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.)