Scenes From An Opening

This man right here, this total mensch, our fearless director/exec producer Kevin Bailey, sets up for last night's sold out premiere of Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs.

To sit there in the audience with Cathy Hamilton, my cohort in hair, and see our dream finally come true, after six very long years, filled me with such glee, I may never recover. To sit there in the audience surrounded by family and dear friends, was a major bibbidi-boppidi boost I'll treasure forever. And now, we get to do it all over again, five more Saturday nights.

A huge shout out to our spectacular cast: Ashley Taylor, Heidi Appe, Clara Rodriguez, Amy Smallman-Winstonand & Andrew Villarreal 

A Brush With Tech Week

Wait, what the heck's happening here? Why don't I tell you, or at least drop a few hints? Okay, I will. Amy Smallman-Winston, Heidi Appe, Ashley Taylor and Andrew Villarreal are rehearsing "A Brush With Conspiracy." That's all you're getting out of me. 

And what about here, pray tell? Calm down, I'll tell you. Heidi Appe is perfecting her stint as a medieval town crier in "A Brush With Royalty." To find out more, you'll just have to pop down to the Whitefire Theatre in fabulous Sherman Oaks on a Saturday night (March 30 - May 4th) and see... cue the self-promoting trumpets please, I've got no time for subtlety... Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs. 

Decorating Tips

Now and then, my mother-in-law Char, the decorator, comes up with something so poignant and universal, the kind of advice that can apply to any and all situations, that it would be horribly selfish not to share it with you. During Sunday's drop-by for coffee and danish, we studied the Bloomie's home catalog, admiring the crazy-expensive comforters. In the other room, hubby and his father admired the crazy-expensive antiques for sale on some auction site. Back in the kitchen, Char declared many catalog items "stunning." Stunning is one of her favorite words.  If something is stunning, chances are, it's also crazy-expensive. At some point, I took her coffee cup hostage and said she couldn't have it back till she found a way to update our bedroom, which needs refreshing. So we went upstairs, with Blakey at our heels, and moments later, she stood in the middle of the room, ready to pass judgment. Of course, the fact that she'd picked out the fabric for the nice pillows and the love seat, and helped select the color on the walls, oh-so-many years ago, seemed beside the point. She lives to reinvent a room and here was her big chance. For a minute, she said nothing. She was taking her time, gathering her thoughts. And then, finally, out came this gem, worthy of a bumper sticker, a billboard on Sunset, a neon sign: "Start with something wonderful," she said, whereupon I gave her a big hug. If that isn't the best advice ever, I don't know what is, do you? Start with something wonderful and go from there. Start with something less-than-wonderful and prepare for disappointment and heartache. "You're a genius," I said, even though she has yet to figure out the wonderful component that will change the look of the room. But she will. I just have to give her time and she'll get there. She always does.

If You Build It...

Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage, once again ponders the daily racket across the yard. Pray tell, Sir Blakey, what the @#$% is the source of this ongoing noise factory that commands your attention and inspires you to bark, incessantly?

Oh. Of course. This. A rival palatial estate rising skyward.

Sir Blakey, might you explain the current philosophy in real estate? No? Fine. Allow me to do so on your behalf: "If you build it, starting as early in the a.m. as legally allowed; if you get that mutha up in three weeks, maybe four, then finish the interior as quickly as the building inspectors will allow; if, by some miracle, it's ready in under three months, they will schlep to see it, the prospective buyers; they will ooh and awe at the spacious luxury; they will ignore the proximity to neighbors on all sides; they will shrug at the absence of anything resembling a backyard; they will empty their pockets, their their life savings, their future inheritances; they will come in record time, move in, become house poor, and worst of all, invade the holy sacred space of the SJG." Well said, Sir Blakey. Alas, what does the longtime hubby think of this non-stop encroachment on his dog's sanity? "Yeah, they're building something, Blakey. Stop barking and deal with it." Soothing words from his master on a Saturday morn.

She's Almost Here!

Last summer, before our reading of "Brushes" at Theatre West,

when Cathy Hamilton & your loyal SJG were so much younger

Well, as far as I'm concerned, she can't get here soon enough, the one, the only Cathy Hamilton, co-playwright of, what else, Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs. On Tuesday, she's jetting in from Kansas with her hubby in tow, to join in something the theatre folks call Tech Week. I've never been through it before, what with the lighting and the sound, the dress rehearsals, the general chaos that leads up to a world premiere type-situation, but with Cathy here, I can get through anything.

Hey Daddy, look who made it to Broadway:
https://www.broadwayworld.com/los-angeles/article/BRUSHES-A-COMEDY-OF-HAIRS-to-Receive-World-Premiere-At-Whitefire-Theatre-20190322 fbclid=IwAR2G26_NaLUgu4jWXACcF1H4Vz-wIhhfYGPNlhp7sbHkadzNQWMoAaqFXRk

When I Ran The Purim Carnival

When I ran the Purim Carnival

At my synagogue in Sherman Oaks

The results were less than marginal

Some labeled it a scandalous hoax

When I ran the Purim Carnival

At my synagogue in Sherman Oaks 

The Bucket Ride churned abdominals 

The Hamantashen sales were a joke

When I ran the Purim Carnival

At my synagogue in Sherman Oaks

The Bouncy Castle turned volatile

And deflated on cute little folks 

When I ran the Purim Carnival

At my synagogue in Sherman Oaks

The flyer said clothing optional

My membership, I fear, they'll revoke 

Telltale Sneezinal Signs

Your eyes begin to burn and sting

Your nose begins to do its thing

Your skin begins to itch full swing

Your dog calendar says it's Spring

Such A Nice Celebrity

Nina (Taylor Miller) & Cliff (Peter Bergman) on "All My Children"

The only daytime soap opera I ever watched, the one I was obsessed with since junior high, was "All My Children." I loved it so much, I get giddy thinking about it. My favorite all-time lovebirds were Nina and Cliff. Why am I telling you this? I'll tell you why. Because the other day, I was at Hello, Gorgeous, getting color, as one does at this stage in life, and there he was, one station over, Peter Bergman. I got all farklempt, I went weak in the knees, I muttered "ohmygodohmygod." Just in case I'd dreamt it, after I paid, I went back and asked his stylist, "Was that Peter Bergman?" "Yes." "I love him." "Tell him." "He's still here?" "He's in the back." "Ohmygodohmygod."

Peter Bergman, "The Young and the Restless" 

Well, I walked right up to him, blushing like a school girl, and our conversation went something like this:

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I just had to tell you how much I adored you on 'All My Children.'"

"Oh, thank you."

"I mean, Cliff and Nina were everything."

"We were married four times, you know."

"I know! You belonged together."

"We really did."

"What ever happened to her?"

"I just talked to her the other day."

"What?!!!"

"Taylor is still a good friend."

"I love that! Is she still acting?"

"She lives in Chicago, she's a health coach for women over 50."

"I hear women over 50 need a lot of coaching."

"So do men over 50."

"Listen, this is the point where I tell you we have mutual friends. Otherwise, I'll start to sound like a crazy fan with an unhealthy lifetime crush and that's not good for my self-esteem."

"We don't want that."

"We really don't."

From there, we swapped stories about our friends Robin and Bryan Cranston and how they're the most wonderful, gifted, spectacular humans. I reminded him he met my brother, who really is a mensch of a mensch if ever a mensch there was, when John did a cameo on "Young and the Restless." We chatted for another 15 minutes and then I ended things, respectfully.

"Well, Peter Bergman, there's the bathroom. I was on my way when I spotted you. Meeting you was the best thing ever. I'm going to email Robin the second I'm done peeing."

"Send her my love."

"I will." 

The Croissant Contretemps

Chocolate chip croissant 

vs.

Pan au chocolat

On Sunday, a tiny contretemps, courtesy of Chloé. It went pretty much like this:
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"I was so impressed that you brought fresh croissants to work that I copied you and brought fresh croissants to rehearsal."
"From Viktor Benes?"
"Mais oui."
"My team was so happy."
"Mine, too. They went crazy over the chocolate chip croissants."
"Chocolate chip croissants!?"
"They're a slice of heaven."
"Chocolate chip croissants!?"
"Is there a problem?"
"This is heresy."
"That seems a little harsh, honey."

Chloé takes a stance on croissants

"If someone had done that in France they would've been burned alive like Joan of Arc."
"I didn't mean to insult your people."
"A croissant is not a muffin."
"Okay."
"A croissant is not a cookie."
"Got it. "
"You want chocolate, you have pan au chocolat."
"So what you're saying is -- "
"This is sacrilege. It pisses me off."
"I'm picking up on that."
"The worst thing is a croissant with ham and cheese."
"Really?"
"A croissant should never be in contact with ham. There should be punishment."
"Punishment?"
"There should be a committee that prevents this from happening. There should be a bakery investigation and their license should be revoked."
"I have half a chocolate chip croissant leftover. You want it?"
"Maybe just a bite."

The Luck of the SJG

In my Jewish Overthinking Course, self-taught for the past, oh, 61 years, but who's counting, I've spent many hours reviewing the topic of luck, the bounty of it, or the lack thereof, in this bumper sticker called Life. On this top o' the morning to ya, everybody's Irish kind of day, a discussion of luck seems appropriate, don't you agree? Of course you do. Or as we used to say as kids, "Do, too!"

Somewhere on my journey toward who-knows-what, but if you figure it out, please send me a text, I replaced "luck" with "mazel." Mazel is a nice Jewish way of saying luck. For example, "When a man has mazel, even his ox calves." I have no idea what that means; we had no ox in my humble town of Westwood, but we certainly had lox, and plenty of it. And the only calves I ever worried about were the ones located at the back of my legs, which at this point, given all the horas, the jumping, the twirling and spinning, are pretty, pretty strong. Is that mazel, DNA, or the result of endless aerobic endeavors? You tell me. I'll wait.

Either way, luck or mazel, what role has it played in my existence? Give me a minute. Okay, here's the answer, courtesy of my agnostic and hilarious daddy, who drummed it into his children that you make your own mazel. You don't sit around and wait for things to fall into your lap. You make up your mind and do it, whatever "it" is. Case in point: You wanna make it rain so your squadron doesn't have to fly dangerous missions over Nazi Germany? Well then, you just announce, "I'm going to make it rain. Stand back and watch." You do a crazy dance, you make a series of lunatic hand gestures, and then it rains. Is that luck? Or my dad's special brand of magical thinking? Maybe a combination of both. But in his agile brain, he just said it would be, and so it was. He wanted to meet a nice girl. He told his buddy. His buddy and his buddy's girlfriend said, "Let's find Ben a nice girl." And so they did. Her name was Gloria. They met on a blind date and six months later, they got married. A major mazel tov. But something he set in motion himself, and Mom played along and voila. They got 50 years (shy a few months) of marriage.

I guess I've taken on the same belief system. You meet a guy in eighth grade, not exactly husband material at that stage, but who's thinking about marriage in eighth grade? A few years later, you get together, then you break up, then you get back together, then you break up, then... eventually, you marry him and fast forward, it's 38-plus years later. A major mazel tov. The whole "being at the right place at the right time" hasn't been a big factor in my personal life or career. I don't put much credence in that. You just keep putting it out there, and hoping for the best. You see what happens. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, not so much. In any event, you give it your best shot. It takes practice. It takes a lot of air balls. Not everything's a slam dunk.

So, whether you stumble upon a pot o' gold at the end of the rainbow, chase a leprechaun, or make your own kind of luck, the SJG wishes you...

A Blast of Blintz

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.

Let's Put On A Show

There I was in my personal homeland, Gelson's, a holy place, overpriced but tranquil. Gelson's always puts me in a good mood, no matter how rushed, how preoccupied, how meshuggie I'm feeling. So I forgot the number one vow I made years ago: "In the market, in the store, in any public place, don't engage with people you know don't remember you from bupkis unless you remind them. Don't make eye contact. Don't go there." But you see, these days, I'm not in my right mind. I'm operating on a whole other frequency. I'm dialing in a new channel: Serious PPM. You heard me. Serious PPM: Serious Promotional Postcard Mode. This is my first time dealing with Serious PPM. As I've already told you 82 times in the past two weeks, Mickey and Judy and the SJG are putting on a show. Six shows, to be exact. That's a lot of tickets to sell. Like a madwoman with no shame, none whatso, I'm handing out the postcards for Brushes. I'm dropping them in mailboxes. I've gone off the deep end.

At my gym Schvitz! At my salon Hello Gorgeous! I'm leaving stacks of postcards. And yes, God help me, even in Gelson's, I'm offering them up like free samples of coconut water and vegan cheese. You may want to avoid me. Or give me a hug and whisper, "It's going to be okay, SJG." And so, here's the dark path I took at Gelson's, one I will avoid from now on. I saw her in the corner of the bakery, Sheila, the 80-something gal with the sunglasses. She used to belong to Schvitz! Not anymore. The encounter went something like this:
"Hi, Sheila."
"Who are you?"
"Carol. From the gym."
"Oh, right. Your sons must be, what, in their 40s? 50s?"
"They're 31 and 27.
"Are they working? Do they make a living?"
"More or less."
"Are you still married?"
"Of course, Sheila. These are the weirdest questions."
"In case you're interested, I've had open heart surgery, a stroke and my husband's dead."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Listen, here's a postcard for a show that -- "
"A what?"
"A postcard. My friend and I --"
"I never leave the house."
"Okay, Sheila. Great seeing you. Bye."

Serious PPM strikes again. I hear it's untreatable.

Some Kind of Wackiness

When you've got graphics-savvy peeps in your cast (Heidi Appe in polka dot blouse), this kind of wackiness becomes...

... This kind of wackiness. Brushes cast: Heidi Appe, Andrew Villarreal, Amy Smallman-Winston, Ashley Taylor, Clara Rodriguez (center). 

Spell Check for Jews

It takes chutzpah to spell chootspah phonetically.

I'm sending spell check back to school to learn a bisl Yiddish. When it comes to Jews, spell check should be ashamed. Spell check can't spell for kaka. I'm sorry to say it, but spell check caters to goyim. Spell check wouldn't know the correct way to spell matzo if its life depended on it. But then, the SJG doesn't know how to spell it, either. Is it matzo, matzoh, matzah or matza? Don't get me started on Hanukkah. All spell check knows how to do is highlight what it doesn't know, which is plenty. Any time I use the words of my people, spell check goes meshugana. It scolds, it berates, it kvetches. And yet, it doesn't correct. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. Say it again. Spell check, you disappoint me. I'm not saying you have to convert. That's too much to ask someone of your stature. But could you at least do your homework? Could you study up on your vocabulary? Do it for the SJG. Do it for Jews everywhere. Would it be so terrible to learn how to spell afikomen? Personally, I'd kvell like there's no tomorrow. But I won't hold my breath, spell check. I know how touchy you can get. Takes one to know one, eh, bubela? Or it is bubbeleh? Why do I even bother asking? Spell check doesn't have a clue. (4-20-11)

That's An Hour I'll Never Get Back

I woke up this morning at 7:19
In my body it felt more like 6:19
It took an hour to schlep myself out of bed
A sense of exhaustion hovered overhead
When I went downstairs to check the oven clock
What I found surprised me and left me in shock
The oven informed me it was 8:19
The microwave told me 11:19
Well, what time is it, I cried out in despair
Who's messing with me, it's so deeply unfair
Longtime hubby appeared, acting innocent
Though he caused this daylight savings incident
I pointed out sweetly the boo-boo he made
I blamed it on Mercury in Retrograde
If only they'd end this enforced time schism
I could project much more positivism

You Wanna Talk Disturbing?

The SJG has seen many disturbing sights during my humble time on Earth:
1. A runaway blue garbage receptacle making a break for it during a torrential rainstorm.
2. An abandoned soccer ball squashed by a big rig on the 405 south. Or was it north?
3. A mean-spirited squirrel stealing a dog's favorite chew toy right out from under him and dragging it over the fence. Over. The. Fence.

Oh, the cruelty of it all.

But yesterday... dear God... yesterday, I witnessed something so alarming, so downright wrong on every level, that I couldn't wait to share it with you so that you could suffer along with me. I told you I'm a giver. So. What oy what did I witness? There's no nice way to put it, no formal name. I've coined a psychological term in hopes that others will come forward and share their similarly scarring experiences. In this way, we can bond, share a group hug and move on.

What I saw... and can't unsee... was...well, there's no way to sugarcoat it: Birthday Cake Interruptus. You heard me. Birthday. Cake. Interruptus.

I told you it was disturbing. I tried to warn you, didn't I? But then, weird things happen when you're sleep-deprived. Even... for a waiter. You see, this waiter, who'd already pretty much botched my salad order, was so fermisht, so spring forward exhausted, so in need of the hour he lost, and he's not the only one who lost it, that when he brought out the sparkler-lit birthday cake and the two birthday gals were off waiting in a long ladies room line, he froze in terror. "Wait, stop, they're not here!" my friend and I commanded. "Blow it out! "Blow it out! We have to wait for them!" He stood and stared, bit his lip and fought back tears. Finally, he put out the sparkler and set the plate down and went off to ponder his pipik (or if you prefer, pupik) in private. And then the birthday gals returned to the table. "We saw our birthday cake go by." "Yep, you did." We sang to them, anyway, but come on, without a lit candle or sparkler on a birthday cake, what do you have? You have Birthday Cake Interruptus, that's what.
(3-3-17)

Instant Transformation

 

When I'm not obsessing over costumes, I'm obsessing over wigs. Instead of rehearsing "Brushes" yesterday, the cast tried on wigs.

With each wig, a different character emerged. The actors had the best time transforming. Turns out, they're not alone in this department.

"I wear wigs all the time on shows, and every day when I'm in public, at Dollywood. People say, 'How many wigs do you have?' And I say, 'Well, at least 365 because I wear at least one a day.' " - Dolly Parton

"I just think that wigs and makeup and costumes completely transform me." - Melissa McCarthy

"I love wearing wigs because they're instantly transformational."
- Holly Hunter

"I can't argue with that." - SJG

Costume-Obsessed

Carol Burnett wore this dress on her show. 

Lately, I'm costume-obsessed. I'm hanging out the Costume House in NoHo, searching all the racks, stacks, boxes and endless aisles, trying to track down fun ensembles for Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs.

My tour guide on this adventure is the one and only Kevin Bailey, our director and maven on all things theatre. The man has me trying on medieval hats, burlap schmattas, beatnik berets, hippy floral crowns, fringe vests, bedazzled jackets, RBG robes, beige bailiff shirts, kaftans, silvery alien jumpsuits and plenty, plenty wigs. Shaggy wigs, long wigs, curly wigs, pigtail wigs. I've yet to find the wig that approximates my personal hairstyle, but fortunately, I'm not in the show. Plus I'm already wardrobe-challenged enough, what with the curviness and the shortness. These costumes bring me to a whole new level of nothing-ever-fits-me.

I look good here. 

And yet, we're having the best time, mostly laughing at me. When it comes to costumes, I know absolute bupkis. 

If you can't find me, don't panic, I'm over here in the armor aisle. 

An Extended Unhappy Hour

(Sherman Oaks) Starting today, as opposed to yesterday, the famed SJG Bar & Grill launches an extended Unhappy Hour, from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Patrons can come in, sit down, kvetch a lot, weep if necessary, drink something and leave. The internationally-renowned blogger's signature cocktails include: The Altacocker Alka Seltzer Fizz, the Shut-Up Bitch, the Don't Give Me That Look, and the Matzoh Matzoh Manic Twist. On Thursdays only, we serve the Hava Nagila Rant and Rum Special. Why only on Thursdays? Why not. But that's not all, folks. On Fridays, Shmuel, a so-so piano player, tickles the ivories and rudely ignores Sir Blakey's slurred song suggestions. Unhappy hour at the SJG Bar & Grill is a lot like therapy, only cheaper and with booze. Expect some good advice, some questionable advice and some advice you should probably ignore.