Business Is Business

The time is the French Revolution. 
Yossi lived in a small village and one day, his friend Roberto came to see him after returning from a trip to Paris. 
Yossi asked Roberto what was happening in Paris, as he had heard they were regularly using the Guillotine.
“Yes, you heard right," Roberto said, “conditions there are as bad as can be. They are chopping off people’s heads in their thousands.”
“Oy vey," moaned Yossi, “whatever will happen to my hat business?”

Sharon had lived a good life, having been married four times. Now she stood before the Pearly Gates. The angel at the gates said to her, “I see that you first of all married a banker, then an actor, next a rabbi and lastly an undertaker. Why? This does not seem appropriate for a Jewish woman.”
“Oh, yes it is," Sharon said. “It’s one for the money, two for the show, three to make ready and four to go.”
http://awordinyoureye.com

A View From My Fence...

... or what's left of it.

Seriously? That was pretty much all I could say when I got home from my womanly workout at Schvitz! During my hour-and-a-half absence, the house behind our palatial estate was demolished. All the trees that intermingled with our trees, all the enabling branches that kept our rotting fence upright, were adiosed. What sort of fresh suburban hell was this? I switched into panic mode and rang longtime hubby at work.

"Oy vey, honey."

"What?"

"That house behind us is gone."

"It was there this morning."

"It isn't there now and the fence is taking it badly."
"How badly?"
"There are big-ass gaps where there shouldn't be gaps, loose planks. It's leaning over. It's not good, honey." 

"I'm coming home."

"Don't come home."

"Is there a foreman?"

"There's a guy with an orange hat."

"Go talk to him and ask what's going on."

"I just told you what's going on." 

"I'm getting in the car."

"Don't get in the car."

"I need to secure the border wall."

"Will this involve a government shutdown?"

"No, just a number of trips to Home Depot."

This morning's view from my window.

Class Dismissed!

Dear SJG,
My husband tells me last night I yelled out, "Class dismissed!" in a guttural, demonically-possessed Linda Blair kind of way. I have no memory of giving such a geshrei. What's it all about, SJG?
Thanks,
Nocturnal Yeller

Dear N.Y.,
Not to scare you, but clearly, the devil made you do it. A good licensed exorcist might help. I'm sure you'll find several in your area on LinkedIn. Meanwhile, start to weed out the mishegas that's haunting your dreams. Get rid of the albatrosses, the nudniks, the hangers-on clogging your personal lifestyle. Stop ghosting your problems. Confront them, keppy-first. Follow the Three D's: Deal. Dismiss. Done.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

My Super Power

I'm not going to lie. I block people. I do it daily. Calls on my cell from creepy money-seekers, fake IRS threateners, schnorrers of every variety who want something from the SJG? @#$% them and the cell tower they rode in on. I don't answer the calls. I block them. It makes me so happy. It gives me a sense of control.

If only I'd possessed this superhero power long before blocking became a thing, I'd be so much more evolved, with my "don't mess with me" general demeanor.

The good news is I block because I can and it's so liberating I could scream. The bad news is sometimes this power of mine has a mind of its own. The other day, my dear friend Mrs. Gorgeous, aka Yael, let me know via What'sApp that she couldn't text me the "normal" way. Her "happy new year" texts had gone unanswered. To make up for my unintentional social boo boo, we met for dinner, hubbies in tow, and the two of us spent a good portion of last night's dining experience untangling the mess.
"Text me," I said.
"No, you text me," she said.
"I just texted you."
"Hellody?"
"Yes."
"Not hello?"
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"A little."
"That's how I say hello. Okay, now you text me."
At this point, the husbands had lost interest and were talking about important things, like watches.
"I texted. Did you get it?" Yael asked.
"No."
"Carol! Did you block me?"
"Block you? I'd never do that."
"Check."
"How do I check? Oh wait... I'll just go into my contacts and -- "
"What?"
"Oh, no."
"What did you do?"
"Oh, dear God in heaven."
"Go ahead, confess."
"I freaking... blocked you."
"I knew it!"
"It was an accident, I swear."
"So, are you going to unblock me?"
"I just did."
"Did you get my text?"
"Hi?"
"Uh huh."
"You couldn't do better than 'hi?' "
"Do you want me to block you?"
"No."
"So we're good now?"
"We're good."
"Don't ever do that again."
"If I do, it'll be by accident."
"I can live with that."

The Ying And The Yang Of It

Let's face it, the universe is a strange sphere of contractions. 

The good, the bad. The ying. The yang.

It's all a juggling act. 

A crapshoot.

There's a whole lotta giveth and taketh away. 

On Thursday, after a year-long search, 

the lovely daughter-in-law landed a job. 

 A major kvell-worthy moment.

On Friday, the youngest son lost his job, 

downsized along with others, thanks to a big network merger.

A major what-the-eff moment. 

We know he'll land on his feet and find something better.

It's ye olde blessing in disguise. 

No matter what, no matter all the clichés I can dig up,

things will be fine. 

After all, that's what they keep telling me. 

To Kvell Is Divine, To Brag, Not So Much

Kvell: To be delighted, to well up, to gush over your children briefly, or maybe a close relative, or even a spouse, before pointing out their flaws: "Sure, he got an A in biology, but just once, could he put a glass in the dishwasher like a normal person, instead of leaving it on the floor, where I can trip and sprain an ankle?"

Brag: To talk boastfully, till people can't take it any more and run screaming from the room. "And then I did this, and then I did that, and can you blame me for going out and buying a Rolex to celebrate the wonder of me?"

In life, the SJG firmly believes, there are two categories of humans -- kvellers and braggers. Kvellers are more comfortable praising others, without going overboard, than extolling their own accomplishments. Braggers go on and on till you pretty much want to slap them upside the head and say, "Enough." Kvellers tend to downplay, braggers, inflate. Kvellers are humble, braggers, a bit... what's the word I'm looking for? Narcissistic.

Or if you're me, go ahead, kvell & kvetch.

The SJG is a kveller of children, spouses, siblings, friends, neighbors, canines, total strangers in line at the market. "That scarf brings out the green in your eyes. Now, could you stop talking on the cell phone and pay for your quinoa?"

I tend to surround myself with fellow kvellers who understand the boundaries of kvelling. It's a quick visit to a land of guess-who-got-accepted-to-medical-school/film school/pick-a-school? Guess-who-got promoted/got-inducted-to-the-Kvetchers-Hall-of-Fame?

And yet, braggers can be very entertaining. Every now and then, they bring out the kvell. They manage to aim the spotlight on others. To oversimplify -- why stop now when I'm on a roll -- braggers are lively folks, fun to have at a party. They keep things moving and upbeat. "And then I leaned over to Larry... Olivier... maybe you've heard of him? British actor? Knighted? And I said, Larry, really, your Hamlet was much better than my Hamlet. Oh, don't you dare contradict me."

Braggers know how to command a room. Kvellers make good listeners. Above all, braggers are amazing self-promoters. There are times I wish I had a little more of the bragging gene. Braggers tend to be more self-confident than kvellers, even if it's based on delusion. Kvellers like to put the focus on others. So, pardon me while I sit back and kvell over you. I guess what it comes down to is this: I'd rather gush than blush.

The Curious Case of the Sponge

The sponge didn't just get here by itself. Or did it? 

Yesterday afternoon, at approximately 4:02, I opened the fridge and found a sponge staring back at me. I immediately called longtime hubby at work and tried to force a confession. For the occasion, I used my best British accent. Everything sounds so much better in British.
"By any chance, did you leave the sponge in the fridge this morning, love?"
"Why no, I don't think so," he said, matching my accent, "but might I make a suggestion?"
"Oh, yes. Please do."
After 38 years, we still address each other with the utmost cordiality.
"You might remove the sponge from the fridge. It's full of germs, and the thought of it just sitting there on the shelf is most unappetizing."
"I had every intention of removing it, once I solve the crime. Until then, the sponge mustn't be tampered with. I can't have my fingerprints mingling with those of the perpetrator, now can I?"
"So this is a who-dun-it, is it?"
"It is indeed."
"Must we involve Scotland Yard?"
"No, I think we can solve this ourselves, darling."
There was an uncomfortable silence, and then, "I can promise you that I didn't do it," he said.
"Didn't you?"
"I most certainly didn't."
"Nor did I, my dear."
"Oh, but you did, my darling. I saw you do it, this morning."
"You did not."
"I did."
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"I didn't want to be rude, dear. I know how sensitive you get."
"That was very thoughtful of you."
"I thought so."
"You're saying I did it, not you?"  "
"You left the sponge in the fridge."
"Ah. Then I better take it out."
"Do that."
"Very well. It's done."
"Are we dressing for dinner this evening?"
"Don't we always?"

For The Man Who Has Everything

Every year, it gets harder to find longtime hubby a birthday gift worthy of his eclectic tastes. "I don't need anything," he tells me. Nevertheless, I persist. This year's eBay options: 

... Moses Toast 

.... the yarmulke Sammy Davis Jr. wore at the Wailing Wall

 ... Al Capone's fishing rod. 

... Sandy Koufax's pen. 

Or I could offer up a nice Bordeaux, my annual b'day go-to.

Snubbed By Oscar

(Sherman Oaks) For months, it's been reported by the SJG, often seen in front of Academy headquarters in Beverly Hills, bribing board members with hot slices of kugel, that she would indeed be nominated for an Oscar in the Audience Category for Best Kvetcher. "Whether I'm at home in front of the flatscreen, or trying to get comfy at the overpriced cineplex, trust me, there's always something major to complain about. Ask longtime hubby. Ask anyone unfortunate enough to have to sit in my general vicinity. It's either sound-related (too loud, too muffled), accent-related (is RBG from Brooklyn or Great Britain?), or plot-related (that would never happen, what just happened, I dozed off). Sadly, the SJG's confidence plummeted early this morning, when the nominations were announced, and she learned that not only wasn't she up for an award, but the category she lobbied for doesn't even exist. "I thought for sure I was a shoo-in," she said, mourning what she called "this epic eff'n shanda."

She went on to say this about that. "I already bought my dress and had it altered, so it shouldn't drag on the floor and make me trip on the stairs as I went up to claim my award. But listen, I'll survive. As Grandma Shorty of Kiev used to say, Dos gantseh leben iz a milchomeh. Translation: All of life is a struggle. Have truer words ever been spoken? More to the point, am I bitter about losing out on another much-deserved award? A little. A lot. I won't lie. I may picket. I haven't decided yet. You can be sure of one thing. On Sunday February 24, I'll be watching the Oscars with my trusted mishpocha, and I'll be kvetching the whole time."

Queen For A Day

Queen Chloé with her lucky charm 

Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the kitchen, I came home to this Epiphany:

A galette des Rois, or if you prefer, Kings' Cake, a flakey, buttery marvel with Frangipane (almond paste) in the center. "Oh, dear God, what is this heavenly bakery item?" I asked, briefly determined to resist the pastry before me, until my daughter-in-law explained the 300-year-old January tradition of her homeland. Kings' Cake celebrates the arrival of the Three Wise Men (Moses not being one of them) 12 days post-Christmas. "So this is a baby Jesus pastry?" I asked. "No," Chloé insisted. "Face it, Chlo-Chlo. There's a little bitty Jesus in there." "No, dear American mama." It's a charm, she said, and whoever gets a slice with the afore-mentioned plastic amulet gets declared king or queen for the day and enjoys good mazel, kina hora, for the year. "So you're telling me there's no baby J.C. in there? Not that there's anything wrong with that." "Ma!" one of the sons I birthed scolded. "It's cultural, not religious." "Not according to this card that came with the cake." "Forget the card, Ma," said the other son I birthed. "Put it in the oven already." So bossy. But I followed orders, popped it in a 350 for five minutes, and waited for the Miracle, courtesy of Pitchoun! Boulangerie (Beverly Grove). 

But there's more to this tradition than just the charm. Turns out, the youngest in the house, (conveniently Chloé), gets to call out names and assign each slice of cake. The first round of yumminess yielded no winner. The second round, guess who scored the non-baby J.C. trinket and wore the crown, pretty much for the rest of the day, until someone stole her glory? "Off with your head, SJG," she said, stealing the crown back. Well. That's the last time I mess with royalty. 

A Tidy Answer

"Honey, I have something to ask you."

"Okay."

"Do you need me?"

"You know I do."

"Do I spark joy?"

"Of course."

"So you'll keep me?"

"Definitely."

"Good answer."

"My dream is to organize the world."
- Marie Kondo

Graduation Day

Graduation Day 1975

Despite all the evidence, the cap and gown, the ceremonies and diplomas, at what point do we truly graduate into adulthood? At what point do they tell you, "Sorry, gal, but as of today, you're a grown up. There's no turning back now, baby cakes. It's official. You're welcome, the Management." No matter the big girl responsibilities, nothing made me feel more like an adult than when my mom died. In 1999, she went off to the Big Beauty Shop In The Sky. I was only 42. Losing her kicked me into a kind of grownup grief I thought I'd never recover from. But I did. I had no choice. I had someone new to keep tabs on. My dad. Five years ago today, he went off to the Big Deli In The Sky, located, God willing, next to the Big Beauty Shop. After he died, I felt like an orphan for a while. I offered myself up for adoption. No takers. But that's okay. I'm not taking it personally anymore. I'm taking in all the love I can, all the fun and the laughter. I'm doing my best to honor my folks. Who knows where people really go when they graduate for the last time. No one knows, that's who. But here's hoping they get to hang out in their favorite places, reunite with their favorite people and have a blast for eternity. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd like to think so. 

"The idea that I could take a blank page and create something, sell it, and down the line it becomes a production and my friends get hired and people laugh or cry, what's more terrific than that, besides love and friendship?" -- Ben Starr, 1921-2014

The Magic Candles

I know, I know. Some of you think the birthday gal, fine, if you insist, former birthday gal, mixed up important historical holidays, and adorned my celebratory cake, purchased by longtime hubby, even though I said, "no cake," with Hanukkah candles. How. Dare. You. Do you think at 61 I've gone off ye ole deep end? I'm waiting till at least 62 for that. Plus it's right there in the Ten Commandments: "Thou shalt not sub in Hanukkah candles for non-Hanukkah miracles. That's what God calls a no-no." The real miracle here is that I only ate one slice of cake last night. One. That's all. Oh, and some of the chocolate shavings on top, but those don't count.

The candles are brought to you, not by Manischewitz, but Rainbow Moments, and brought to me, via the US Postal Service, by the NYC gal I call... 

... Bubbles. And she calls me Bubbles, too, and neither one of us knows why. All we do know: Two Bubbles are better than one. Remember that. Anyway, every b'day, this adorable human (aka Debbi Fuhrman), tops herself with a joyous gift in my honor. This year, she gave me the magical candles...

... and these marvelous glasses that tell the world, "Hey, it's my b'day, bitches. My birthday, not yours. Step aside and let me get some attention for a change." So today, I plan to keep milking my birth in the backseat of Daddy's Oldsmobile (note to self: great start for a country song!) and you can't stop me, unless you have some magical powers I don't know about.

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-B'day

Step into the time machine with the SJG, and turn the dial to January 16, 1964. Location: High atop Beverly Drive in the canyons. Ding dong. A bunch of six year olds arrive in party dresses, slightly damp from the rain, carrying gifts for, who else, me. There's excitement in the air that... well, let's face it... only has a little bit to do with the birthday girl. The buzz in the room is thanks to my daddy, the one, the only, Mr. Ben Starr, a Hollywood writer, who has arranged something of a miracle. There's a 16 mm projector and a huge projection screen on a tri-pod set up in the living room, and hang on, who's that lurking in the corner? According to my brother John, who remembers the most amazing stuff, that's the projectionist from Disney. The lights go off. And up comes a movie that's currently in the theaters:

Disney first released "Cinderella" in 1950, then 1957, and then 1964. John reminds me of Disney's seven-year-cycle. The reasoning: every seven years, a new generation of two to seven-year-olds comes of age. So we're seeing "Cinderella" for the very first time. It's magical. I can still see the projector and the giggling guests. I can still see my dad and my mom handing out treats in between reels. I can see it all as if it's yesterday. Today, just for a second, I get to be six again, and it feels pretty sweet.

The Road To Chocolate Ends Here

Confiserie du Vieux, Moulin

Charleville-Mézières

I promised myself that once I returned from France, as the SJG does, oh, once every 40 years, that the indulgence would stop, tout suite, and I'd return to petite portions -- a handful of almonds, a cup of nonfat Greek yogurt, a humble tablespoon of peanut butter, a bite or two of banana. And I've tried, nice people. I'm getting there, slowly. But one thing has tripped me up. The chocolate. Can you remind me why we brought back all those wonderful boxes meant solely as gifts? And kept more than a few for ourselves?

The other night, we tried to worship this box from afar, well, not that far, it was right there on the counter, and we failed. Longtime hubby and I decided to open it, and just "sample" one or two. We ate the whole thing.

And now there is one, the last and biggest box, a gift from Chloé's grandmother Françoise...

... full of amazing treats comme ça. I know what you're thinking. My French is so much better since my trip, thanks to my full-time access to Wi-Fi, and most importantly, Google, cruelly denied throughout my travels for reasons I'll never understand, no matter how many times "My Husband & The Millennials" (soon to be a series on SJG-TV) explain roaming charges and turning off data to me. Logic aside, the road leads here: Last night, when longtime hubby came home, I announced, "I hid the candy." "You did?" he said, fighting tears. "Do you want to see where I hid it?" Then I opened the cabinet door and revealed the hiding place.

How long do you think the candy will remain 

hidden in this top secret location?

I give us till tomorrow night.