The Return of Blogger & Dogger." In the season premiere of this global mystery sensation, the SJG and Sir Blakey, aka Blogger & Dogger, meet Sarah Birdstein during a shared Uber ride home from the race track. Sarah lives in the rural part of Sherman Oaks with her bubbe Rugelach. If Sarah and Rugelach don't raise enough money to pay the mortgage on Gefilte Gate Farm, they'll have to turn it over to The Gluten Liberation Front, an extreme health food cult illegally squatting in the barn out back. Their suspicions raised, Blogger & Dogger decide to stay at Gefilte Gate Farm for a week as paying customers. And sooner than you can say babka, they connect the GLF to a diabolical ring of counterfeiters, passing off delicious baked goods as gluten-free, sickening thousands of customers at open-air markets all over the area and creating a cloud of toxic intestinal gas over the San Fernando Valley. Can you say shanda?