Born To Sneeze

The monthly meeting of L.A.S.S.O. (Loud-Ass Sneezers, Sherman Oaks) will now come to order. As you know, Allergy Season in this neck of the woods is year-round, therefore, reports of decibel-topping, ear-drum busting Lady Lassoers clearing out the Arclight Theater on Ventura Boulevard, not to mention, Starbucks on Woodman Avenue and Gelson's on Van Nuys Boulevard, continue to clog our Inbox. Over here in Pollen Nation, we couldn't be happier. In celebration, we've decided to appoint a new self-promotion expert to get the word out there that LASSO-sufferers are the nicest noisemakers you'll ever meet. We don't mean to be so disruptive. We just can't help ourselves. We're born to sneeze, and sneeze we must. We come in all sizes, shapes and denominations. We carry different brands of tissue, although Kleenex still remains the most popular, because those cheap generics tend to fall apart, mid-honk. And now, please give a loud-ass round of sneezes to the Short Jewish Gal, a lifelong Lassoer. Naturally, she'd like to say a few words on her own behalf. "Gesundheit, one and all. I'm so excited to be the new self-promoter for LASSO, you have no freakin' idea. Every time I sneeze, I get the worst looks from everyone, even members of my own family. Just the other day, my own son said, 'Christ, Ma! You scared the @#$%'n sh*t out of me!' My neighbor called at 3 a.m. and said, 'Your sneeze just woke the baby. Thanks a lot, bitch.' I'm tired of apologizing for my loud sneezes. It's time to spread the word that Lassoers are people, too. Thank you again for this exciting self-appointment. It's the job I was born to do. I promise I won't... uh oh... hang on... here it comes... it's gonna break the sound barrier.... ah-ah-Ah-AH-AHHH-CHOOOSY... let myself, or you, down."

Cloudy With A Chance of Forgetfulness

"Honey," I call upstairs.
"I'm upstairs," he calls downstairs.
"I have something to tell you," I call upstairs.
"Give me a sec," he calls downstairs.
"Okay," I call upstairs.

Three minutes later:
"What did you want to tell me?" he asks.
"Oh... um... oh God... uh... @#$%! I forgot," I say.

One hour later:
"I remember what I wanted to tell you," I say.
"What?" he asks.
"I was going to tell you that the little tiny window thingy on my watch with the date is still a day ahead," I say.
"You want me to fix it?" he asks.
"No, I already did," I say.
"So it's okay now?" he asks.
"Yep. I just thought you'd want to know," I say.
"Thanks for telling me," he says.
"You're welcome," I say.

SJG Summer Etiquette Camp 2019

Applications now being accepted

Dear SJG,
My five-year-old granddaughter Gertie, aka Little Miss Chews With Her Mouth Open, attended your so-called etiquette summer camp last year, and there's just no way to sugarcoat this. You taught her bupkis. What makes you an etiquette expert, I'll never know, but I'm seriously considering taking you to Small Claims Court to get back the $250 I spent in lieu of the new iPhone Gertie wanted for Hanukkah. She's thrown the last two iPhones I gave her in the toilet, so I figured your crummy camp was a safer bet. Oy, was I wrong. In three days of attending every session, all Gertie learned from you was that burping after a meal is considered good manners in Japan. Having a nosh with that child was already a nightmare, but now with the nonstop burping, you managed to make it worse. I still have a migraine from sitting next to her at brunch. At the very least, I was hoping she'd acquire a few social skills, such as how to sit like a lady, not an untrained puppy that needs to tinkle. If I don't hear from you by 5 p.m. today, I'm posting this on Yelp and contacting the Better Business Bureau, Sherman Oaks Division.
Irritably Yours,
Zelda Plotnik

Dear Zelda,
Take a chill pill, Bubbie. I promise you Gertie learned plenty at Etiquette Camp and one day, you'll see the results. Right now, she's trying out Lesson One: "Don't Do This Ever." She's doing everything she's not supposed to do, getting the burps and farts and fidgeting out of her system. At some point, don't ask me when, she'll move on to Lesson Two: "Do This, Instead." You'll just have to trust me, my Zelda. I raised two sons who ignored everything I ever said and they've turned out great. Not once have they been kicked out of a restaurant, as far as I know. The eldest only burps at the table, occasionally, which I consider a personal victory. If you still want your gelt back, stop by. I've got a nice slice of kugel waiting for you.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Fashion Ambush In Sherman Oaks

"Here's what I think of your ambush."

(Sherman Oaks) Listen, it pains us to tell you this, but not everyone can win Best Dressed at an Oscar viewing party. Sometimes you must settle for Worst Dressed. The Style Mavens of Sherman Oaks performed a much-needed fashion ambush on the SJG as she lounged couchside at her palatial estate. Color us disappointed. Caption this piece, "What was she thinking?" Call the people in charge of style violations. Last night, during the Oscar pre-show, we stopped by to shame and humiliate the SJG on her choices. "You promised us Versace, glitter and glam. You dangled Dorothy's rubber red slippers. You gave us bupkis, you gave us schmattas, you gave us indigestion." Her only defense: "Not everyone can pull a fashion miracle out of their tuchus. I get it. My schleppy and schlumpy look is polarizing. And the lighting in here doesn't do me any favors. But guess what? I don't give a kreplach what you people think. Who let you in, anyway? Your words have no power here. Be gone, before someone drops a casserole on you." Before we left, she did offer us a nice piece of Ina Garten's Turkey Sauage Lasagna, claiming she made it herself. But when it comes to the SJG, the jury's still out on her ability to tell the truth.

Oscar Viewing Party Attire

Someone's Oscar viewing party (not mine)

Only moments ago, not to name drop, or shamelessly plug Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs, oh right, when has that ever stopped me before, the one, the only, Kevin Bailey asked his playwrights who we'll be wearing for the Oscars. "I'll be wearing Dior," he revealed. Naturally, my competitive streak kicked in. I mulled over my wardrobe choices for precisely two seconds and conjured the perfect designer look for a tiny viewing party at the SJG Palatial Estate. "I'll be wearing my Versace printed silk sweatpants, a nice white tee from Targét, and my Wizard of Oz ruby slippers. I'm thinking glittery, I'm thinking glam, I'm thinking exhausted."

Part of the SJG Signature Schlepwear Collection 

My co-conspirator Cathy Hamilton, currently freezing her tush off in 32-degree Lawrence, Kansas, has a more practical designer selection for tonight's Academy Award Home-based Haute Couture: "L.L. Bean." And there you have it, the intel you didn't know you needed to know, but aren't you glad you know now? Take a minute. You don't have to answer right away. I'll answer for you. Of course you are. So, tell me, nice people, who will you be wearing this evening? I'll need photos.

Everything Sounds Better In French

It's true what they say. Everything sounds better in French.

"La Baratteuse" - The churner (and the cat)

Jean-François Millet (1866

Take this delightful French expression Chloé shared the other day: Tu veux le beurre, l'argent du beurre et la cul de la crémière. Translation: You want the butter, the money and the ass of the creamer. (butter-churner)

Trying to think of the English equivalent stumped your humble SJG. But I came up with a sort of close approximation, courtesy of Stephen Wright: "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?" But even that sounds better in French: "Vous ne pouvez pas tout avoir. Où le mettriez-vous?"

And so, as you go about your day, say something fun in French, à la "Merde!" See, even sh*t sounds better in Français.

Lights, Camera, Action!

Me: "Alright. Places, everyone."
Ashley: "Um... Carol?"
Me: "Quiet on the set."
Clara: "What's happening to her?"
Me: "Lights! Camera! Action!"
Amy: "I think she's having some sort of episode."
Heidi: "Carol? Are you okay?"
Me: "Shush... we're rolling."
Andrew: "Actually, we're not."
Me: "Cut! Seriously, people, that take's ruined."
Ashley: "There is no take."
Clara: "Do you see any cameras?"
Amy: "Of course you don't."
Heidi: "We're not filming a movie."
Andrew: We just rehearsing "Brushes."
Ashley: "A Comedy of Hairs."
Clara: "You can put the megaphone down."
Amy: "And stop yelling."
Heidi: "We can hear you just fine."
Me: "Take two!"
Andrew: "Give me the megaphone, Carol."
Me: "No!"
Ashley: "Come on, be a good girl, hand it over."
Me: "I'm the director now!"
Clara: "Great. She's having delusions of grandeur."
Amy: "You're just filling in."
Heidi: "For Kevin."
Andrew: "Cuz he had that thing."
Me: "What thing?"
Ashley: "The thing in Westlake."
Me: "Oh, right. The thing."
Clara: "I think she's coming back to us."
Me: "He couldn't be here so I'm subbing."
Amy: "Correctamundo."
Me: "Sorry, guys. I had a moment."
Heidi: "As long as you're okay."
Me: "Do I still get to boss you around?"
Andrew: "Bring it."
Me: "Okay, then, sit your butts down, finish the eff'n humus and the carrots, and let's roll."
Ashley: "Oh no, she said roll."
Clara: "We lost her again."
Amy: "Call 911."
Me: "Get a grip, people. I'm talking, metaphorically, for eff's sake."
Heidi: "Riiiiight."
Me: "Enough with the chit chat. Scene One. A Brush With Vanity."

A Dog's Oscar Pick

This morning, with very little coaxing, Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage, shared his pick for Best Performance By A Dog In A Supporting Role.

And the winner is: Borras, the brown-and-black mix in "Roma." He was found in an abandoned lot and rescued by the film's dog trainer. 

"You have any idea how hard it is to jump up and down like that on cue?" Blakey conveyed, telepathically, to the SJG. "The wear and tear on the hips... it hurts to think about it. But Borras made it look fun and easy and highly aerobic. If only I could achieve that kind of height, I'd have nabbed a dozen squirrels by now." "I hear ya, Blakey," I said, "but what about all the poopy he leaves on the driveway? Didn't you find that icky?" "Icky-schmicky. Without any grass, what choice does he have? A dog's gotta go where a dog's gotta go." "You are wise beyond your years." "Tell me something I don't know."

Java Jive

It took a while to lure her over to the dark roast side, but now that Chloé has joined the ranks of the employed, you know, those folks forced to wake up early and schlep to some inconvenient location in heavy traffic, she's drinking coffee with the rest of us. Well, we are near-giddy with this development. I'd go so far as to say we're overjoyed whenever we get to pour her a cup of hot jamoke. So, in her honor, I offer up my favorite caffeine ode, "Java Jive" by the Manhattan Transfer. Yet I must issue a warning. Once you listen, you'll be singing it non-stop. You'll be driving everyone in your immediate vicinity crazy. There may be a court order, a cease and desist, a citizen's arrest. And for that, and so much more, you're welcome. 

Happy Day Off

Dear SJG,
Today is Presidents Day. Big whoop. How hard can it be to run a country? I run a household. Why doesn't someone give me a national holiday? Haven't I done enough to warrant a celebration?
Thanks,
Resentful in Reseda

Dear Resentful,
From what I hear, your diplomatic skills need a little work.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

That Time I Interviewed Jackie O's Sister

Lee Radziwill

To be honest, I hadn't thought about her in years, but when her name popped up in the news -- "Lee Radziwill, the younger sister of Jackie Kennedy Onassis, dies at 85" -- I went back in time to the early '80s, when I was editor of the illustrious (albeit bankrupt) Century City News. The publisher, an adorable gonif who spent a lot of time darting creditors, informed me I'd be interviewing the former princess, as part of some ad exchange with a ritzy new condo complex that had just opened in Century City. Lee Radziwill, socialite, fashion maven and symbol of East Coast chic, had created the premiere model home, showcasing her interior design skills. 

Of course, the SJG, daughter-in-law of an adventurous decorator, was the perfect choice for the interview. I could talk swatches and paint chips, imported rugs and pricey tchotchkes with this glamorous icon. She only had time for a phone interview, and I can't tell you if we discussed anything of real substance, other than the beauty she wanted to capture, the sunlight, the Southern California color palette, the essence of condo living. I do remember all the questions I was dying to ask her but couldn't. "Tell me about JFK. Tell me about your big sis. Tell me about Andy Warhol, Truman Capote, Rudolf Nureyev. Tell me something about high society that you've never told anyone." But the sound of her breathy, Jackiesque voice has stayed with me. It's not every day you get to chat interior design with the famous symbol of an enchanting, bygone era. I'm so glad I had the chance. 

My Friend, The Super Hero

Connie Ray, Ass-Kicker (Nana Possible) 

"Hey, Connie."

"Why are you calling so early?"

"Early? You're three hours ahead."

"It's 5 a.m. here, Carol."

"Oopsie."

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm too excited to sleep." 

"Why?"

"Didn't you see me last night in 'Kim Possible' ?"

"No."

"On the Disney Channel?"

"No."

"I kicked ass as Nana Possible."

"Really?"

Nana Possible 

"Yes, really. Not to brag, but I pretty much stole the movie from the young people."

"Well, good for you."

"Gee, you don't sound that excited for me."

"Carol?"

"Yes, Connie?"

"I was in the movie."

"I'm sorry, what now?"

"I played Nana Possible."

"Are you saying I didn't?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Hang on, I need a minute."

Can anyone be more kim-possibly gorgeous? 

"Take as long as you need."

"Oh... wow.... it's all coming back to me. Oh dear God, it was you in 'Kim Possible,' doing all the ninja moves, looking fierce, embracing the super powers you were born with."

"I wasn't born with super powers."

"Yes, you @#$%'n were."

"Okay. Calm down."

"It's just that... I live vicariously through you. I mean, who wouldn't? What with the long legs and the red hair and general awesomeness."

"Don't go overboard. Reel it in."

"And sometimes, I pretend it's me up there, not you. Is that wrong?"

"It's disturbing. You need to stop that."

"I do?"

"Yes. Immediately."

"Fine. The truth is, I just called to kvell over you."

"Thank you."

"Is it okay if this afternoon, I watch you again in 'Kim Possible'? And maybe one more time tomorrow?"

"If it feels right, by all means."

"That's very kind of you." 

"Carol?"

"Yes, Connie?"

"You have super powers, too."

"Duh."

The First Time

SJG: Late bloomer

The SJG was a late bloomer.  I didn't do it till senior year of college.  Even though everyone else had already done it, I wasn't in any rush.  I figured, I'll do it when I want to do it, and not a second before.  But finally, the big day came when I couldn't live with myself anymore.  I knew if I ever wanted to get anywhere in life, it was time to break down and do it, get it over with, bite the bullet, insert your favorite cliche.  Future hubby was so patient with me, too.  He never pressured me.  He said, "When you're ready, I know a guy in Culver City, my dad's cousin.  He'll give you a good deal."  And so, off we went to C.C., with my hard-earned cash, the accumulation of baby-sitting gigs and numerous part-time stints at College Book Store in Westwood.  After walking to UCLA for two years, spending a year abroad, and biking everywhere till my thighs deserved their own flag; after bumming rides, taking the bus and borrowing my mother's tank and denting it more than once, it was time to buy my first car, forever referred to as the crappy tin can that couldn't go over 50 mph without overheating.  But I loved it so, that white Datsun, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.  I loved it with all my heart and soul, even though it cost me a bundle to keep it running.  You always love your first one.  You forgive all the shortcomings.  You forget the bad stuff.  Like the way the gaskets blew and the windshield clouded up when it rained, making visibility nil.  And you treasure your last time with your first one, how smoke engulfed it, entirely, as you drove it, slower than slow, down Santa Monica Blvd. to its final resting place.  The mechanic wanted it, flaws and it.  He wanted to buy it, restore and call it his own.  Crazy romantic.  I couldn't deny him such joy.  By nature, I'm a giver.  It's true.  No matter how many cars you own or lease, damage or resell, you never forget your first car.  I know I didn't. So tell me, what was yours like?

Valentine's Day Gift Ideas

The husband walks into the Lingerie Department of Macy's. He tells the saleslady, "I would like a Jewish bra for my wife, size 34B." With a quizzical look the saleslady asks, "What kind of bra?" He repeats, "A Jewish bra. She says to tell you that she wanted a Jewish bra, and that you would know what she wanted." "Ah, now I remember," says the saleslady. "We don't get as many requests for them as we used to. Most of our customers lately want the Catholic bra, or the Salvation Army bra, or the Presbyterian bra." Confused, and a little flustered, the husband asks, "So, what are the differences?" The saleslady responds, "It is all really quite simple. The Catholic bra supports the masses, the Salvation Army lifts up the fallen, and the Presbyterian bra keeps them staunch and upright." He muses on that information for a minute and says,"Hmm...I know I'll regret asking, but what does the Jewish bra do?" "Ah, the Jewish bra," she replies, "makes mountains out of molehills." (Big thankie to Sandy Russell for sending this hilarity to me!)

Opening Night Wardrobe Choices

Wardrobe Choice #3

Every day, my brother John, as thoughtful a mensch as any sister could ever dream of having in her corner, shares... unusual suggestions for what I should wear to (shameless plug up ahead) the March 30th opening night of Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs . John knows me so well. He knows there are many things I obsess over, but what to wear to an important, potentially life-changing event that's six weeks away isn't one of them. I'll start obsessing two weeks before and then throw on the same black slacks and top I always wear and that will be that. Plus, there's The Flop Dress to think about, the sparkly gown that hung in our mother's closet for years after she wore it to the opening of Dad's one-and-only Broadway show. I still believe that the dress was cursed. Of course, I never told my mother that. Blaming her dress for the rapid closure of "The Family Way" wouldn't have gone over well. Of that, I'm 100 percent certain. And since I've only had a one-night-only, not an opening night, I'm a little wary of coming on too strong with the outfit and pulling focus with a bold selection. Don't tell John, but I find wardrobe choice #3... what's the nicest way to put it... anatomically suggestive. I'm also not sure I could maneuver backstage doing... important backstage things... don't ask me which ones... without knocking over actors and props and creating general havoc. But in John's mind, the above gown is a strong contender.

Such A Punim Valentine's Day Special

Please tell me that's not what I look like. 

Dear SJG,
Aren't you tired of looking in the mirror and screaming at the saggy face staring back at you? Aren't you tired of asking, "Oh dear God, who the bleep is that?" And then realizing, sadly, oh right, it's you. Let's face it. You're aging, rapidly, hon. Every day, another teaspoon of collagen goes bye-bye. Every night, as you sleep face down on your pillow, new creases are forming in your dry old skin. Those of us in the dermatology biz call those hideous lines wrinkles. Those who practice self-acceptance and other nonsense call them "road maps to your soul."

Either way, you need to deal with this situation, bubbelah. Not to worry. The nice people at Such A Punim Dermatology know Valentine's Day is no time to make shalom with your facial flaws. Valentine's Day is the time to spend money on your appearance and restore what's left of your face. So, we'd like to make you this Exclusive Valentine's Day offer, good until February 14, then you have to pay regular prices so we can stay in business. You want $50 off any filler or Botox treatment... $100 off a painful liquid face-lift that feels (once the numbness wears off) as if you've been punched repeatedly in the face...  or $250 off a full-face laser-miracle?

By all means, come in. Enjoy a free cup of water from the sink. Let us help. Don't live the rest of your life sitting in the dark so that no one should see you. Don't hide on the corner of Oy Vey and What The Hell Happened To Me. Give us a call at Such A Punim and let us turn back time. You're Welcome.

With Or Without His Permission

With or without his permission, I'd like to present "le birthday boy," aka longtime hubby, celebrating his 62nd with the family last night. Those of you lucky enough to know him know that you won't find him on social media, unless someone else (his sons, his daughter-in-law, his wife) posts his photo on Instagram or Facebook. These smartphone, heartfelt moments appear with or without his permission (mostly without). Why, you may ask, is the man so anti-social media? "Because it's an invasion of privacy," he says. Isn't it ironic, don't you think, that his regular rant has done diddly to prevent his own family from invading his privacy?  The correct answer: oui. Shouldn't we be way more respectful? We really should. Will we stop with the posting of the photos? The correct answer: non. It's too much fun to bleep with his belief system. Asked what his birthday plans involve, he paused, reflectively, as one does as one ages, and said, "I guess I'm gonna work." "Can I use that in my blog?" "Do you feel strongly about it?" "I do." "Go ahead." "Can I use this photo?" "It's too dark." "I'll lighten it."

We met in junior high. 

Close Encounters of the Gelson's Kind

I'm not sure why people tend to lose their kaka, metaphorically, in my midst. Maybe I just attract the unhinged moments in life. I wouldn't say I enjoy watching others lose it. As someone always trying to keep it together, I marvel at their ability to let 'er rip. It's the moments they pick that baffle me. So much injustice in the world. So much bad behavior. So much all-round awfulness. Losing it in my personal homeland of Gelson's, my happy place, feels wrong and misguided. It's so spacious and courteous and friendly. People smile and nod and move aside if they're blocking the aisle and even apologize.

A typical Gelson's encounter of the normal kind:
"So sorry, I'm just standing here, paralyzed and amazed there are so many types of olive oil."
"I know, right?"
"What's your favorite olive oil?"
"Oh, it's so hard to choose."

As opposed to:
"Uh hello, could you move your @#$%'n cart! I'm trying to get by."
"Oh, bleep you! Who died and made you Pope?"
"Are you gonna move it, byotch, or do I gotta call for back up?"

On Sunday, at the peaceful time of 10 a.m.-ish, I witnessed a gal unravel before my eyes, at the deli counter, where else? If you're going to lose it in a tranquil locale, you might as well pick the zone of too many choices, what with all the salads and the overpriced Boarshead, the fancy artichokes and assorted kale offerings that always sound better than they taste. But it's kale.

Here's what happened, and I warn you, it's deeply disturbing.
"Who's next?" said the counter guy.
"I am!" said a tightly-wound gal. (No, not me, how dare you.)
"What number?"
"I don't have a number."
"I have to go with a number. Who has a number?"
"I'm 80," said an octogenarian.
"Okay, what can I get you?"
"But I'm first in line," said the numberless gal.
"Sorry," said the counter guy.
"I'm first," she repeated. "Eff you!" She turned on her heels and left the store.

I did what I always do in such cases that are equal parts hilarious and alarming. I started to laugh and spent the rest of the day re-enacting it.

The Mysterious Wall Extension

La mystérieuse extension murale 

Hurray, the apartment hunt for the young marrieds c'est fini. Even better, the spacious tri-level townhouse they found themselves is only two minutes from the SJG. Two. Minutes. You wait long enough, and all the enabling pays off. I couldn't be happier. Of course, every rental place has a design challenge, and this one comes with what I like to call "the mysterious wall hump" (or extension, if you prefer) in the master bedroom. Between us, I may be exaggerating slightly. It's not all that mysterious. It's meant for a TV.

Un autre angle

The mystery is what they'll do with this thing jutting out of the wall, instead. Chloé feels strongly that a TV is a no-no in the bedroom. This in itself is a foreign concept to me. I'm very attached to our TV in the bedroom. It lulls me to sleep at night and wakes me up in the morning. Without a TV in the bedroom, who am I? But, as longtime hubby keeps reminding me, my opinion on this critical matter matters not. Well, I never!

To be or not to be a TV stand? That is the question.

Like that's going to stop me from trying to solve this architectural flaw. I've already turned to Carla, a gal with a fabulous sense of interior (and exterior) design, for ideas. It took her half a second to come up with this gem: "Perhaps a little stage. Calls for a Shakespearean soliloquy. I like the thought of Billy in tights." "I love it. I was thinking they turn it into a shrine to moi, the wonderful woman who raised him to be such a mensch. I'm seeing enlarged photos, kugel, a platter of bagels and lox. Sort of a combo buffet area and nostalgic dedication zone." "I like my idea better," Carla said. I don't blame her. It's pretty great.

Here's where you weigh in with your ideas for the mysterious wall hump/extension. I'm dying to know what you think.

Ode to a Fallen Scrunchie

Ode to all the fallen things

Discarded in the street

The Nike, the purple sock

The scrunchie and black chair

The sofabed, the slinky

The drumsticks and the snare

Ode to all the fallen things

I see from day to day

The sippy cup, the booty

The chew toy and gold chain

The toilet seat, the mattresss

Set curbside in the rain

Ode to all the fallen things

So quickly tossed aside

Stop by any time you like

And browse our Lost and Found

Take your pick, just help yourself

To stuff left on the ground

(2-28-10)

Say Prunes In Yiddish

Why say cheese... 

... when you can say prunes?

Allow me to explain. Growing up, a relative term, considering I reached five feet and change at the age of 12 and stopped growing and then in the glorious stage known as "middle age" started shrinking, the whole "say cheese" before your photo's snapped has always been a keppy-scratcher. I mean, sure, I get it. Saying "cheese" is supposed to form your mouth into a smile. Some people follow orders and say "cheese." Some people are renegades and say bupkis. Some people don't just say "cheese." They say "say cheese." Whether they say it or think it, there's a good chance the photo will turn out cheesy, producing a half-smile, a weird grin, a look of "just take the damn photo and let me get on with my life." (You selfie-takers are excluded from this highly academic discussion.) In my family, my funny daddy loved to take photos and not once did he ever command us to "say cheese." There was no "say" involved. No mention of cheese. He just repeated the Yiddish word he grew up hearing before the camera clicked. And that word, nice people, was floymen, for prunes, or if I'm being accurate, something I do on occasion, plums, which turn into prunes when left out in the sun too long. Now that I think about it, he omitted the "o" in floymen... why, I can't tell you. He said flymen. Then we said flymen and started laughing, which pretty much guaranteed a funny photo of his family giggling, and what's better than that? There's a whole story about saying prunes for photos in the olden days... read it here if you're interested... but this is the only story about saying prunes in Yiddish. You're welcome.

Be Mine Or Else

(Sherman Oaks) Listen, the SJG knows you're upset that your favorite Valentine's Day "conversation hearts," the ones in the cute little red boxes that you gave and received in elementary shul and pretty much tasted like chalk, won't be available this year, such a shanda, because the company that bought the bankrupt company that made them eff'd up and didn't have time to make them this year. Why is this your problem? Relax. No need to panic, unless you're genetically predisposed. The good news: SJG International has schlepped to the rescue with its own romantic candy brand, available right this second in some places, and not so much in others. Name please? We thought you'd never ask: SJG Harts n' Tarts, full of delicious tangy ingredients that may include a mother's bitter tears, a nice sprinkle of guilt, a dollop of sweetness, and most importantly, Essence of Kugel (patent pending).

Top Ten SJG Harts n' Tarts Messages:
1.  I Go Meshuggie When You're Near
2. You Make Me Wanna Hora
3.  For You, I'll Convert
4.  You Oc-Chuppah My Thoughts
5.  It's A Mitzvah I Met You
6.  Knish Me Already
7.  My Synagogue Or Yours?
8.  I Want You So Bad I Could Plotz
9.  Fine, I'll Sign The Pre-Nup
10. You're The One Or Close Enough

Hold It Right There

Corner of Sunnyslope & Ventura Blvd., baby!

The rumors are true. The SJG will do anything for art. What's that? You don't believe me? How dare you. Allow me to prove it. On a stormy day, I risked life n' limb. You heard me. I put myself, my emotional well-being, my entire raison d'être, in danger, just to capture this semi-impressive, pseudo-artsy shot of the banner for our show Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs through my car window. I mean, come on, who does that? Moi, that's who, a gal who clearly likes to live on the edge. What part of this aren't you getting? Pay attention, would ya? One wrong move, one bumper zetz from behind, one unforeseen disturbance, one light change, and God forbid, I could've skidded from Sunnyslope onto Ventura Boulevard in a downpour, or worse, gotten a big traffic ticket for holding my cell phone "in auto." And it wouldn't have been the first time I've been busted for a cell phone violation. Out here in Los Angeles, they show zero tolerance for this kind of offense. They probably would've thrown my tuchas in the pokey! Wow, that just sounds wrong, doesn't it? By now, you're probably wondering, "Oh, sheesh, will she risk her life again, for the sake of art?" The answer, quite simply, and without hesitation, is: "Oh, hell, yes." That's how I roll these days, baby. Or if you prefer, babe.

SJG Survives Snooze Bowl

The dance moves were super fun.

(Sherman Oaks) In an unexpected show of team loyalty and family unity, a short Jewish blogger survived the Super Snooze Bowl on Sunday, never leaving the sofa "except to wee-wee, but other than that... okay, maybe I got up to grab a few chips and guacamole, and some of hubby's white bean chili, but I pretty much stayed put for its entirety, or more accurately, what felt like an eternity." In between brief naps, the SJG yelled out various sporty-sounding things, such as "go take the ball, go down the field and score, score," and "push 'em back, push 'em back, way back." "You know, I was a cheerleader for one football game back in junior high, so I really brought as much rah-rah team spirit as I could muster." She went on to sum up the game in her most numbing sports announcer voice: "I enjoyed the Rockette-style high kicks the most." Neither team scored for "an incredibly long-ass time," she added, "and then at some point, the Patriots scored, and some people in my house started swearing very loudly and saying very unsportsmanlike things, and then the Rams scored, tying up the game, and that was nice for awhile, and then the Rams lost by ten points and it all ended in an epic shanda. Just between us, I felt nothing."

Adam's ugly geometric-Target throw pillow-esque tank top
certainly made a statement. 

Asked about the half-time show, the longtime Adam Levine fan said, "Listen, he made a rapidly aging gal happy, what with the washboard abs and the moves like Jagger, and the pretty lanterns with the nice messages, and personally, it was fine by me and fairly entertaining. Based on what I'm reading today, not everyone agreed. And all I can say to that is, to each his/her own. I'm just glad nobody got hurt."

Pretty lights. One love. What's wrong with that? 

Full Disclosure

Okay, fine. 

It's more than like. 

It's more like love. 

The over-the-top kind.

The oh-my-gawd, she's lost-her-mind kind. 

And I want the world to know

the object of my affection: 

This guy right here.

The Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage.

He goes by many nicknames:

Poopsileer. Sugar Bear. Kissy Face. 

But the one that suits him best: 

Sir Blakey.

Bow down to his highness.

Give him a treat.

He'll follow you anywhere.