Bar Mitzvah Boy

Andy Kaplan, Adult Bar Mitzvah Boy and the SJG

Last night, we gathered, a big clump of our extended family -- we recruit people as we go along -- to cheer on the Cuzzy, as he became a man.  Andy stood up there on the bima and read from the Torah like a mensch, his wife and three children in the front row, beaming.  He gave a speech that made me cry.  No surprise there.  We said kaddish for the loved ones we miss daily, no matter how long ago they left.  But oh, did we kvell, and then of course, nosh.  There was no hora, however, no deejay, no electric slide, no "I Will Survive."  It was okay by me.  I'm going to another bar mitzvah on Saturday, where I can go wild and hora to my heart's content.  Mazel tov to you, sweet Cuz.  What will you do for an encore?

The Two A.M. Zigzag

When nature calls in the middle of the night, I try to send her straight to voicemail.  "You've reached the SJG.  I'm sleeping.  Go away.  Beep."  But nature is one persistent mother, and keeps calling till I pick up.  "What?! What is it?  What do you want?  I'm sleeping here." "Not anymore.  Get your butt out of bed."  "Oh, @#$% you, nature!" I say, before doing my 2 a.m. zigzag in the dark. I stumble into the bathroom, pretending I'm not awake.  I try not to open my eyes all the way, which never works. I run into things.  Doors, mainly.  By the time I tinkle, I'm awake, and I'm pissed off.  The SJG brain, a muddle of this, this and the other, starts oscillating on the worry cycle, and soon I'm what-iffing like a mad woman  Last night, my thoughts turned to Jennifer Aniston.  Has she finally found love?  Has she?  What if she hasn't?  What will she do?  By the time I got back in bed, I was in big-ass trouble, on to Weinergate, John Edwards, Sarah Palin and Paul Revere.  The SJG brain wouldn't shut up.  I started counting "Seinfeld" episodes -- the Elaine dance, the Master of Your Domain, They're real and they're fabulous -- got through season eight and I was still awake.  I started counting Carrie's boyfriends on "Sex in the City -- Big, Aidan, the Post-It guy, the French guy -- and I was still awake.  Half-way through "The Twilight Zone" recount -- Marsha, Marsha!  Next stop, Willoughby! -- I fell asleep.  If nature calls me again tonight, I'm out of town.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Silly me.  I thought when I started wearing "progressives" a few years back that my eyesight would get progressively better.  Ha.  I read the directions wrong.  The opposite has occurred.  I can see distance and mid-range fine, more or less, but when I look down to read, I get a big blur.  This is not what I paid the big bucks for, to sort of see menus, books, maps and all those anonymous love notes I receive on a daily basis. "Oh yay," I say, as I dig into truckloads of fan mail.  It's a little embarrassing.  "Who loves me now?" I can't tell you who's loving me now because I can't read it.  Not until I remove my glasses and get "this close" to the print. "Dear SJG, your last blog made me laugh hysterically till I collapsed and had to be rushed to the hospital.  Here's the bill."   "Aw," I say, reaching for my checkbook.  The SJG will do anything to keep my  blog-reading peeps, my bleeps, happy.  Still, the eye people need to change the name of my eyewear to "semi-progressive."  Honestly, it's a more accurate description of the SJG.  In life, I tend to progress two steps, in a "wow, look me, conquering my sh*t, battling my demons, do I rock or what?" sort of way.  "Bragging again?  Take one giant step back," says the board game that controls my existence.  "Go back to square one."  So I go back and start over.  I wait my turn.  The next card may let me skip ahead, keep me right where I am, send me two steps forward, one step back.  I know this dance well.  It's the sort of cha cha I can do blindfolded.

Driveway Serenade

Who says you need a Torah, a bima, and a rabbi from Central Casting to say a blessing? Sometimes all you need is a driveway, three Jews who've been Bar Mitzvahed, and a Short Jewish Gal who knows the drill. Yesterday, in the midst of washing cars -- don't worry, I was only a bystander -- the eldest son, the hubby, the brother John and the SJG sang "Bar-hu et Adonai Ham-vo-rach" into John's cell phone.  We sang loudly and not at all harmoniously.  The police arrived within minutes and issued a citation for "off-key, disorganized chanting." As usual, it was all my fault.  I mentioned to my bro' that our cousin Andy, the Adult Bar Mitzvah Boy come Tuesday, was getting a little nervous.  I made this leap after our recent exchange of emails, all of which ended in "oy."  John flipped open his phone, put us on speaker and we gathered round, hoping to catch Andy between soccer games, ballet recitals, and international flights.  It went straight to voicemail. "Hit it!" I said, and we broke out the Bar-hu, the Natan lanu, the et torato, and ended with a spectacular Amen that echoed through the 'hood.  In this way, we were trying to calm Andy's nerves.  I'm not sure we succeeded.  His email said, "Thanks for the chanting.  Oy." Again with the oy? You're going to do fine, Cuz, and we're going to kvell no matter what, and if anything should go wrong -- God forbid -- we'll get everyone up and doing the hora while you pull yourself together.

Make Blintzes, Not War

I hear her blintzes are da bomb

UK spy agency MI6 is reported to have hacked one of the Jihadist publications that supports al Qaeda's cause, replacing bomb making recipes with ingredient and cooking instructions for that most Jewish of culinary weapons: blintzes.  According to newswire reports, unknown hackers closely associated with MI6 managed to insert a PDF file containing a yummy blintz casserole recipe posted on a blog called Short Jewish Gal into Inspire, a Jihadist magazine that has features such as "Make a Bomb in the Kitchen of Your Mom." Unconfirmed reports suggest that Inspire's publishers tried to unpick the MI6-driven hack, resulting in the data files turning into unintelligible Yiddish code. When supporters of al Qaeda tried to download the latest issue of Inspire, not only were they unable to learn the latest subversive secrets, but they were also prevented from access to the Short Jewish Gal's recipe, which no doubt aggravated the sewage out of them.  "I'm so proud and honored to have been of service," said the SJG, who claims her blog has become an international Internet sensation.  "Call me delusional -- you wouldn't be the first -- but if my blintz casserole recipe can stop just one of those extremist bastards, my work here is done."

The Return of the Enabler

Dear SJG,

We hear you've gone back on your parental vows to let your sons grow up.  In the past week, you've done laundry for one of them, and apartment-hunted for the other.  We'll let you slide on the laundry.  The eldest did plan to do it himself until you grabbed the basket out of his hands and yelled, "Mine."  Apartment-hunting?  Seriously? This troubles us more. Back to that, eh, SJG?  Did you not just score a fabulous two-bedroom for the eldest? Isn't that enough?  Apparently not.  Now you're obsessing over the youngest in Santa Cruz.  Where will he live next fall?  In the forest if you don't step in?  So fine.  Go ahead and Google "a nice safe place for my son to live, is that too much to ask?"  Go ahead and wander through craigslist.  Click, click, click till your fingertips cramp.  You are wasting your time, girlfriend.  Santa Cruz is too laid back to care, let alone, return your phone calls and annoying emails.  Give it up, SJG.  Be gone.  You have no powers here.  Let it go.  Wait till next week, when you're up there and can harass the apartment people.  You're very scary when you want to be.  In the meantime, would you please chill, you little enabler, you? 

You're welcome,

the SJG

High Efficiency Doggy

Dusty has such a busy day, what with the napping, the rolling over, the counter surfing, the nonstop snack demands, that he decided he needed an energy efficiency boast to keep up with his spunky self.  Rather than a nice vitamin supp or a shot of caffeine, he opted for a taste of Tide HE Liquid Laundry Detergent.  I found the measuring cup on the carpet in the living room.  Traces of gooey blue.  The telltale streaks of canine tongue.  This is one sneaky-ass pup.  When he grabbed it from the washing machine and made off like a thief, I can't say; he wouldn't fess up to the crime.  The investigation lasted two seconds and revealed bupkis.  "Did you take this?" I asked.  Dusty rolled his eyes and yawned.  This morning, I expected blue foam bubbling out of his mouth, blue pee, blue poop, but I'm happy to report, we got none of that.  It wasn't like the time he ate a bar of soap and I rushed him to the vet.  As for his level of energy efficiency? Peppy and well-organized.  He lined his toys up neatly by his water dish.  Self-medication, canine-style.  I better keep him away from the Bounce.