Something Exciting

Look at this nice bunch of people. Are you looking? In this group, at our table, we have the SJG and longtime hubby Howie toward the back, and next to me, my wonderful brother John, devoted and delightful; next to John, Andy's sister Amy, gourmet cook extraordinaire, and then, front and center, we have my fabulous cuzzie Andy; his glamorous wife Allison, one table over toward the back, and at our table, their children, Levi the actor, Willa, the singer/songwriter, and Lucas, the future doctor, who, après turkey, told us about the upcoming workshop he's taking, a memorable moment whereby med students get up close and personal peeks at peeps who get paid to show their... well, I'm too refined to tell you, but I'll drop a hint: their nether regions. Or, if you prefer a more nautical term, Down Below. 

I'm fairly certain Lucas regrets telling us about this hands-on workshop, but listen, he opened the door and we walked in. Of course, we had many great suggestions, far too raunchy to mention here, and a few of us wondered how this modeling assignment passed us by. One of us may have said, "Why didn't my agent send me out for this job?" Not to be a prick or a total putz, but I'll leave the rest of the discussion to your imagination. Now then, also in this photo: at our table, my Aunt Elly, Andy's mom, and behind Allison at the other table, her mom Bonnie, her brother Jeff and (next to Lucas at our table) his wife Bonnie -- who came up with this seating arrangement? Then, back to the other table, Owen, Jeff's son, and Owen's two adorable sons, and by now, aren't you impressed that I even remember any of this? And, finally, toward the front, we have the children I birthed, Billy and Scotty, and Scotty's lovely girlfriend Meghan, and of course, my gorgeous daughter-in-law Chloé. 

Now look closer. Closer. Zoom right in on the French gal and her happy hubby. Something big is going on. Something exciting. Something that takes a while to hatch. More to come in May, kina hora. Specifically, a baby girl. Yep, your SJG is going to be a Grammala, the role I was born to play. I know, I know, I saved the best for last.

Happiness On Thanksgiving, You Should Have

Today, the SJG wants you should fress to your heart's delight without gaining so much as an ounce.

Today, the SJG wants you should remember all the things you're grateful for, and keep the things you're ungrateful for to yourself, because we're tired of your negativity.

Today, the SJG wants you should hug your people and never let go, unless they claim near-suffocation, in which case, release your grip a bissel.

What I'm trying to say is this: Happy Thanksgiving to all my bitches...

... and all my boychicks, too.

It's That Time of Year

Dear Short Jewish Gal,

The entire staff of Bring Your Own Booty (BYOB) looks forward to welcoming you for your upcoming procedure. Think of it as more of a spa treatment than an invasive butt probe. After completing your registration and agreeing not to sue us, you'll relax in the comfort of our aesthetically soothing, somewhat funereal waiting room. Soon Zelda The Psychic Nurse will escort you to the Zen Zone, where you'll change into a gossamer gown and share the name of someone you'd like Zelda to contact on the Other Side, in case you should plotz, God forbid, during your "cleanse." Not to worry. Once Zelda zetzes you with a nice intravenous sedative, your fears will drift away like leaves on a stream. 

Buh-bye fears

A friendly reminder: No noshing or drinking anything after 9 p.m. the night before. Make sure there's bupkis in your belly. Leave your fancy jewelry at home. At this point, nothing impresses us. Bring cash, lots of it, a check or a credit card to satisfy your financial obligations. You didn't think insurance covers all of this, did you? Most importantly, we encourage you to brush your teeth and shower/bathe before you arrive. We're very sensitive to unpleasant auras, especially Zelda. 

Kindly,

Your Friends at BYOB

Down Dog

So, here's the evidence, all the proof I need that a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage insists on participating in my physical therapy exercises. I don't remember requesting a furry workout buddy. I wonder if my insurance covers that. Probably not. My daily routine goes like this: I lie down, he hovers over me and starts in with the lickies and the kisses. And sometimes, well, his breath isn't, how you say, minty fresh. No matter how many times I command him in my most authoritative voice, "Stop, Mommy loves you, move over, Cookie Bear, get up, Sweet Patootie," doe he listen? Let me think about that. No. He does not. This lack of cooperation also explains why my cheap yoga mat smells very-very doggy. He picks up his special scent and it's Down Dog for days. I know, I know. There's no winning this particular battle. Just between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Turkey Etiquette

Dear SJG,
My office is throwing a Thanksgiving costume party on Wednesday. I'm thinking of going as my lame-ass boss, the biggest turkey on the planet. Thoughts?
Thank you,
Mable in accounting

Dear Mable,
Great idea. I say go for it. Maybe he's so dumb, he won't realize you're rudely ridiculing him. Or maybe he's smarter than you think. Play it safe and put together a box of your personal belongings in case they escort you out of the building.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
This year, I'm schlepping from Reseda to Riverside for Thanksgiving. According to my traffic app, I should pack an overnight bag and leave now. But that's not even the main issue. The invite says "Sing For Your Supper." I can't sing for ka-ka and don't want to embarrass myself in front of my snooty-patootie second cousins, the Warbling Yentas. Any thoughts on how I can save face?
Thanks,
Gratitude Challenged

Dear Challenged,
Here's what you do. Make a duplicate of the invite, but reverse the 'n' and the 'g' and bring it with you, along with your legal representative. When your host complains about the extra guest, just say, "This is Morty Epstein, my attorney. The invite clearly states Sign For Your Supper. See? Morty brought along all the necessary documents. Oh, and he doesn't mind sitting at the kids' table."
You're Welcome,
The SJG

My Latest Challenge

Generally speaking, as opposed to phonetically speaking, I'm an honest gal most of the time, except for those rare moments when I fudge a bit. Let's say I'm in the market, and a Friendly Food Sample Demonstrator asks me, "Would you like to try a Hot Cheetos-Encrusted Vegan Chicken Nugget?" "That sounds revolting," sounds too cruel. "That sounds interesting, maybe I'll circle back later," sounds better, even though I'd rather eat dirt. Sometimes it's easier not to give a straight answer.

A gal who isn't me. 

And speaking of straight, sometimes it's not so easy to stand up in a vertical direction, am I right? My back's gone out twice in the last three weeks, of course I'm right. Plus, it's a nice segue. The exciting discovery that I have two bulging discs in my lower back means I'm in physical therapy. Yay! It's going well. I'm now free to move about the palatial estate without screaming in agony. The only problem -- my physical therapist can't stop ma'aming me. "You're a mess, but don't worry, ma'am, I'm going to fix you." "Okay, ma'am, lie down on the heating pad, I'll be back in five." "Time for a deep tissue massage, ma'am." "Do 20 pelvic tilts and we're done for today, ma'am."

In all honesty, I haven't decided whether to mention the "ma'am" thing, even though it bugs the bejeezus outta your SJG. Other options I'm considering: "Sir" him till he gets the hint? "Yes, Sir, no, Sir, what do I do, Sir?" "Seinfeld" him till he gets the hint? "Oh yeah, Carol's ready. Check Carol out. Carol's got some new moves." "Idina Menzel" the situation?

But when have I ever been able to be so Zen? The more you tell me to let it go, the more I'll hang on for dear life. So for now, I think I've made my decision. Would you like to know what it is?

A Visit From Dino

Brace yourself. Last night, I forgot to turn off my cell phone. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I don't know why. What I do know is this. When the ting-a-ling-a-ling woke up longtime hubby, Sir Blakey and me around 4 a.m., Dean Martin popped into my crowded keppy and before I knew it, I was changing the lyrics to "That's Amore." Apologies to Harry Warren, Jack Brooks, and of course, Dino.

When the ding on your phone wakes you up with its tone,
That's annoying
When the guy on your right tends to snore every night,
That's annoying
Phones will ring, ting-a-ling-a --

"Can you not sing right now?"
"Was I singing?"
"Uh, yeah."
"I thought I was think-singing."
"You were singing-singing."
"How'd I sound?"

And now this:

Santa Sighting

It's true, I've seen many strange things in my neighborhood. An abandoned piano. An abandoned scrunchie. An abandoned poopy bag. But yesterday, I saw something really memorable. Allow me to set the scene. There I was, stiff back and all, needing a nice walkie to remind myself that I could still function as a human. "Who wants to walk with me?" No takers. So I guilted the eldest. "Let's check out that open house." "I'm watching football." "Please! It'll be fun."
Oh what fun it turned out to be. Two blocks away, I spotted him.
"Look honey, it's Santa."
"He's probably dragging his drunk ass to the mall."
"You think he's drunk?"
"He's weaving."
"So? His suit's probably heavy, and it's not easy to walk in those clunky boots."
"He's drunk, Ma. Santa's a drunk."
"Okay, fine, whatever. Just hurry up and take a photo of him with your fancy iPhone."
"I don't have it."
"You always have it."
"I left it at the house. You take it."
"@#$%! I don't have mine, either."

The perfect Instagrammable moment, worthy of countless "likes," so out of context on a 90-degree Sunday. Without photographic evidence, how could I prove, once and for all, that Santa lives, not in the North Pole, but right here in Sherman Oaks? Thank God there were no little kids around to see Santa climbing into a crappy old Toyota, as opposed to a sled, without the requisite reindeer and big red bag of gifts. It would've ruined their entire belief system. Think of the therapy bills. Even though I didn't achieve the Cutest Selfie Ever, or muster the mobility to catch up and offer Santa a nice cold glass of lemonade, I did get to wave hello and get a jolly wave back. And as he drove away, I couldn't help noticing his license plate:

So, maybe not the real Santa. But close enough for me. 

The Ultimate SJG Quiz

1. The SJG threw her _____ out, which explains her recent blog shortage.
a. dignity
b. back
c. garbage

2. The SJG's all-time motto is "Life is _____."
a. funny
b. strange
c. life

3. The SJG was born in a _____.
a. spaceship
b. Oldsmobile
c. shoe

4. The SJG believes a little shot of _____ goes a long way.
a. tequila
b. laughter
c. penicillin

5. When the SJG was three and a half years old, she fell off a  _____.
a. Broadway stage
b. tree
c. bed

6. When she fell, the SJG broke her _____.
a. leg
b. collarbone
c. Chatty Cathy

7. The SJG can't function without three cups of _____ a day.
a. water
b. coffee
d. Vodka

8. In January, the SJG will turn ___.
a. 39
b. 62
c. 92

9. The SJG met longtime hubby in _____.
a. Junior High
b. Juvie Hall
c. Jerusalem

10. The SJG considers _____ her personal homeland.
a. Bloomingdales
b. Gelson's
c. Leila's Hair Museum

The Rabbi and the Parrots

"Nu?"

One day, Betty approaches her Rabbi after the service and says to him, "Rabbi, I have a problem.  I have two female talking parrots, but they only know how to say one thing." "What do they say?" the Rabbi asks.
"They only know how to say, 'Hello, we're prostitutes, want to have some fun?'"
"Why, that's terrible!" the Rabbi says, "but I have a solution to your problem. Bring your two female parrots over to my house tomorrow and I will put them with my two male talking parrots whom I taught to pray and read Hebrew. My parrots will teach your parrots to stop saying that terrible phrase and your female parrots will learn to praise and worship."
"Oh thank you, Rabbi," Betty says.
The next day she brings her female parrots to the Rabbi's house. His two male parrots are wearing tiny yamulkes and praying in their cage. Betty puts her two female parrots in with the male parrots and the female parrots say, "Hello, we're prostitutes, want to have some fun?"
One male parrot looks over at the other male parrot and exclaims, "Our prayers have been answered!"

Sadie was a Reuters journalist. One year, she was assigned to their Jerusalem office and her apartment overlooked the Wailing Wall. On her first morning, as she was getting ready to go to the office, she looked out her window and saw an old man praying vigorously, his head bobbing up and down rapidly. So Sadie, seeing an interesting story in the making, went down to talk to him. "How often do you come here to pray?"
"Every day," he said. "I have come here to pray on this spot every day for the last 20 years."
"You come every day to the wall? What are you praying for?"
"I pray for peace in this angry world in the morning. Then I go home, have my lunch, and come back in the afternoon. Then I pray for a world free of illness and disease."
Sadie is amazed. "How do you feel coming here every day for 20 years and praying for these things?"
The old man looks at her, sadly. "Like I'm talking to a wall."
http://www.awordinyoureye.com/jokes18thset.html

Once Upon A Garden

The SJG in her garden

Once upon a time, I used to water the garden. I used to plant the pretty flowers. I used to make the front yard pretty. I used to make the back yard pretty. With my bare hands and my unmanicured nails, I dug in the dirt. I snipped. I clipped. I dead-headed. I shoveled. I sweated plenty on behalf of the greenery, believe you me. And though I never achieved anything quite like this...

Or God forbid...

This...

I did feel at one with Mother Nature.

But then, a new phobia emerged. Silly me, I'd left a vacancy for a fresh fear to creep in and take a nice big bite of my sanity.  

After the epic untelevised battle of Sir Blakey...

Vs. the Rat...

... and the ensuing Flea/Mosquito Infestation of 2017 that prompted me to nearly scratch myself into oblivion, I thought nothing would ever be quite so awful. I was mistaken.

This summer, a new kind of invader threatened my well-being. The Asian Tiger mosquito became my personal nightmare. This lil sonofabitch brought out the worst of the worst in me, permanently transforming me into... 

... the angriest garden gnome in history.  

Tiptoe Into Yoga

Tiptoe into yoga

Into yoga, that is where I'll be
Come tiptoe into yoga with me

Oh, tiptoe up the stairway

Up the stairway with my rolled-up mat 

And tiptoe into yoga with me 

Let's pose like cats, dogs and trees

Bow our heads, oh, pretty please

And if I'm tardy in the morning and running late

Will you pardon me?
And tiptoe into yoga with me

A Look of Alarm

This morning, longtime hubby stared in the direction of the formal dining area and looked rather alarmed.
"Honey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Thanksgiving's in three weeks."
"This much, I know."
"Yet I see no evidence of the holiday unfolding in our aging palatial estate."
"Such as?"
"The ceremonial schlepping of the chairs from the garage."
"You left out 'back-breaking.' What else?"
"No obsessive-compulsive, early bird setting of the table."
"Tables. Plural."
"No Amazonian ordering of nice-looking, eco-friendly disposable napkins."
"I prefer to call them fancy fake napkins. Go on."
"No reserving of the already-brined Trader Joe's turkey."
"Turkeys. Plural. They don't let you reserve them."
"Oh, right."
"Have I taught you nothing, man of my dreams?"
"More than I can ever thank you for."
"You're welcome."

"Does this mean what I think it means?"
"What do you think it means, devoted spouse?"
"We don't have to do Thanksgiving?"
"You got that right, mister. It's not our turn."
"What say we celebrate with a little bit of Sherry?"
"At 8 a.m.?"
"It's 5 o'clock somewhere."

Looking For Some Hot Stuff

When the lovely Nadine offered to schlep down to the Pantages a few months back and pick up four tickets for "Summer: The Donna Summer Musical," Carrie, Joan and I raised our aging goddess disco hands in approval. Last night, we met up for a nice nosh and a sip of Pinot Grigio before planting our tushies in our cushy seats.

Then I opened the program, went "uh oh" and broke the news to the gals. "No intermission." A collective look of moderate panic washed over their gorgeous punims. One of us sprang up, headed up the aisle and came right back. Oh, the cruelty of it all. There wasn't enough time to hit the loo. In hindsight, a nearly two-hour musical with no intermission might've been a sign. Sometimes people leave at intermission and keep going. I'm just sayin'.

"Summer" is a crowd pleaser, a fun night out, entertaining, but as a show, so-so. There are three versions of Donna to keep track off, often on stage at the same time, a lot of "and then I did this, and then I did that" uninspired narration, and some really head-scratching, random song selections. Her dark times and troubled relationships, along with some Born Again controversies she sparked along the way, deserve exploration but appear like footnotes. Still, when the hits come, "Love To Love You Baby," "MacArthur Park," "On The Radio," "She Works Hard For The Money," "Hot Stuff" and "Last Dance," it's hard not to clap and sing along and get lost on memory lane.