It's The Thought That Counts

"I can't wait to use it." "Me, too."

How do you pick the perfect holiday gift for the long-married, rapidly-aging parents who seemingly have everything? Well, if you're the youngest son and his lovely girlfriend, you tie a red ribbon round the Tushy Spa, aka Bum Wash, aka Booty Cleaner, and await the ensuing hilarity. For reasons only Siggy Freud could explain, as a family, we find bathroom issues really funny. I'm not sure where I went wrong in the parenting department, although I have a few ideas, but ultimately, I blame hubby for playing the classic "Pull My Finger" medley during the car ride to school. In any event, we laughed and expressed glee and said, "What an inspired gift! You know us so well! Thank you!" Personally, I couldn't wait to use it. Fast forward to Sunday morning. After various installation attempts, Howie, my resident plumber decided, a las, that the Tushy Spa wasn't compatible with our pipes. I had to break the news gently to Scotty. "Honey, I'm so sorry, it's not going to work out with our plumbing." "Sh*t."  "Don't be upset. We're re-gifting it to you and Meg." "We accept."

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Nittel Nacht

I'm sorry, a lot like what now? Nittel Nacht? Oh, please. It's Yiddish for Christmas Eve. But if you think the Short Jewish Gal finally broke down and got a Tannenbaum, you'd be mistaken. This pretty tree with all the gifts currently resides in the home of the marrieds and the grandbaby who brings me so much joy, I don't know what to do other than coo, hug and kvell. Given the circumstances we all find ourselves in, my lovely daughter-in-law Chloé...

... seen here looking radiant with Claire, rocking away in a remote lakeside cabin that our family may or may not have built thanks to a "Build Your Own Cabin" kit we found on amazon, can't travel to see her family. She's missing them so much, and the fact that they've yet to meet the baby doesn't help, that I'm trying my best to overcompensate and conjure up a French Christmas Eve. What do I know from Christmas Eve, French or otherwise? Bupkis. But Chloé has guided me, a la Rudolph: the gourmet meal involves seafood and champagne, cheese and baguettes, and French pastries I may or may not be making from scratch, but take a guess and there's your answer. All I know is, whatever lands on my kitchen island will get eaten, and just thinking about that fills me, preemptively, with a bissel holiday glee. At this point, I'll take it. 

The Wilds of Westwood

So many Hanukkah questions pouring in this morning, my head is spinning dreidel-wise. Today's query comes from Molly Blankstein of Tsuris Town, Pennsylvania:  "Hi SJG, how's ba you? Good, I hope. I was wondering if you could share some of your fondest Hanukkah memories from when you were a child."

Well, Molly, ask and ye shall receive a nice warm platter of freshly-made, metaphorical latkes. For some reason that I need to go back into therapy to pursue, I only have one very special Hanukkah memory from childhood. Just one, but it's a doozy. As a wee lass growing up in the wilds of Westwood, what with the chopping of the wood to keep the stove burning, and the schlepping eight or nine miles through the snow to shul, come Hanukkah, my family didn't go crazy celebrating the birth of Judah Maccabee. My parents scrapped together some gelt and maybe a few toys if Daddy sold a script, and did what they could to make their ungrateful... excuse me, grateful children happy. 

During the lean times, let's just say they got a little creative. Watching my mother ride in on her horse Sassy, carrying a giant gift-wrapped box that I knew in my heart was an Easy Bake Oven, was the Hanukkah highlight of my childhood. You see, Molly, I understood what she had to do to get that Easy Bake Oven. I won't go into too much detail, it's too painful, but I will say she served her time. I'll always treasure that one afternoon we spent together, cooking mini-cakes, pizzas and pretzels before the police came to cart my Easy Bake Oven, and my mom, away.

(A little blog I wrote a few years back when "to mask, or not to mask" wasn't a question.)

I'll Take Potpourri For $100

"I'll take Potpourri for $100, Alex." "This eight-word sentence sums up the on-going psychological fall-out from COVID-19."  "What is, 'The pandemic has induced an epidemic of anxiety.' " "You are correct, SJG. Mazel tov from the Great Beyond. Go again." "I'll take Potpourri for $200, Alex. And please, say hi to my folks if you bump into them." "I'll think about it. This seven-word sentence is exactly what your mother once said to me when she saw me in a restaurant." "What is, 'I didn't realize you were so short.' "You are correct, SJG. It hurt my feelings, but I got over it, quickly. Go again." 

"I apologize on her behalf. What can I say? Bluntness runs in the family. I'll take Potpourri for $300, Alex." "A mixture of dried, fragrant materials that provide a gentle scent, commonly in residential settings." 

"What is, 'Potpourri.' " "You are correct." "Or, as I like to think of it, Alex, the same fragrant materials that have been marking time in the same Italian glass bowl for at least 18 years. The other day, I found a clump of yellow dog hair, property of Dusty, our late yellow Lab, stuck between a dehydrated leaf and a withered rose petal, and oh my God, it made me so sad, I started to weep. But just like you, when my mom called you short, I got over the dog hair thing, quickly. By the way, I've been called short my whole life, and it hasn't stopped me from reaching great heights, or has it? Of course, it has. You should see what happens when I go to Gelson's and can't reach the top shelf and start jumping up and down and then my mask slips off and it's an epic shanda." "You've strayed way off topic. Go again, already, before we cut to commercial." "Okay, okay, let me say one last thing about the category." "Is it really necessary?" "Yes, very. Potpourri, in general, sums up the past eight months -- a mixture of tears and fears and feeling proud, to say I love you, right out loud, to all the nice people, the wonderful friends and family who've kept me going through this hodge-podge, cockamamie time." "That is correct. Go again." "No, that's okay, let someone else take a turn. I need to check on the cranberry sauce."

Socially Distanced

"Nu?" 

"Nada." 

"Same."

"Zooming?" 

"Yoga." 

"Zumba." 

"Writing?" 

"Some." 

"Good." 

"You?" 

"Yes."

"Cooking?" 

"Nightly." 

"Take-out." 

"Smart." 

"Ha!"

"Kids?" 

"Great."

"Folks?" 

"Old." 

"Oy."

"Grandbaby?" 

"Sweetest."

"Election?" 

"Scared." 

"Terrified." 

"Hopeful?" 

"Sorta." 

"Ditto." 

"Lunch?" 

"Maybe." 

"Patio?" 

"Possibly." 

"When?" 

"2021." 

"Kinehora."

"Hugs." 

"Kisses." 

"Bye." 

"Shalom." 

It's As Tab As Tab Can Be

Can a rapidly aging short Jewish gal feel sentimental over a can of diet soda? You bet your sweet bippy. At this moment in time, I can feel sentimental over anything. 

As Goldie Hawn says in "Private Benjamin," "I wanna go out to lunch. I wanna be normal again!" This pretty much sums me up, as I, along with everyone else, hang on by a very thin thread, waiting for the election and the Covid and basically, all the 2020 tsuris to be over already. 

So last week, when Coke announced it was finally dumping Tab, the pioneering diet soda for "beautiful people," the refreshing, guilt-free drink I consumed all through my school years, the news sent me back in time to the '70s, when we weren't the slightest bit worried about the chemicals that accompanied each delicious sip. Back then, who even knew about sunscreen? Not this sun worshipper, I can tell you that much.

No question, Tab was aimed at the female consumer, from pre-pubescence on, determined to stay slim and attractive no matter how many carrot sticks you ate and diets you tried. The message was clear. Tab was your salvation. It would make you so bloated you wouldn't need to nosh before dinner. Just drink Tab and that sassy confidence and perfect figure will appear. I bought into it early. I can see myself in my room on Lindbrook Drive, with the yellow shutters and the white wicker chair, sitting on one of my twin beds, contemplating my homework, listening to "a little bit of heaven, 94.7, KMET, a twiddle-dee," and sipping a glass of Tab. 

As the ice cubes slowly melted, I dreamed of running off with Loggins and/or Messina, either one was fine by me. And even though I haven't had Tab in years -- the last time I drank it, I remember it just didn't taste the same -- I embrace the memories and the quiet moments we shared. The 15 year old in me wishes you a safe journey to that big recycling bin in the sky. You lasted 60 years. Not bad for a can full of sass and god knows what else. 

Sir Blakey Meets His Match

Doesn't the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage look incredibly mild-mannered here, just lazing on the comfy sofa, wanting attention from the mommy who didn't actually birth him, although at times the SJG needs to be reminded of this reality? Rapidly approaching his made-up eighth birthday, at first glance, this so-called "Lab Mix," no doubt conjured in some mysterious outdoor laboratory, this rat-killer that once left a mouse he'd murdered on my pillow as a loving memento, this possum-hunter, would seem, at least in the above photo, completely reformed. Impossible to believe that our very own Sir Blakey would still embrace the sinking of his sharp fangs into a squirrel as his ultimate #lifegoals. 

And yet, these innocent assumptions would be dead wrong. I blame Halloween. This holiday brings out the monster in him. It unleashes the beast he mostly keeps at bay. Take yesterday. Out for an afternoon walky, I'd done my best to distract Blakey from all the spooky skeletons dangling from trees and planted in the front lawn graveyards that have popped up in the past few days. As they do annually, my neighbors are going all-out with the creepy, spine-tingling decor, even though trick-or-treaters will remain indoors, thanks to you-know-what. Heading home, I thought I'd dodged the worst of the fright night offenders, when suddenly, the dog bolted for the black cat eyeing him from the white picket fence. "Blakey! No!" I yelled. Undeterred, he growled, flashed his teeth, and rammed into that feline, full-force. As for the cat, it just stood there, frozen with a "come at me, bro" scowl. On account of its cardboard status. 

Emotional Disturbia

A few years back, one of my neighbors used to call during the High Holidays and leave a long rambling recorded apology. It went something like this: "Hi, this is Eddie from across the street, the one you always ignore. Perhaps I've offended you somehow. I don't know what I did to create such a bad vibe between us, but I thought I'd apologize, and then you can call me and apologize for ignoring me, like you're some big epis, and then we'll be even on a karmic level. If I've upset you in some way, I'm sorry. If I've been an inattentive neighbor, I'm sorry, even though I think I've been a pretty great neighbor. Remember that time I took out your trash cans? No thank you note, no gift. That's okay. It's Yom Kippur. Time to let old grudges go. Speaking of which, I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me for whatever the hell I did to unbalance your Chi, although for the life of me, I can't figure it out. I'm a Zen-like person, a spiritual dude, even if you don't think so. Just thought I'd open up a dialogue. I wish you and your family a gut yuntif. Namaste."

Clearly, Eddie expected me to call back, but I never did. This coming Monday, I'm going to sit in my office, admiring my RBG mask (if it arrives, God willing, along with all the other RBG merchandise I bought in a state of emotional disturbia) and atone via Zoom for not leaving the following long rambling recorded apology: "Uh, yeah, hi, Eddie. It's the SJG. Listen, dude, just because I drove by you that one time without waving hello doesn't mean I intentionally ignored you. I was trying not to run over a squirrel. Still, let me take this time to apologize to you, from the depths of my being, for not killing the squirrel so I could say hey, neighbor, and not hurt your feelings. If we're being honest here, I never asked you to take out our trash. You did that all on your own for that Unsolicited Mitzvah Day you inflicted on the entire neighborhood. I'm still trying to locate our trash cans. Where did you take them, Eddie? Give them back. It would be a blessing if you'd lose my number. Gut yuntif to you and yours."

Pretty, Pretty, Pretty Good

Things I'm feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good about on this Monday:

1. The Pand-Emmys, hosted by Jimmy Kimmel, even if I've never seen most of the shows that swept the virtual ceremony. How many shows am I supposed to binge in one pandemic? To date, I've only seen 3.5 episodes of "Schitt$ Creek." Why only 3.5? Well, certain things in the opening episodes made me laugh and others made me gag. Your SJG has a very low tolerance for grossness. Just ask my family. They know if a puke and/or icky bathroom moment is coming up, I must be warned and protected. Often I sense something icky is coming and cover my face with a large pillow, trusting that longtime hubby or one of the mensches I birthed a while back will say, "Don't lower the pillow yet," or "It's okay to lower the pillow now." This is how we've built a strong foundation of trust in our family. These people know that trickery will lead to marital threats and disinheritance. A caveat: When I watch alone ("Schitt$ Creek") I have no one to blame but myself. And yet, so many people have ordered me to keep watching "Schitt$ Creek" that I'm proceeding, slowly, in between all the other shows I'm schlepping my way through. 

2. Virtual Rosh Hashanah was nothing short of a technological miracle. I sang at the top of lungs and no one heard me (God willing?) other than Sir Blakey. I stood when I was told to and swayed back and forth and during lulls I organized my office and no one saw me (God willing?). Close to 300 temple members joined the Zoom Service and entertained me with non-stop chat messages that kept popping up at the bottom of the screen for nearly two hours. "There's an echo." "Is anyone else hearing the echo?" "I am!" "The echo's gone!" "Shana Tova from the Plotnicks!" "Can you see me on the screen?" "Yes." "How do I take myself off?" "Why is the rabbi getting political?" "Everyone stop talking. Pretend you're in temple." "Are you kidding? Everyone talks in temple. At least here you don't have to read the comments." "How do I get rid of them?" "Click the thing in the top corner." "What thing?" And on and on. I pretty much loved it all, especially seeing the nice rabbis on the bima and hearing the Shofar and the kids blowing their ram's horns in their little backyard boxes. 

Turn, Turn, Turn

3. Claire turning over for the first time qualifies as above and beyond pretty, pretty, pretty good. These days, it's the little things that keep me going. 

Concierge Grandma At Your Service

"Where's Grammala? Is that her pulling up in the driveway?" 

What exactly is a Concierge Grandma? I'm so glad you asked. A Concierge Grandma offers a high level of love and attention to her only grandchild, while occasionally skirting the strict napping rules set down by the new parents. Instead, a Concierge Grandma pretends to follow the whole "let her cry it out for 30 minutes before you get her from crib" thing, holding out as long as humanly possible, five minutes max, before grabbing baby girl from the crib and snuggling her in an effort to calm her down.

"Don't cry, Grammala is here."

This type of specialized spoiling goes by several names: Direct Grandmothering, Grandma-Based Care, Old-School Grandma, Grandma Knows Best, the afore-mentioned Concierge Grandma, and Grandma At Your Service. No matter what company you choose, know that grandmas are available 24-7, ready to hop in the car and be there within minutes, no matter the request. The Concierge Grandma will drop everything because a good grandma knows that when it comes to her grandbaby, any situation is an emergency.

What about Concierge Grandpa? Don't forget him. 

He's there too, sometimes. 

In regard to basic skills, not to worry, a Concierge Grandma, though rapidly aging as we speak, has retained a vast wealth of knowledge from her young mother stage, even if she can't remember what day it is. Some things, such as diapering, bottle feeding, lullabies, Mother Goose Rhymes, "Wheels on the Bus" and "Head & Shoulders, Knees & Toes" just never leave the keppy. 

"Where's the on/off button for this thing?" 

Other tasks may need a little patient instruction: "Turn the sound machine on by tapping it, gently on the side, Ma. Got it?" "Uh huh." Important reminder: remember to ask how to turn it off. You can only listen to ocean waves crashing on the shore for so long while baby cries before you lose your kaka. This is when Concierge Grandpa comes in handy. In such instances, all Concierge Grandma has to do is yell, "I can't turn this @#$%'n off!" and Concierge Grandpa comes running in to give the noise machine a good ol' smack and voila, the ocean uproar goes bye-bye. 

Of course, I'm saving the best part for last. Concierge Grandma charges bupkis. And it's worth every penny. 

A Glass of Pessimism

On this bizarro Labor Day 2020, longtime hubby and the SJG face an important decision. Do we go ahead and crack open the Pessimist, an alarmingly red blend longtime hubby recently discovered at Costco?

Do we wholeheartedly embrace the undeniable motto slapped on the label: "A pessimist is never disappointed"?

Do we pour ourselves a half-empty glass of well-traveled pessimism? Or pause the collective despair, the mounting fears, the oppressive what-iffery and go for half-full? Talk about a tough call.

A card-carrying fatalist with "an oaky taste of the realism," my resident wine connoisseur was drawn to the Pessimist for "its haunting imagery and negative vibe."

I know how he loves to share his exciting new finds with the family. Still, I may have to pass on the Pessimist, at least for now, and pick a more upbeat Labor Day option, a crisp Rosé with hopeful notes. Plus, it will complement the tequila-soaked chicken so much better than a dystopian red. 

Right now, at this moment in time, I need to take reassuring sips. I need to believe that at some point, somehow, this big scary case of WTF will be behind us. Deep down, I know you feel the same.

Now & Then

Now: A snapshot of Sunday's anniversary soirée, courtesy of Billy and Scotty, our menschy sons, our daughter-in-law Chloé and Scotty's girlfriend Meg. In honor of our 40th, they spoiled us on so many levels I may never recover. First came the surprise video featuring family and friends wishing us mazel tov. Did your SJG alternately sob and scream with such intense delight that I quite possibly scared the baby and damaged her tender eardrums? A strong possibility. Along with the magnifico video I can't believe they pulled off in record time, and the fact that our family and friends came through like Academy Award-winning pros (only slight exaggeration), there was plenty champagne, delicious food and of course, the pièce de résistance, carrot cake reminiscent of our wedding cake. Carrot cake? Yes. You got a problem with that? It was 1980. Cream cheese frosting? A fabulous choice. Shockingly, not everyone gathered yesterday appreciated the bold selection. Chloé took a bite and used her French heritage as an excuse not to eat another morsel. "We don't have carrot cake in France," she said, more than once. Meg also had issues with the overall carrotness, not-so-subtly transferring her slice to Scotty's plate. To each her own, am I right? 

Then: The young SJG and hubby, excited to embark on whatever awaits us. 

Spear Me The Details

Exciting news. After some budgetary setbacks, the SJG's Outdoor Dance School is finally up and running. Every week, we'll delve into a different theme on the front lawn of my palatial estate. For the first assignment, I schlepped out a basket of random props and asked my dancers to explore their inner warriors. Hence, the Interpretative Spear Dance featured above. All I said was, "Girls, careful not to take out an eye, I don't need any lawsuits." A few spritzes of insect repellent later, their Isadora Duncans emerged like you wouldn't believe. I just can't wait to see what they dream up for Rodeo Week. Which reminds me to send a note home: "Horses Optional."

Yee-haw. See you at the recital. 

Nightmare Now In Session

It's a recurring nightmare. 

Just the thought of it makes me scream.

I'm still not sure how I got my sons through homework.

What if I'd had to homeschool them? Oy to the vey. 

That wouldn't have ended well.

So hat's off to all the brave moms and dads homeschooling their kids yet again, protecting them because, quite honestly, what choice do they have? I can't think of anything harder or more noble. The SJG is marveling, kvelling and doing a lively hora on your behalf. 

Well done, you!

Kwik Kleen Keppy Kar Wash

Mindy Kaling Inspo!

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG believes she's solved the whole hair salon shutdown situation, merging the traditional hair salon concept with the local Auto Scrub, to form Kwik Kleen Keppy Kar Wash. As she explained over a Zoom session, "I figure, some salons are getting approved to cut hair in the parking lot. Sounds okay, but what about the heavenly hair wash that comes before the cut? Sure, they can spritz your hair with a water bottle, but what fun is that? Why not line up some hunky guys...

"Polishing the hood costs extra."

"like this firefighter... to wash your hair and car at the same time? It's messy, but if they towel you and the car off at the same time, it's win-win. If this isn't genius, I don't what is." When a testy mainstream reporter on Zoom compared her idea to a sad, ill-conceived low-budget porn movie in terrible taste, her screen froze and she never returned.

That Time My Brother Won The Dating Game

"This is about as straight as I get," says my brother John Starr, regarding his 1979 appearance on "The Dating Game." You'll notice that the other two loser contestants have magically disappeared, because who even cares about them? Not us. So sit back and enjoy 4.5 minutes of vintage hilarity from a simpler time when life was 100 percent perfect in every way. Or not. Either way, watch this.  

It Wasn't Me

Last night at approximately 7:15 p.m., as I modeled a peppy polka dot dress, elegant eyewear and cotton ball hairdo, so much easier and cheaper to maintain, now that the salon situation is once again in the crapper, the SJG's married son rudely accused me of a crime. "Ma," the text began, part of an endless family chain, because God forbid these people in my bubble should pick up a phone and call, "there's a photo fee you know you owe to Chlo." "How dare you!" I replied. Followed by, "It wasn't me." "Don't hide from the truth, Ma. You know it was you. Here's the Facebook evidence." 

The so-called evidence

Okay, fine. So maybe I did "borrow" an adorable photo of my grand baby that I just-so-happened to come across on Chlo's Instagram. But isn't it my right, after a lifetime of giving, giving, giving, to take a bissel something for myself? Not according to the justice-minded millennials down the road. Before I could make my case, this unreasonable demand arrived from a lovely French negotiator: "You owe $5 a photo, family price. Pretty fair for that amount of cuteness." Who was I to argue? And yet, I still needed to offer a weak typo-ridden defense. "It wasn't me. Or maybe it was. Who the @#$% cares? Leave me alone. I'm very busy pretending to watch the Lakers. I'll pay later in hogs." Before I could correct myself and write "@#$%! I meant hugs!" the youngest son chimed in with the shaming. "Hogs? Seems unreasonable, Ma." Half a second later, my D.I.L. mocked me, visually.

Then added: "No thank you. Five hogs are more than I can handle." Humph. That may or may not be the last time I "borrow" anything from these people.