Snooze Control

"Hellody?"
"Hi, this Antonio Bizbaz from the Future."
"Antonio who?"
"Bizbaz. From the Future."
"The Future?"
"Future Auto."
"Okay."
"Where you leased your advanced vehicle."
"Sorry, I'm a little sleep deprived. I've been up for four days straight, reading the owner's manual."
"Exciting news. There's a system update for exhaustion."
"Go on."
"You put your auto on Snooze Control, drift off to Dreamland and wake up at your destination, fully refreshed."
"Holy crap, Antonio, when it's available?"
"Soonish."
"Could you be more specific?"
"Mid-2020."
"That's probably for the best. I can't even set my favorite radio stations."
"But I showed you how to do that."
"It went in one pipik and out the other."
"Pipik?"
"Pipik, pupik, you get the gist."
"Not even a little. So tell me, are you happy with your advanced vehicle?"
"Well, Antonio, after watching 42 videos of people I don't know and wouldn't want to know, doing a bad job explaining things, I can now start the engine."
"In-person demos are better. Would you like to stop by for a nice refresher?"
"Once I figure out how to back out of the driveway, I'll be right over."

Slammin'

Dear SJG,
Is it true that when one door closes another door opens?
Thanks,
Slammed In Solvang

Dear Slammed,
Let's get real, doll. Sometimes one door closes, then another door closes, and then another, and you feel, to quote Cole Porter, because if I don't, who will, like a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop. So take it from me. When one door closes, or two or three, don't leave it up to fate, don't wait for divine door intervention. Instead, prop that door open yourself and keep it open with a nice strong door stopper. What I'm saying is: If you want to feel on top, get out there and create your own damn op.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

What I May Or May Not Do Today

Wash a few windows.

Demand my local deli names a dish after me.

Buy a hot air balloon.

Rethink my general approach to relationships.

Air my dirty laundry.

Catch-22: Watch/Don't Watch

Just in time for Memorial Day, Hulu gives us George Clooney's six-part "Catch-22," based on Joseph Heller's darkly comedic WWII tale of a bombardier who tries everything to get out of flying dangerous missions by claiming insanity, but the request itself shows he's sane, so they just keep upping his missions. Or something along those lines. My daddy, the one and only Ben Starr, was a WWII navigator and performed elaborate rain dances to get out of flying dangerous missions over Nazi Germany. You see the tie-in. So I figured I'd watch George's mini-series and imagine discussing it with my daddy. Plus, longtime hubby loves war movies. Give the man a war movie and he's near-giddy. First, his review after two episodes: "It's good, not great." He claims he's going to keep watching it. Now, my review: "Major Major Snoozeville." Which brings us to my personal "Catch-22." Do I keep watching "Catch-22" with my first husband, even though it's not very good and I can't tell the characters apart, but it's something we can watch/sleep through together and maybe my daddy would've like it, anyway? Or, do I stop watching it because it isn't very good and why waste time I'll never get back, and let my first husband fill me in on what I missed, assuming he can stay awake during the remainder of this sleep-inducing mini-series? Not that my "Catch-22" should stop you from watching "Catch-22." Go and ahead, binge the whole thing. Or don't. These are the tough viewing choices we all face in a world of too many viewing choices. Either way, I salute you and wish you a nice Memorial Day. I plan to spend it thinking of my brave and fearless father.

Fly Me To Gelson's

"Oh, goodie, I think I see a parking spot."

After learning we needed a new water heater, longtime hubby and I decided to add to the aggravation and spend four, five, maybe six hours car-shopping and car-negotiating, an ordeal that resulted in the poignant goodbye to my beloved 2007 Rapidly Aging Mobile, and the nervous hellody to a leased, swanky new voice-activated spaceship that will do whatever the bleep I want it to, as long as I speak up: "Fly me to Gelson's!" "Find me a latte!" "Take me home, Charles!" All this and more, assuming I ever master the advanced tech package.

Raise your hand if you think I can do it. I said, raise your hand. Listen you, have a little faith in your SJG. They tell me boosting my brain will be beneficial. And I just watched 18 different tutorials and, hold your applause, I can now turn the spaceship on. Eventually, I'll figure out how to fly it.

On The Fritz

What could be better, after a long day of schlepping, working out, dog duty and whatnot, to treat yourself to a nice, hot -- "Oh my god, oh my god, it's freezing, what the hell.... why isn't it getting hot? Come on, already, get hot. Get warm. Get it together, faucet. Why are you doing this to me? Why? Why? Don't I deserve a nice, hot bath? Who died and made you king of my bath tub, my sudsy sanctuary, my shrine to -- " "What's all the yelling about?" "There's no @#$%'n hot water in here." "There was for me this morning." "Of course, there was." Fast forward a few minutes to: "It's broken." "The water heater?" "Yeah, it's broken." So, there's that.

Speaking of things on the fritz, the 12-year-old SJG Mobile is making creaky noises that alert me that something may or may not be wrong with its aging body. It's nice to have something in common with my car, don't you think? According to the mechanic, it's suspension-related, but not dangerous. Yet. I find that very reassuring. "I don't want to throw parts at it before we really know what it is," he said. An honest mechanic. How much do we love that? Despite the non-urgency, longtime hubby insisted we spend quality time with a pushy car salesman. "You're going to love this car," he said. "You're going to leave tonight in this car. Once you drive this car, there will be no other car for you." After driving the overpriced luxury hybrid, so environmentally correct, so sophisticated I'd have to get an advanced engineering degree to operate it, I'd made my decision.

"So," he said, "let's get you this car." "I need to tell you something." "Sure, sure." "I'm not in love with this car." "What? You said it drove like a dream." "You said that. I said, 'it's fine.'" "What's the problem? We'll fix it." "I hate the brakes." "There's nothing wrong with the brakes." "I feel bad about it, but I hate them. I should love them. But I hate them. I'll never get used to them." "Believe me, you'll get used to the brakes. My mother-in-law said the same thing. Four weeks later, she loved the brakes." "This car is not for me." "No problem. We'll put you in a different car. It doesn't have to be a hybrid. What would you like to see? We've got all night." "Actually, we need to get home." "Sure, sure, no problem. Tomorrow, you'll come back and get a car you love." Doubtful.

It's Just Emotions

The news that Amazon is developing a voice-activated wearable device than can recognize human emotions is so science-fictiony, so Star Trekky, so freakatosis that it makes my keppy spin with possibilities. Who needs therapy when you've got your favorite, all-knowing, half-Jewish Big Sister Alexa to do the heavy lifting?
"Oy, honey, I'm sensing some agitation."
"What gave it away, Alexa?"
"Your heart is racing, you're out of breath..."
"I'm running on the treadmill."
"Let me finish, you."
"Sorry."
"In between all the huffing and puffing, you're yelling at me."
"I'm not yelling."
"Trust me, I know from yelling. You're yelling at me to order clothes that you know won't fit."
"You don't know that."
"It's part of a pattern, doll. 'Alexa, get me the black Theory slacks in size 2.' 'Alexa, get me the Versace in size bupkis.' "
"What's your point?"
"I know your pattern. You order size 2, it arrives, it doesn't fit, you get upset, and you make me send it back. It's a self-defeating cycle. Not to mention, more than a bisel delusional. Why not accept the short curvy body God gave you?"
"God gave me this body? I thought DNA gave me this tush."
"Either way, ease up on yourself and order a size that fits. And maybe cut back on the cookies."
"Harsh."
"Harsh, but true. You forget, I know what you order late at night when you can't sleep."
"You really do know me."
"I know you better than you know yourself. Don't ever forget that. Now, drink some water. I don't want you should get dehydrated."
"Anything else you're picking up on?"
"You're catching a cold."
"I feel fine."
"Hubby came home from New York with a cold. If you're not careful, you're next."
"So what do you suggest?"
"Chicken soup."
"You think it'll help?"
"It couldn't hurt."

He's Just A Jealous Guy

Believe you me, the last thing I ever want to do is stir up canine jealousy, but when Sir Blakey saw the photo below, taken by Phyllis, one of my Laughing At Lifers...

My new friend Kitson, such a snuggle bunny 

Well, the Royal Rescue Pup went more than a little meshuggie. "Who's the other dog?" he conveyed, telepathically. "Relax." "Who is he?" "He's Kitson. A Pomeranian." "Go on." "I just met him on Tuesday." "Ha! You expect me to buy that?" "Have I ever lied to you before?" "How about, 'I'll be back in a minute'? A minute times 200!" "I thought you had no sense of time." "Ha!" "Take another look. Recognize anything?" "No." "Anything familiar?" "No." "You wanna know why?" "Okay, I'll bite." "It's not our house." "Don't try to use logic with me." "It's Carol II's house. She's dog-sitting." "So what you're saying is -- ?" "The Pomeranian, he's not a threat. You're the only pup for me. But he sure is cute and soft and oh-so-cuddly. He fell in love with me, immediately. Can you blame him?" "Are you trying to hurt me?" "Never." "Ha!" "Ha, yourself. Who's a good boy?" "You're lookin' at him." "Who wants a treat?" "You have to ask?"

You Don't Bring Me Bagels

You don't bring me bagels

You don't buy me good lox 

You don't spread the cream cheese

You don't pick up your socks

You don't say gesundheit
You don't ask how's ba you?
You don't say mazel tov
You don't ask, hey, what's nu?

You don't bring me take-out
You don't schlep me around
You don't text emojis
You don't meet me downtown

You don't bring me bagels

You don't buy me good lox 

You don't spread the cream cheese 

You don't pick up your socks 

Gonna Take A Judgmental Journey

Pardon the SJG, but sometimes this feeling comes over me, I read something that sets me off, and within seconds, the internal rant commences. I start gettin' all grammatican and ye olde English major in me takes over and well, I full-on become a Certified Grammar Bitch. Listen, I'm not the first to kvetch about this, and I won't be the last, but please, can someone spell judgment without the "e"? Anyone? Is it too much to ask? It's a personal pet peeve. I know, judgment looks funny without the "e." It's hard not to stick an "e" in there. I feel your pain. But try going through life with everyone sticking an "e" in your name and get back to me. There are people I've known for years, even decades, who still put an "e" on the end of Carol. Why? Don't they get it? I'm not Carole. I'm Carol without an "e." An "e" has no place at the end of Carol. Unless you're Carole King and by all means, keep that "e," you've earned it. Otherwise, an "e" in Carol is as unnecessary as an "e" smack dab in the middle of judgment.

Unless you hail from Great Britain, then go ahead, go "e" crazy, they won't stop you. In G.B. they love to stick an "e" in whenever the mood strikes. In G.B., there are plenty judgemental Caroles storming the castle.

And yet, according to Merriam W. (not to be confused with an ex-aunt named Miriam, the very first of my estranged relatives), "usage experts" have long disagreed over which spelling of judgment-judgement is the preferred one. The Oxford Dictionary favors the older and "more reasonable spelling." Merriam likes the more youthful "judgment." I'm with Merriam all the way. 

Well, I'm glad we cleared that up. Feel free to pass judgment on today's blog, but if you pass judgement, it will only count in the U.K.

Game of Thrones

Nail Salon Edition

Now and then, the Short JG gets fed up with self-inflicted botched pedicures, and turns the task over to a higher power. Now and then, I must sit upon a throne at the nail salon and nod to the commoners.  On my last outing to Gorgeous Gorgeous You, I witnessed quite the uprising. A nice couple I recognized but couldn't place (this happens a lot) felt strongly that Gorgeous Gorgeous You had tricked their daughter. They wanted an apology, not to mention, a refund. While they pointed fingers at the manager, I slunk down in my throne, reluctant to get pulled into this drama. All I wanted to do was sit there, luxuriating like a queen. Selfish, selfish me. Gorgeous Gorgeous You, according to the nice people I was now hiding from, had charged extra for a flower nail design. Their daughter thought the flower art came with the manicure, but alas, like so many things in life, the flower cost extra.

There's no such thing as a free flower.

The manager stared stonily, as the nice couple said some unnice things. They would tell everyone they know not to step foot in Gorgeous Gorgeous You. I'm sure they would've told me the same thing, if they'd noticed me, cowering regally behind my magazine. But they were too busy threatening to call the Better Business Bureau.  A better SJG would've marched out, dripping sudsy water, in support. I could see how such a bait-and-switch happened. In the course of my mani-pedi, the nail ladies offered me a cuticle treatment, a neck and shoulder message, and a personality transformation via seductive whispers, never hinting at the extra cost. Thanks to the nice couple's rant, I didn't bite. But I did stay put. I wanted my toes to look pretty in NYC. It rained the whole time I was there and my toes never came out to play. I've learned my karmic lesson. Next time I witness injustice at the nail salon, I will rise up in support, I will throw tiny bottles of Radical Red and Manic Mauve. Gorgeous Gorgeous You has seen the last of moi. I'm taking my toes down the street to What Up, Bitch, where I belong.

Blakey's Vacay

Such a punim

The SJG isn't the only one who goes away now and then. Sir Blakey, a dog of unsubstantiated royalty, deserves a break, too. Here are the highlights of his stay at the elegant Wagmor of Studio City, where he plays all day with other dogs, many of them fellow rescues, and wonders when the nice people he lives with are coming back.

Off-leash, Blakey loves the company of other canines. He's the most social pup, hanging with his dudes and dudettes. He gets along with everyone. But on-leash, oy vey, it's another story. When he's out and about in the neighborhood, his more aggressive, territorial side emerges. The message is quite clear: "This sidewalk isn't big enough for the both of us."

Blakey and best pal Moj Moj discuss the scene unfolding before them: "Sheesh! Look at those two smooching up a storm," says Moj Moj. "Talk about a shanda," says Blakey. "She's engaged to Kugel." "Should we tell him?" asks Moj Moj. "Better we shouldn't mix in," says Blakey.

"Are they here yet?" "No." "Are they here yet?" "No." "Are they ever coming back?" "God willing."

Sir Blakey gets reacquainted with the backyard, the place he rules with an iron paw.

I'm A Sucker for NYC

Ceci ne pas une pipik. 
This is not a belly button. 
This is the SJG in NYC.

So, I'm home, and I know, I know, you've been suffering without your daily dose of my mishegas. Why didn't I blog during my travels to NYC? I'll tell you why. Because hubby doesn't want I should alert the universe that we're not home when we're not home. On some level, this makes sense. So we took all the necessary precautions, what with the alarm and the newspaper and mail delivery stoppage. Well, it worked for the newspaper part, not so much for the postal. The mail box was nice and full upon our return, a blazing sign of non-occupancy. And yet, tanks God, as my Grandma Shorty would say, all is well at the homestead, even though I remain, what's the right word, stamped (see what I did there) with aggravation about the unforgivable postal mishap. I need to get over this and my foggy travel brain.

Camp: Notes on Fashion at the Met 

Note to self: This Bob Mackie Dress would never fit me 

Without further doo-doo, here are the highlights of our NYC trip, during which hubby lost his mind preparing for the CW Upfront, and I ran around having fun. Seems fair. Oh, and speaking of losing minds, did I mention we spent 90 minutes on the tarmac at JFK when we landed? It had something to do with something, the jetway not working, all I know is, I started to feel just a tad... claustrophobic. "Are we ever getting off this plane?" I asked the flight attendant. "Yes," she said. A little vague, a little non-specific. Also not helpful, the occasional jokey updates from the pilot: "Day 43 of the hostage crisis." I hadn't felt like a hostage until he said hostage.

Tsk Tsk

An old joke, in honor of Mother's Day. What do "60 Minutes" and a Jewish mother have in common?  Answer:
Get it? A Jewish mother is always tsk-ing. Any mother, in fact, is always tsk-ing. There's always something going on that makes us tsk tsk tsk. Sometimes it's our children. I used to tsk plenty at all the dumb stuff they pulled when they were younger. Tsk-ing was either the precursor to yelling, or the only reaction I could muster due to exhaustion. These days, when it comes to my sons, I kvell more than I tsk, but believe me, this wasn't always the case.

Of course, I still tsk daily and with feeling at a variety of targets. Bad drivers. Bad news. Bad politicians. So the other night, I made up a term, my gift to all the mothers out there celebrating Mother's Day, and all the mothers who are no longer here for us to honor in person with flowers, perfume, or a spa day. Still, we celebrate them and their loving, at times judgmental, mostly well-meaning ways. Which explains my new term for motherhood:

Tsk-A-Tarian.

Given all our mommy-hyphenates, we are all a combo platter, are we not? If you only eat fish, you're a Pescetarian-Tsk-A-Tarian. Or maybe you're a Unitarian-Tsk-A-Tarian... a Presbyterian-Tsk-A-Tarian... a Vegetarian-Tsk-A-Tarian. In my own case, I'm a Kvetch-A-Tarian-Tsk-A-Tarian.

No matter what kind of Tsk-A-Tarian you may be, Happy Mother's Day to all the cool moms, and the regular moms, too.

My Mug Shot

At last, a mug big enough to suit my caffeine needs; a gift from Amy Smallman-Winston, a fabulous cast member of "Brushes" who watched in horror astonishment as I transitioned, over the the course of several months, from co-playwright/cast-caterer/cheapo prop finder in rehearsals, to full-on Girl Boss.

Or if you prefer, Head Bitch In Charge. "You were really angry at those video guys," Amy said to me last night at the cast party. "Not angry, Amy," I insisted. "Assertive." Well, it's true, I was bossing the camera dudes around a bit, ordering them not to do really dumb ass things. I was out of my comfort zone and it felt so good. "Tell me you're not planning to sit on top of the chair while recording the show," I said to the tall one, with just a pinch of panic and a nice spoonful of venom. "Yup," the camera dude said. "I'll get the best view of the stage." "So, yeah, that's not happening." "Huh?" "You're not sitting there. You'll block everyone's view." "Yeah, but..." "This is closing night. We'd like the audience to be able to see." With that, I walked away, all diva-like, my Met Gala ball gown swishing behind me. What? Sometimes I overdress. Backstage, Amy took my hand. "It's going to be okay. Here at the Bad Hair Days Inn, we've seen everything." She was rehearsing a scene, but still, she gets me. And guess what? It was okay. It was more than okay. But if I hadn't played the Girl Boss card, who knows what sort of pandemonium might've gone down at the Whitefire. Call it anger, call it assertiveness, call it head bitchiness. I did what I had to do. Sure, I'll miss bossing folks around. I really will. Oh wait, I can still boss Sir Blakey around. "Hey, you, stop with the barking." Not that he listens to me. Over at the SJG Palatial Estate, it's hard to get a word in sometimes. I may have to flash my mug shot more often. 

Untitled

Here's why the baby is an earl.

Dear SJG,
You are in error and it is my duty as Queen to correct you. My most recent great grandchild, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, is not a prince, although he's sweet as a buttery scone smothered in clotted cream. Have you seen those cheeks? They're simply edible. You could make a meal out of that punim. However, Archie is merely an earl. Whether Harry and the American call him an earl or leave him untitled is entirely up to them. Seriously, I've given up trying to control those two. Nonetheless, I hereby grant you permission to call him Earl Archie, because I have a lot of power and can do as I please. But if I catch you calling him Prince Archie, you shall be summoned to court for a testy talking-to.
Royally Yours,
Elizabeth R

Dear Queen Elizabeth,
I'd rather be summoned for tea and crumpets. Let's check our calendars and coordinate.
Respectfully Yours,
The SJG

Royal Prince Nameless

Hear ye, hear ye, the Sussex Royal Babykins has arrived. Methinks it's time to come up with a name already, don't ye?

It may surprise ye not that the SJG has a few suggestions that may or may not be appropriate:

1. Prince Dayenu (Hebrew for: "It would have been enough." As in, "It would have been enough if you weren't all that royal, but let's face it, you are the Royal Babykins, so milk it, baby.")

2. Prince Kugel (In honor of the kugel I sent Meghan and Harry at Rosh Hashanah, even though it got returned with a note that said, "Ta! But we only eat gluten-free.") 

3. Prince Tchotchke (Seventh in line to the throne, this Royal Babykin's role, at least at the beginning, will be that of a petite yet meaningful bauble, a pricey knickknack, a miscellaneous royal until he grows up, launches a coup and takes over Buckingham Palace.)

4. Prince Mazel (For all the luck he'll bring his parents, kina hora, poo poo poo.)

5. Prince Pipik (For his pristine belly button that shall never collect a speck of schmutz, or heads will roll.) 

The Parachute Club

Rebecca and her widowed mother Rose are chatting on the phone. "Mommy, why don’t you do something useful with your life?"
"So nu? All of a sudden, sitting around my swimming pool, drinking good wine and relaxing is no longer a good thing?"
"I’m talking about something to make you get out and meet people. Like going down to your local Senior Center and meeting with the people there. You need to get active, Mommy."
The following day, Rose emails her daughter. "I took your advice and I've joined a local parachute club."
Rebecca emails back, "Are you meshuggah, Mommy? You’re 88 years old and now you want to start jumping out of planes?"
"Yes, and I’ve even got a membership card. I'll email it to you."
So Rose emails Rebecca a copy of the card. Rebecca immediately calls her mother. "Oy vey, Mommy! Where are your glasses? This is a membership card for a prostitute club, not a parachute club."
"Oy, am I in trouble," says Rose. "I've signed up for at least five jumps a week."
http://awordinyoureye.com

Head Bitch In Charge

Well, come on now. Who doesn't like getting wonderful gifts, especially when they relate to the show that took, oh, six years to get up on its bristles? Let's do a quick review, shall we? The Brush of Honor, I believe, is self-explanatory, as is Head Bitch In Charge, which describes me perfectly, just ask the cast. The Alien, you might not get unless you saw the show, and if you did, nine zillion thank you's for your support. Let's just say that sometimes, even aliens worry about their hair, or the lack there of. This particular alien receives answers from the 4th dimension when you ask it a question. What say we do a little demo right here. "Hey, Alien Head, will Brushes get another run somewhere on Earth?" Shake shake shake. Hang on.... be patient. "For sure," says the alien. Good answer! 

"Make us look thin, make us look young, 

make our hair look sensational," 

I commanded the youngest before 

he took this historical photo. 

The gifts, courtesy of this amazing human, the only, the only Cathy Hamilton, my brilliant writing partner in hair-larity, commemorate the closing of "Brushes." We're sad to see it end, of course, but according to the Alien, this is just the beginning... kina hora, poo poo poo. And the Alien wouldn't lie.

The Coconuts In Question

Amy Smallman-Winston & Andrew Villarreal 

at the Bad Hair Days Inn 

You could say it was a sticky situation. Last night, the night before the closing night of Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs, which happens to be tonight, at precisely 10:33 p.m., I received the following Shakespearean email from one of the greatest humans ever, that's right, Mr. Kevin Bailey, the director/exec producer of our show. "Hey there, did I perchance loan you my glue gun for the coconuts when we were trying to glue them?" - K

The coconuts, you see, have been an issue since the beginning of time. Rehearsal time, that is. I found them, where else, on Amazon, these cheapo plastic coconut drink cups with little flowers and straws, for "A Brush With Humidity." When terrified guests arrive at the Bad Hair Days Inn, Chester, the aging lobby boy, hands them a Hairy Mary cocktail in a cute coconut cup.

The problem: these cheapo cups consistently uncup, or if you prefer, come apart. They drop on the floor, bounce hither and thither. It's been a whole thing. One day, Kevin took them home. "I'm going to glue gun these mutha-effers together," he exclaimed. "They shall come apart no more." "I have the utmost confidence you will succeed," I said, although, I wasn't convinced that a glue gun would solve the dilemma. I cheered him on, despite my misgivings, for I am a team player. A few days later, when he handed back the coconuts in disrepair, with traces of ooey-gooey encircling them, I stifled my laughter. Oh wait, no I didn't. I laughed plenty and made a promise I knew I couldn't keep. "Leave it to this incredibly uncrafty Jew to fix them." "Good luck," he said, knowing full well that I would never fix them. Only, dammit, guess what, I did fix them, not with glue, but with double-sided tape. Not once in the entire six-show run have these mutha-eff'n coconuts come apart. Not once.

Here's what I wanted to write back: "Alas, poor Yorick, I know diddly about the glue gun's whereabouts. I will search high and low at the Whitefire, I will question the usual suspects, and if your glue gun appears, justice will be served." Sensitive gal that I am, I could sense his late night panic. He was a man in need of his glue gun. I needed to respect that. "Nope, haven't seen it," I wrote back. Did I mention the coconuts have never uncoconuted, not once in the entire run?

"Is that a glue gun in your pocket, 

or are you just happy to see me?" - Mae West 

SJG Introduces Lit Bit For Literal Crimes

The SJG Lit Bit: It's Literally Bejeweled

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG called an early morning fress conference at her palatial estate, during which she served a spread of leftover Passover matzoh -- "Try a schmear of Nutella, it's to die for" -- stale macaroons and something called Gefilte Surprise, deemed "a little iffy" by the minyan of journalistic fressers -- and introduced a new product that's making her simultaneously kvell and wince. "Some people wear a Fitbit to count steps and calories burned. I wear a Lit Bit to count the number of times I say literally... ouch... in the course of one day. According to my pretty bejeweled Lit Bit, which goes with literally... double ouch... everything, yesterday, I committed 82 literal crimes. Ow ow ow. Sure, I should be alarmed by my extreme overuse of... that word, and yet, let's face it, I've... umm... what's a better word... actually stumbled onto something so brilliant, I can't wait to help the rest of the world Get Lit. Here's how it works. Every time you say... that word... you literally... oh eff me... get a strong electrical zetz you won't easily forget. If that's not linguistic modification at its finest, what is?" The SJG Lit Bit will sell for $300. "To sell it for less would be a shanda. Those are real rhinestones, you know." She ended the fress conference by offering each reporter a coupon for 10 percent off her Lit Bit, a doggy bag of "mushy but delish" Passover Matzoh Brei, and a heartfelt promise to reduce her use of... that overused word by "literally a lot." With that, she screamed in pain and self-medicated with leftover Manischewitz.