You've Got To Be Kidding

On the morning of Rosh Hashanah, Rivka goes into the bedroom to wake her son and tell him it's time to get ready to go to the synagogue, to which he replies, "I'm not going." "Why not?" Rivka asks. "I'll give you two good reasons Mother," he says. "One, they don't like me, and two, I don't like them." Exasperated, Rivka says, "I'll give you two good reasons why you must go to the synagogue. One, you're 54 years old, and two, you're the Rabbi."

Press Mute

Shall I praise thine lovely ability to mute?

Thou giveth me serenity sweeter than fruit.

My need to stifle tyrants is far too acute.

So long as such men can fabricate and dispute,

This humble remote silencer I shall salute.

Not Your Rabbi's Daughter Jeans

(Sherman Oaks) Just in time for Rosh Hashanah, the SJG announces a wonderful new line of High Holiday Apparel: Not Your Rabbi's Daughter Jeans. Before she hurried off to temple, the self-appointed fashion maven took a brief moment to hawk her latest trend-setting project. "It hit me like a ton of frozen honey cake, this idea for Not Your Rabbi's Daughter Jeans, Not Your Rabbi's Daughter Shabbat Shalom Sweater Set, and Not Your Rabbi's Daughter High Holiday Dress. I mean, is this the greatest clothing concept ever? Am I onto something, or what? So much better than Not Your Daughter's Jeans, don't you think? It goes without saying that Not Your Son's Jeans wouldn't be a big selling point. Of course, I could design another line, Not Your Daughter-In-Law's Jeans, for those moments when you're not in shul, counting your blessings, atoning and elbowing the portly fella sitting next to you, pondering how to tell him, in the most Rosh Hashanah way, 'Hey, you, enough with the manspreading, you're not on the subway.' " (9-21-17)

The Mystery of The Three Zucchini

The SJG-TV fall season kicks off tonight with "The Mystery of The Three Zucchini." What's it about? Be patient, we're about to tell you: The world's most beloved detective, Herbie Shapiro, returns in a stylish, diabolically silly new mystery series set in Sherman Oaks, north of the boulevard. Herbie comes home after a so-so lunch at that corner deli with the "B-" rating, to find his annoying neighbor Shirley Schlepstein at his doorstep, agitated over the three zucchini that wound up in her eco-friendly grocery bag. "Dear God in heaven, Herbie, can you solve this case pronto? I didn't put them in my cart, I can tell you that, and yet, I paid for them. It's just wrong on many levels." "How is this my problem?" he asks. "It's not, but I need you to take care of it. I'm too busy prepping my Rosh Hashanah dinner for 18. Have you priced brisket lately? Talk about a crime," says Shirley. Trouble arises when Herbie, busy with other cases, refuses to investigate, telling Shirley that some things in life, you must handle on your own. She flips him off and marches away in a rage. Then she feels badly and comes back to apologize, only to find that Herbie Shapiro is gone! In his place, a ransom note carved into... dun-dun-duuuun... a zucchini! Oy vey, so many mysteries to untangle: Who put the eff'n zucchini in Shirley's cart in the first place? Is Herbie dead or alive or just hiding from Shirley Schlepstein because she's so annoying? Is there really an explosive device planted in the ransom zucchini? Could it blow up the whole neighborhood, God forbid? Tune in tonight at 8 p.m. to find out. 

Twenty Years

Already, she knew I had difficult hair.

Twenty years. How can it be? She's missed so much. Bar mitzvahs. Graduations. Her eldest grandson's wedding. How she would've loved that. The big parties were her favorite. Getting dressed up. Putting on her face. There was no denying her sense of style. Twenty years. It doesn't seem possible, and yet, there you have it. Last night, when I took off my earrings, I noticed they were mismatched. All day, I walked around, wearing one earring from one pair, and one earring from another pair. Silly me. That's the kind of thing I would have called her up to share. We would've laughed so hard. She had the best laugh ever. Today, in her honor, I'll do what any mamala should do. I'll put on my face. I'll take care of others, and if I find a moment, I'll take care of myself, too. "Don't be so hard on yourself," she said, a closing remark, before she went off to that big beauty shop in the sky, with orange toenails yet. Orange. Her least favorite color. The only color her longtime nail gal had in her pocket when she made a house call to say goodbye. She wanted to do her toes one last time. We had a good laugh about the color choice, our final laugh, in fact. And as my mother faded away in her hospital bed at UCLA, one thing was abundantly clear. She wasn't happy about those orange toenails. Not happy at all. She kept looking at her toes, then looking up at me, as if to say, "Can you believe it? I'm going out with orange toenails. I hate orange." Not long after she died, she came to me in a dream, dressed entirely in orange, and imparted this message: "Be careful what color you wear when you die. That's the color you'll be stuck with for eternity." I'll keep it in mind, Mom. Promise.

 How she loved to take care of others. 

Mysteries of The Universe: Parking Edition

My most vivid girlhood fright came when I was 16; I agreed to let my father teach me how to parallel park. It did not end well.

Oh, the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of finding a parking spot! Oh, the little parking permits, the little bastards that unhinge good fortune once the clock strikes six, and the pricey ticket that follows!

The absolute yearning of one human being for one well-defined space, large enough to fit one's humble vehicle without getting dinged, is one of life's major challenges.

The problem of parking, that is to say the reconciling of our failures to find adequate automotive lodging, with the bounty of luck inherent in the quest, will always remain one of the most disturbing mysteries for both our hearts and our keppies.

Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

"Oh, look, Granny, it's the SJG, here to see our cinematic effort."
"Initials are so middle class."
"If you prefer, you can address her as the Short Jewish Gal."
"Edith, have I met her before?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What a relief."
"But I suspect you might like her."
"I doubt that, my dear. I have plenty of friends I don't like."
"Be nice, Granny. She's an American blogger of international repute. Isn't that exciting?"
"At my age, one must ration one's excitement."

via GIPHY

Helpful Mindfulness Reminders

Lately the SJG is all about the mindfulness. Every day I get helpful mindfulness reminders from one of the 82 apps I've accidentally downloaded and am now getting charged for until one of the millennials I've given birth to untangles the mess. In the meantime, I'm attaining a level of life-changing faux calm like you wouldn't believe. Here are just a few examples of the wise words that may or may not pop up on my iPhone, urging me to focus on what's really important:

"Feelings come and go like real estate pamphlets left on your doorstep. Some blow away in the wind. Some get caught in escrow."

"Look past your mishegas, so you may drink the sweet Mogen David of this moment."

"Remember to breathe, deeply and often, or sure as day follows night, you'll plotz and then where will you be?"

How To Nurse A Room of Male TV Execs

Or not. Your call.

As a lifetime member of the Society of What-Iffers, I've spent countless hours imagining the worst-case scenarios, all variations on the same theme. In each episode of What-Iffery, my fears take over.  My mind goes blank. I fall apart. I lose control. I laugh and snort. I hyperventilate. I bolt for the nearest exit. It's an oy vey of utter humiliation. Fortunately, not one of these eff'd up mini-dramas has ever happened in real life. Of course, I've had to work very hard to keep my anxiety at bay. I've self-hypnosed. I've behavior-modified. I've soul-searched. I've self-medicated. I'm cured! Sort of. Still, there are moments I look back on now, when things I never could've what-iffed in a million years actually occurred, and yet, I managed to live to tell the tale.

Mr. Love 'Em & Leave 'Em

Throw me a crumb

The Royal Rescue Pup. He's all about love and devotion. Take this morning. There we are, snuggling on the sofa, reflecting on the state of things. "It's not good out there," I say, gently petting him. "Not good at all. But as long as we're together...." He snuggles closer, puts his paw on my lap. No question, Sir Blakey and the SJG are having a moment. Until... the ding of the toaster. One ding and his loyalties shift. He jumps off and runs toward the early morning dude, you know, the guy who gets up at an ungodly time to walk him, while I lounge in bed. "There he goes," I say, "Mr. Love 'Em & Leave 'Em." Forget snuggles. He needs something a little more substantial.

He needs toast. He'll take whatever longtime hubby throws his way. A crumb, a morsel, makes no diff. Once it's out of the toaster and buttered up, the dog sits patiently and awaits his reward. Three years after rescuing us, has he got us well-trained, or what? Day after day, his wish is our command. Just between us, we wouldn't have it any other way.

The Butt Text

This morning, just like every morning, there he was, longtime hubby, in the corner of the kitchen, staring into his phone, reading updates and whatevers on his phone, when suddenly, he registered a kind of shock. It was the drawn-out kind, not the horror movie kind. There was no screaming, no grabbing of the heart, just a low-key, lowercase oh...my...god. From my comfy perch on the couch, I couldn't ignore his reaction. On a daily basis, I'm the one who says Oh! My! God! with at least three exclamation points. He's the one who pretty much underplays everything. Except when he's watching sports. Or Meet The Press. Or MSNBC. Or driving. In those cases, he's cursing loudly, for sure, but rarely, if ever, referencing God in his rant. So this morning's oh...my...god got my attention. And it went something like this:
"Oh...my...god."
"What?"
"I just got a butt text."
"A butt dial?"
"A butt text."
"Someone texted you with their butt?"
"Someone texted me their butt."
"WHAT???!!!"
"I'm looking at a woman's naked ass."
"Oh dear God, in heaven, show me right now."
I grabbed the phone out of his hand, and yep, there it was, a very suggestive shot of a gal's rear end, along with a text. "Hey, it's me, Jenni from Badoo, wasn't last night the best, gimme a call."
"My first spam text."
"Mazel tov."
"I'm deleting it right now."
"You don't seem thrown by the tushie shot."
"If you've seen one ass, you've seen them all."
"Look," I said, pointing to the TV, "there's an orange one right now."

Meant To Be

We never expected our feelings to be this strong. What if it's not right? What if it's not meant to be? Then what? Would we be filled with regret? It had happened before, you know, many years ago. The wall-to-wall carpet install? Big mistake. We held each other and quietly sobbed. "What were we thinking?" "It's filthy after one day." "Do-over?" "What's done is done." Years later, we ripped it all out and went with bamboo. Good decision. This time, we didn't have years to debate. This time, much like any project that survives Development Hell, there was a ticking clock, a looming deadline, a make-or-break moment. After eight long noisy as @#$% months, the behemoth behind us, the ultramodern eyesore leering at us from the other side, was finished.

The contractor dangled the options over the fence that his workmen had bullied into submission. "Friday, we're putting up white vinyl. Your share is $$$. Let me know by tomorrow." We didn't need a deadline. We already knew we weren't in love with the white vinyl. "We want brown vinyl." "Brown?" "You heard us, mister." "Interesting direction." "You can have white, we want brown." "Then you'll have to pay for your own." "No going halvies?" "No what?" "50-50 splitski?" "You'll have your fence, I'll have mine." "Fine." "Fine." Longtime hubby cut to the chase, one of his specialties. "How much?" "Triple the cost of white." "Whatever."

We expected to hate it so much. But here's the thing. It's love at first sight. We keep going outside to gloat. We couldn't be happier. We adore it in a way no two humans should ever adore something that's the opposite of alive. Yes, we are the proud owners of a brown vinyl fence that cost way too much. From a distance, it looks like wood. It's everything you could want in a fake fence. If that's not something to kvell over, what is?

Louie Louie, You Gotta Go Now

Different friends, same question: "Have you seen the Louis Vuitton Exhibit?" The answer, always the same. "The what's-that-now?" "The Louis Vuitton Exhibit." "Uh, no." Different friends, same shaming: "What's wrong with you?" "Where to begin?" "It's the biggest global event of the year!" "I can think of bigger." "Get your tush over there before it closes November 10th." "Fine, fine, I'm going, leave me the eff alone."

I forced Carla to join me. "But I don't like Louis Vuitton." "I'm going and you're coming with me." "Nat n' Al's first." "Obviously." So yesterday, after deli fortification, we went, we saw the vintage monogrammed luggage and bags, perfume bottles, furniture and so much more. Who knew? We had the best time exhibit-shopping.

The Taylor Swift Met Gala Dress

The Emma Stone Met Gala Dress

The Michelle Williams Academy Awards Dress

Can you say wowza?

I may or may not have gone home and framed all my scarves after seeing this part of the exhibit.

I've always wondered the best way to make my banana portable without squishing it in my handbag. Dangling it by a string? Genius. I never would've thought of that. 

The ArtyCapucines limited-edition handbags by artists
I've never heard of. Retail price: $8,600!

Carla and I made many imaginary purchases, but sadly, the exhibit people didn't take I.O.U.s for a million bucks and change. So get over yourself and get over there. It's free. 468 N. Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. Hours: 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday-Saturday; 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. louisvuitton.com

Act Surprised

Janie feigned surprise so beautifully, 

we thought she'd gone into shock. 

The Laughing At Life birthday gals had their orders. The evite stated, "Show up at your double surprise party. Act surprised. Or don't bother coming." A little harsh? A little too blunt? Maybe, but these two show biz pros followed instructions. They didn't just rehearse, they brought visual aids.

Props to Phyllis, aka Sister P,  for adding nunsense to the festivities. 

And even though their faithful, unordained rabbi openly displayed their joint birthday cake right there on the counter...

... they still acted surprise.

The mandatory selfie: Half of Carol II (aka Tappy), Rabbi SJG, Phyllis and Janie. It's true our gang has shrunk, but we're still sillier than ever, and that's all that matters. 

Eighteen Years Ago

Eighteen years ago. I think everyone remembers what they were doing when they found out. On the West Coast, we woke up to the news. It was a Tuesday. I told our sons, 13 and 9, as they got ready for school. Their day was filled with stories. Classmates. Teachers. Someone's son-in-law worked in one of the towers. Someone's father might've been on one of the planes. At Hebrew school in the afternoon, the parents and their children gathered in the sanctuary. The rabbi led us in prayer. All around me, I heard the tears of temple members waiting to hear back from loved ones. Someone's niece... friend... cousin... co-worker.

When it comes to Hebrew, I'm not a maven, far from it, but there are a few things I know, and one of them is this: Chai is the Hebrew word and symbol for life. The letters for chai... chet and yud... add up to 18, a number that represents all good things in life. L'chaim. To life.

But today, on the 18th anniversary of 9/11, the number takes on different meaning. Today, 18 means life and all its tragedies. It means sacrifice and heroism and the courage to begin again.

On The Fringe

On the way to the UCLA Faculty Center for a memorial, I said this to my adorable mother-in-law:
"Look at you with the fringe handbag. You look so hip and happening."
"Thank you."
"I've never seen that bag before."
"Yes, you have."
"I don't remember."
"I gave it to you for your birthday last year. You didn't want it."
"Oh, man."
"You said it wasn't you."
"Yikes."
"So I decided it was me."
"Too late to ask for it back?"
"Yes."

Things I've Googled Lately

Hello, Muddah? Hello Faddah?

Google: Why do I always dream I can't reach my parents on the phone?
Answer: Even in Heaven, they're avoiding you. 

Mosquitoes find her attractive

Google: Why can't I go a day without getting a mosquito bite?
Answer: Genetics account for 85 percent of a person's attractiveness to mosquitoes.

Google: Is it okay to blame my parents for all my problems?
Answer: Only if you want to rot in hell for eternity.

She decided to cut back on the Googling

and live her best life.

Polly Wants A Flu Shot

Dear SJG,
I'm thinking about getting the flu shot today, but I'm afraid I might get the flu from the shot. I'm torn and bewildered and not all that well-informed. I heard you've got a medical degree from a little-known boutique med school in Sherman Oaks. What are your thoughts?
Thanks,
Already Feeling Achy

Dear Achy,

My medical degree from the prestigious SJG School of Hypochondria qualifies me to answer any and all health-related questions and act like I know what I'm talking about, even though I get most of my info from WebMD. But then, doesn't everybody? The world is divided into two categories. Those who get the flu shot and those who don't. I get the shot because it's written in the Torah that I must, and I do what the Torah tells me to do. I'm that kind of Jew.

God forbid the flu shot doesn't kick in the second you get it, and you're exposed to the virus as you leave CVS. You wind up with the flu. I have it on good authority (my own) that this rarely happens, but leave it to you, Achy, to be the one person it happens to, and then, knowing you, you'll tell everyone, "I got the flu shot and got the flu," and now, thanks to you, no one gets the shot and everyone gets sick and guess whose fault it is? Yours. What kind of person are you, anyway?

My advice: Get the shot. Just get it. Why are we even having this conversation? And as an added precaution, never leave your house. That way you'll never get the flu. You might be lonely, but you'll have your health, and that's everything.
You're welcome,
The SJG

Cures For The Common Keppy

With no known cure in sight for the common keppy, burdened with the contagious symptoms of life, and all the miscellaneous mishegas that comes with the territory, the SJG, a giver by nature, an over-thinker since birth, would like to offer three tips to ease the suffering.

1. Blow Your Shofar Often. Not an actual shofar, unless you happen to have one socked away for the High Holidays, which will be here sooner than soon. If you have an ancient ram's horn, mazel tov. Use it with pride. Otherwise, blow your shofar, metaphorically. Toot your own bugle. Brag, boast, feel good. Make some noise, people. Speak up. Vent. Geshrei at the top of your lungs. Staying silent is the best way to grow neurosis. Suppression isn't your friend. Trust me on this. How do you think I ended up so angsty?

2. Problem-Solve In Yiddish. You'll make a less stupid decision if you insert oy vey and oy gevalt into the equation. Curse those who drive you nuts, including estranged relatives, no names mentioned, the SJG is far too classy for that, in the language your grandparents spoke in front of you, in hopes you didn't understand diddly, but you picked up plenty and translated later. Plus insults are more cathartic in Yiddish. Example? Ale tsores vos ikh hob oyf mayn hartsn, zoln oysgeyn tsu zayn kop. So much better than, "All problems I have in my heart, should go to his head." Thinking in Yiddish (okay fine, in any foreign language) helps to separate your mind from your emotions and analyze a situation more clearly. Cursing in Yiddish is the cherry on top. Marie Kondo that kaka, capiche?

3. Gargle With Chicken Soup. It couldn't hurt. But don't be an idiot. Let it cool down first. Swishing around Bubbe's Magic Pesach Potion will unclog your mind, moisten your mood, and bring temporary relief to all that dysfunction you're schlepping in your psyche.

via GIPHY