For You, Some Jewish Halloween Hexes

May you be a person of leisure, take a daily nap and may the lice in your shirt marry the bedbugs in your mattress and may their offspring set up residence in your underwear.

May you enjoy a good time with plenty of good Vodka and may your blood turn to whiskey, so that 100 bedbugs get drunk on it and dance the mazurka in your belly button.

May you be so enamored of good food that you turn into a blintz, and may your enemy turn into a cat, and may he eat you up and choke on you, so we can be rid of you both. 

May you turn into a centipede with ingrown toenails, may onions grow in your navel and may you lie in the earth and bake bagels.
http://www.aish.com/j/fs/Yiddish_Curses_for_the_New_Millennium.html

The Haunted Dental Office

Sometimes they make you wait a while. 

The door of my dentist's office, crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape, carried a warning sign: Enter With Caution. Standard operating procedure for anyone encountering "Stephen King's The Dental Zone," where the possibility of a deadly root canal lurks in every corner. Good thing I was only there for a fitting. I'm so skilled with the teeth grinding that I'd managed to crack the bottom of my night guard yet again. One look at Spooky Skeleton Guy in the waiting room gave me pause. Had they lured me here for something more sinister? On top of which, it was Funny Hat Day. God knows I look funny in a hat. I would've played along. A dental assistant in a Winnie The Pooh beanie waved hello and ushered me into the tiny room, quoting her favorite Disney character. "As soon as I saw you, I knew an adventure was going to happen." I sat in the chair and she put a nice schmear of numbing solution on my gums. "I didn't ask for that." "Shhhh, it's on the house." Then my dentist appeared. As she picked up the top part of my night guard, marveling that I hadn't mangled it, she dropped it on the floor. "Oops," she said. I thought I saw her head spin.

Had they laced the numbing solution with something hallucinogenic? Were Heffalumps and Woozles in my near future, or was I just being paranoid? Yeah, a little. The haunted moment gave way to hilarity, as the room filled with folks in dental scrubs and funny hats. There was a lot of "How many dentists does it take to find a night guard?"

"It's right there." "That's a dust bunny." "Move the cabinet." 

"There's the penny I lost last week."

I climbed out of the chair and joined the fruitless search. The elusive item had been sucked into a black hole, never to be seen again. "Looks like someone's getting a new set of night guards," my dentist said. "I've never been happier." I left with a shiny appliance destined for destruction, and my sanity more or less in tact.

A Playdate With The SJG

How often does a punim like this come around? 

Three years ago today, a certain spunky squirrel-chaser dropped by for a playdate. Back then, the nice gal who rescued him from a shelter described him as Blake, a Lab-Boxer. In reality, he's more of a hodgepodge for 20, part human, part canine, part your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine. Our vet still can't figure out his questionable lineage. "He's a wonderful dog, leave it at that." Blake quickly earned the title of Sir Blakey, a more dignified moniker, don't you agree? 

He's highly kissable.

Three years ago today, he spent an afternoon deciding whether to adopt us. We loved him, instantly, and he seemed pretty taken with us, too, or maybe it was just our backyard. The playdate went so well that he agreed to a sleepover. Not that he actually slept. Not that we slept, either. When he wasn't standing up in bed, he was turning around, licking my face, licking hubby's face, licking himself, getting up again, lying down and spreading across the mattress. These days, he makes it all the way to 5 a.m., 5:20, if we're lucky. Good boy! Trust me, the bounty of joy, hilarity and affection is well worth the occasional sleep deprivation. We're so glad he made up his mind to stay. Best decision ever.

The Etiquette Police

It's true, etiquette was drummed into me at an early age. It was all about the please and thank you and being a good little girl to the point of absurdity. Of course, ever since email, texting and cell phones, the whole concept of etiquette has pretty much gone out the window, along with courtesy and respect. At this point, you may be thinking, gee the SJG sure sounds... what's the word I'm searching for?... oh, yes. Old. I know, I know. And the place it gets the best of me is dance class. In dance class, there are certain inherent rules the teacher expects student to observe: respect, courtesy and your full, undivided attention. When students ignore dance class etiquette, I go a little meshuggie. I try not to say anything, but it's so challenging. Take Sunday, if you will. The aging, elegant jazz gals found ourselves at an unfamiliar studio due to a lost time slot at our usual place. While the owner showed our beloved teacher, nearly 81 years young, the sound system, a certain gal, someone who recently reemerged after a three or four year absence, kept yakking on her cell phone. Uh oh. In rapid succession, my metaphorical tutu bunched up, my close friend Trixie (not her real name, not even close) looked at me, and I went all Miss Manners.

Note to self

"Can you take that outside?" I whispered politely to the cell phoner. "Don't tell me what to do," she said, flashing a freaky-psycho killer-smile. Yikes. I've known her 15 years, at least. "I'm just asking you to please take your call outside." She shot me a venomous look and retreated outside. It was yet another lesson in picking my battles. Playing the Etiquette Cop only bought me aggravation, and who doesn't have enough of that, already?

In The Name of Candy

Judge: Short Jewish Gal, you have been found guilty of scarfing Halloween candy on the day before Halloween. Do you have anything to say before I sentence you?
SJG: Yes, your honor. I can think of worse crimes. Gorging on Reese's and M&M's, plain and peanut, isn't going to hurt anyone but myself.
Judge: Is that all you have to say?
SJG: No, your honor. I would also like to say that I had every intention of not opening up those seductively delicious Halloween treats, but when it comes to the fun size, I'm powerless. I simply lose all control. It's unbecoming, I know, but I can't help myself. Of course, I promised myself that this year would be different, that this year I would show some restraint, but in the end, your honor, I surrendered. And now... now... oh, it pains me to confess, but confess, I must. It's true, I've dishonored myself and my entire family, living, not living, and/or estranged, and I'm significantly ashamed. My candy-chomping was senseless and reckless and wrong. On top of which, all that sugar I consumed, as though demonically possessed, will surely make my rapidly aging teeth fall out, if, God forbid, you send me to Candy Jail, where I hear they don't have good dental.
Judge: Very well, Short Jewish Gal. I hereby sentence you to --
SJG: Pardon me, your honor, I'd like to add one more thing, if it's okay by you.
Judge: I'll allow it.
SJG: Just between us, none of this is my fault.
Judge: Whose fault is it, then?
SJG: Longtime hubby's.
Judge: And why is it his fault?
SJG: He bought the candy too early.

(10-31-18)

To Be Or To Become, That's The Question

Dear SJG,
Something has been bothering me for a long-ass time and I thought I'd turn to you for clarification. Being and becoming. What's the dealio?
Thanks,
To Be Or To Become In Brentwood

Dear To Be Or To Become,

I'm so happy with this question, I could scream. But I'm saving my scream for Halloween, so instead I'll just clap loudly and tell you what I've come up with at this stage of the game. It's based on nothing in particular. It's not Shakespearean, it's not psychological. It's not endorsed by Plato, Gandhi or Golda Meir:  Sometimes it's nice just to be. To sit there and gaze at your pipik, or if you prefer, pupik, and do absolute bupkis. To be is to exist in your own little happy bubble. No one bothers you, you don't bother anyone. You're just there, making your way, being you, accepting yourself "as is." As in, okay, this is me. I'm cool with that. Whether you're in Brentwood or Brooklyn, if you can just be, that's a wonderful, Zen-like thing. Of course, most humans can't just let ourselves be. We need to become something better. We put a lot of energy into becoming more of... take your pick. We keep trying to change when the original version is totally fine. At some point, it's enough already with all the becoming and the evolving. This is me. Take it or leave it.
You're Welcome, 
The SJG 

Postal Disturbances

Here's what I've learned. The postman never rings twice. The postwoman never rings twice. Sometimes the postal people ring once. But they never ring twice. Sometimes they knock once. But they never knock twice. Here's something else I've learned. Sometimes the mail people never arrive at all. I'm not talking Sundays or holidays. I'm talking Monday. I went to the mailbox. I opened it. Nothing. All day, I kept going back. I kept looking. It became a sick obsession. A cruel joke. It wasn't the mail that mattered anymore. It was the principle of the thing.

The best part: Ring captured my entire performance. It's all recorded for posterity. The mounting frustration. The profanity. The futility of it all. There I am, opening the mailbox again, closing the mailbox again, only to find nada. No junk mail. No bills. No real estate postcards. No tempting offers of any kind. I gave it till 9 p.m. and then I gave up. So the next day, I called the post office right when they opened. The phone rang at least twice. And then, "Hello? This is Rosa." "Rosa, hi, I never got my mail." "Oh, no." "Rosa?" "Yes?" "Why didn't I get my mail?" "Did you put it on hold?" "No." "Did you change your address?" "No, Rosa." "Okay, let me check." "Thank you." Rosa put me on hold. I waited awhile and then she came back with an update. "I don't know what happened." "Oh." "Tomorrow, you'll get the mail." "What if I don't?" "Have a little faith." "I'll try." "You'll get it." "I hope so, Rosa. " "Me, too." The next day, the mail arrived. Just like Rosa said.

How To Be Scary Without Really Trying

With Halloween only a week away, if you're anything like the SJG, you want to make somewhat of an effort to scare the trick-or-treaters, but not that much of an effort, because at the end of the day, if we're being a little too honest, you don't really have it in you, now do you? Surely there must be ways to be look, act and sound scary without really trying. Here are a few...

1. Erev Halloween, pluck your eyebrows in the dark. What could possibly go wrong? Everything.  

You'll scare the bejesus out of the kiddies -- and most importantly, yourself -- without really trying. They say a nice jolt of adrenalin is good for the ticker, and here's a fun way to test that theory in real time. 

2. Fine, you don't want to mess with the eyebrows. I get it. Alternate plan. The morning of Halloween, don't brush your hair. Just don't. If you're anything like me, you'll wake up with crazy hair. Whip out the hair spray and freeze the moment of insanity. A word of caution: Don't leave the house all day. Someone at Gelson's might make a citizen's arrest, and you're already on parole for bad supermarket behavior. Why risk it?

3. Don't drink coffee on Halloween. Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Go through immediate, horrifying caffeine withdrawal.

You'll be acting witchy and climbing the walls before the first doorbell rings. 

4. What's that? You don't have the energy to look or act scary and as for giving up coffee, no way, they'll have to pry the cup out of your dead hands? Must you always go so dark? Sheesh. Relax. Your SJG understands you better than you understand yourself. You want the easiest-Halloweeniest shortcut available, and if I can't offer it to you, who can? No one, that's who. Let's face it, I'm the only one who's always there for you. Sad!

No worries, no judgment, here it is on a silver platter of candy. Take your daily scream, you know, the one you reserve for those private hellish moments in the car when someone cuts you off in traffic or does something equally dumb. Take that scream and bump up the volume. Bump it way up, people. When you open the door, scream, holler, channel your worst repressed childhood memories. Finish with a spooky, unhinged, altogether maniacal laugh.

If that doesn't send 'em running down the driveway, sans candy, nothing will. Trust me, there's no need for a costume when the necessary tools are already painfully embedded in your soul. We're talking win-win.

Even better, I'm giving you a week to practice. You're welcome.

Ignorer In Chief

(Sherman Oaks) The international blogging sensation that is the Short Jewish Gal has just appointed herself Ignorer In Chief. "Let's face it, it's a highly coveted position," she told reporters gathered in her kitchen on account of the free coffee and bagels. "What, no lox?" kvetched Shlomo Gefiltavitz from OyVey.com. Rather than answer Gelfitavitz, the SJG ignored him. "See what I did there?" she asked the other reporters. "I was hoping for rugelach," noted Larry Unleavened of MatzohMan.com.

The SJG looked right past him. "This is me ignoring you, Mr. Unleavened, and you, and you, the one hoarding the Half and Half. Why am I ignoring you? I'll tell you why. Because I've decided to ignore all the annoying, head-scratching, scary if not terrifying stuff going on in the world. In this way, I hope to stay sane." "Why don't you just call yourself Denier In Chief?" asked Marvin Mogen David of The Daily Pipik Gazer. "Next question," the SJG said.

Vampires, Ghosts & Thieves

Some of the people in this photo I'm either related to, married to, 

or adore like crazy. I leave it to you to figure it out who's who.

Well, what can I say? Another party, another disguise, another reason to dress up, or at least in my case, make a tiny effort, thanks to a leftover gold mask (finder's keepers!) that I managed to keep on my aging punim for 10 minutes, a personal record. Let's face it, when my brother John throws a Halloween Bash, aka VamPirates Ahoy, you know it's going to be more fun than you should be allowed in one lifetime. So you get in the car, you go, and you scream a lot in between hysterical laughter.

Plus, John invites the most interesting guests, like this headless guy here. "I'm so glad you made a new friend," I said. "Ahoy, matey," John said, "get ya, goin', you're holding up the tour."

Here's Lucky the Pirate, getting into character. The dog has quite a left hook. Get it? 

I mean, come on, are Scotty and Meg the cutest (and possibly the only) VamPirates you've ever encountered? The correct answer is yes. 

Oh dear God, what sort of fresh hell lurks within this haunted shower? Don't ask. It's the stuff of nightmares, I tell ya. 

This spooky/foggy shot comes to you courtesy of someone's very old iPhone. No names mentioned. Hint: It belongs to my brother. But isn't it worth it just to see Char, my adorable, always-up-for-a-party mother-in-law? Not to mention my cuzzy Andy and Lucas, his doctor-in-training son? Also featured as an added bonus: the unmasked SJG and a scary pirate with fangs. You're so welcome. 

Hmm. John did his best to block us from leaving. "You're not going." "We're going." "I'll bite you." "You better not." "Boo!" he said, and leaned in. I made a run for it. And so ends another great early Halloween. Same time, next year (assuming we're invited).

Lost In A Masquerade

Excuse me, what kind of madness is this, and why weren't you invited?

It was young people only, that's why. Well, except the two aging boomers in the kitchen. Last night, the masked millennials descended on the Palatial Estate to celebrate the second anniversary of Billy & Chloé. The reason for the masks was never fully explained, other than, "It's fun, Ma."

So longtime hubby and I played along. He kept his mask on practically the whole evening. I wore mine for approximately two minutes before I ripped it from my face and said, "I can't eff'n stand this thing." Subtlety, not my strong suit.

These two lovelies, Meg and Chlo-Chlo, rescued what will now go down in family history as Le Croque-En-Botch. Or if you prefer, The Towering Cream Puff Disaster. You see, the lovebirds wanted a replica of their wedding Croque-en-bouche, and whatever they want, we fully endorse. Alas, the trouble began when the caterer's assistant arrived and realized les choux weren't staying put. It was the kind of moment that would've received huge scorn on any of your favorite baking shows. "Call 911," someone short said. Someone else said, "I'm calling the baker." Tout de suite, an unhappy baker arrived with a blow torch. "Who did this?" she asked. "It was perfect when I made it this morning." Dead silence. "Did you refrigerate it?" Nothing. "You have to refrigerate it!" And then, finally, "I need sugar, I need water, I need a pot, STAT!" Then she started in with the caramelizing and the surgical reattachment of the tumbled cream puffs. Forty-five minutes later, she declared the operation a success. She forgot to add "brief." Five minutes after she left, the cream puffs once again started plopping on the table. 

"It's a Croque-En-Botch," Billy said. "It's a Pièce de Catastrophe," I echoed. Meg told us all to calm down. She knew what to do, and did she ever. The only solution was the deconstruction, one cream puff at a time. Yet plastic plates of choux would not do!

I stood back, stopped my croque-en-bitching and watched in awe as Chloé and Meg made this totally-repurposed dessert happen, as if by magic. It was totally delish and no one would've known about the near-debacle if we hadn't pointed it out to anyone who'd listen. There were a lot glazed over, why are you telling me this, croque-en-what-now? expressions, but we knew a miracle had occurred, and that's all that mattered. In conclusion, happy 2nd wedding anniversary, Billy and Chlo. Who knows what next year will bring?

What-Iffers Unite

Leader: The Association of What-Iffers will now come to order. Who'd like to go first? Don't everyone raise their hands at once. Well, if no one is going to volunteer, I'll just pick someone. The short one in the back. Come on up, stand right here, where everyone can judge you, harshly and start over-sharing. Hang on, don't talk yet. Let's make sure the spotlight illuminates all your flaws. Okay, go.
Participant: Hi, I'm the Short Jewish Gal.
Group: Hi, SJG.
Participant: I'm not very comfortable with public speaking.
Leader: There are only five of us here today. Get over yourself and start talking.
Participant: What if I can't think of anything to say?
Leader: That's never stopped you before.
Participant: What if you get bored?
Leader: We're already there.
Participant: What if you get so bored you fall asleep and start snoring? Then I won't be able to concentrate. What if I just stand here, staring out into space, and you get so freaked out, you call the paramedics, but the paramedics never show up, and I spend the rest of my life as a zombie?
Leader: Zombies are very big right now. Maybe someone will build a TV show around you. Short Jewish Zombie. Maybe you'll finally find that dose of fame you've been craving your entire life.

Participant: I've never craved fame, just a little recognition, just a thank you now and then. Is that too much to ask?
Leader: Yes. Well, this has been truly riveting, SJG. Next?
Participant: I have one more question. What if I never stop what-iffing?
Leader: Then you'll keep showing up to our meetings and renewing your membership, which, by the way, you're past due.
Participant: What if you give me something resembling helpful advice?
Leader: You want some advice, here it is. I stole it out of a book on anxiety. "Turn your what-ifs into so whats."
Participant: That's it?
Leader: Yes.
Participant: Hey, that's pretty good. As in, so what if the earth opens up and swallows me whole? So what if I get hit by lighting? So what if I wake up and discover I've grown an extra toe?
Leader: Next.

The Eenie-Meenie Of It All

An early morning conversation with my brother John:
"Hellody?"
"So I was setting up for Halloween..."
"Of course, you were."
"And out of nowhere I thought of that thing Mom taught us how to say it when we were kids. Remember?"
"Give me a hint."
"Eenie meenie..."
"Oh, yeah."
"Deza-meenie..."
"Deza-meenie?"
"Oooh walla oooh walla meenie..."
"There's a solla-meenie in there."
"Ex-a-meenie, solla-meenie... ooh wah ooh wah... bee billy oat'n doat'n... bee bopp'n ditt'n datt'n... shhhh - ahhh."
"Wow, I can't believe you remember all that."
"I can't believe you don't."

At Home In The Hamptons

Longtime hubby and the SJG really don't like to brag, but this weekend, we popped over to the Hamptons and bought a fabulous spread just because it felt right. I'm sorry, what's that? We did not purchase a palatial East Coast spread? Oh, you know what? You're absolutely right. Okay, fine, we visited the most spectacular home in the Hamptons, straight out of a magazine, and in my opinion, it was almost as good as owning one. Emphasis on "almost." Why? I'll tell you why. Because our wonderful friends Mark and Kiki made us feel so at home. Accompanying us on the flight east were Eric and Linda. Ned and Helen flew in on a different flight and we all wound up just where we were meant to be. Yes, it was our "Big Chill" reunion weekend, what with the singing and dancing and wine. But no eulogies, unless you count four gals mourning our collective loss of collagen.

Here are the devastatingly handsome menfolk, who demanded I take this photo, or maybe I didn't take it, but it was on my phone, so I'm taking credit. Lounging poolside: Mark, the host with the most, Eric, Howie hovering overhead, and Ned. These guys have been friends since junior high and how great is it that they're still close friends? So great.

The sea was angry that day, my friends. On our first outing to Flying Point, the tide tried to take me. It tried so hard to pull me under that I got wet. I went boom. There was sand in places sand shouldn't go. But listen, I got back up again, and in life, isn't that all that matters? In theory, yes.

And speaking of Theory, here I am in front of the store that replaced Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa shop. Dear God in heaven, it felt so good to be "this close" to the former Ina shrine in Easthampton. It would've felt even better to "bump" into Ina and Jeffrey on the street, wish them Shana Tova and give Ina a grateful hug for all of her yummy recipes. And believe me, we tried. We went searching for Ina and all we got was this shot of me in front of Theory. I refused to enter on principle. A salesgal at Bloomies once said this, after giving me the once-over: "I'm really sorry, but you're not a Theory girl." Well I never!

The lovely Linda likes to color coordinate with the artwork wherever she roams, and she pulls it off, splendidly. In the other room, the men are watching football. They did that a lot this weekend.

Hmm. What's going on in this photo that's appropriately blurred so as not to shock the young'uns? Aw, yes. Helen, generally a delightful gal of gentle spirit, appears to be flipping off the SJG, after I repeatedly accused her of stealing my phone. "I did not," she said. "You did, too," I said. Let's just say that somehow, my crappy old phone wound up in her coat pocket. Draw your own conclusions.

Ha ha. I got back at Helen by stealing this lovely shot of the sunset from her phone. So we're even. More or less.

Mark and Eric made some new friends this weekend.

Kiki, the gifted hostess with the mostess, overfed us all weekend and actually made these divine desserts. "Kiki! Stop! You're spoiling me," I told her, 82 times. "I'll never get over it. Never!" "You're welcome," she said. "Which dessert would you like?" "Duh." "Both?" I won't be stepping on the scale for a few days.

Well, sadly, at some point, you must return to reality. Before longtime hubby and I flew home, we stopped into the TWA terminal at JFK and waited for our flight. Good thing someone directed us to JetBlue or we might still be stuck in 1962.