It's Her!

It's her!  It's the SJG!

Representatives for the Short Jewish Gal  vehemently rejected published reports that residents of Sherman Oaks were paid to cheer and act excited for the cameras when the famed blogger arrived at Gelsons to do her weekly marketing. "The Short Jewish Gal is a massive star in the blogosphere, and attracts huge throngs of fans as she travels the Valley and Westside promoting herself," a spokesperson said in a statement.  "The only people paid were performers who danced down the aisles at Gelsons while the Short Jewish Gal selected delicious, low-calorie, heart-healthy items. The idea that fans were paid to cheer is completely ludicrous and entirely false." A report in Who's Who In Sherman Oaks claimed that 200 or more alleged fans of the SJG were each given 150 chocolate coins and a free brunch at Solley's to mimic enthusiasm for her arrival.  A source close to the SJG told W.W.S.O. that confusion over payments made to dancers who performed alongside the SJG may have led to the false reports. The source called the charge of fan-planting "ludicrous" and "insulting" to the blogger's devotees, who beg her for photos and hugs wherever she goes.

Storey Telling

Every struggle I've ever encountered, according to my dad, has been character building.  By now, my character is a major highrise.  In the past ten weeks, I've tried this concept out on the college boy, at least 132 times. As fall quarter winds down today,  he's added a few storeys to his own construction site.  He's lived alone.  He's helped a roommate move in.  He's attempted to cook his own cuisine, which explains all the Domino's Pizza charges.  He's attempted to learn Italian, which explains all the tutor charges.  He's pondered and re-pondered what the hell he should major in, and in his noble quest, came up with a non-existent gem:  Hip Hop. If only he could major in Hip Hop, he would be so happy.  But he can't.  Who said life is fair?  Tomorrow, he comes home to his mother.  He needs a break from all that character building.  Winter quarter, I'm sure he'll be adding another floor to the site.  I hope the permits come through.

The Nite Before Chanukah

'Twas the night before Chanukah
and all over the place
There was noise, there was kvetching
Soch ah disgrace!
 
The Kinderlach, sleeping,
uneasily felt
The chocolate rush
from the Chanukah gelt

And me in the easyboy,
so stuffed with latkes,
I stretched the elastic
which held up my gatchkes.

When up on the roof
(and it has a steep pitch)
A fat alte kakker
was making a kvitsch.

I jumped up real quick
and I ran to the door,
Was it a bandeet,
or only a schnorrer?

He wasn't alone;
he had eight ferdelach,
And called them by name
as he gave a gebrach:

"On Moishe, on Yankel, on Itzik, on Sam,
On Mendel, on Shmendrik, on Feivush, on Ham;
My kidneys are kvelling;
do you give a damn?"

He had a white beard
and payyes to boot,
And to keep out the cold,
he had such a nice suit!

A second from Peerless,
I could tell at a glance,
But the cut was okay,
and so were the pants.

He was triple XL,
a real groisser goof,
So I yelled out,
"Meshuggener! Get off from Mein roof!"

He jumped down and said
as he shook hands with me,
"Max Klaus is the name.
You have maybe some tea?"

So I gave him a gleisel,
while he shook his white mop,
Mutt'ring, "Always the same thing,
They're dreying my kopp!"

From Vancouver to Glacer Bay,
Outremont to Reginek,
Every shmo in the world
hakks meir a cheinik!

They're screaming for presents,
and challah with schmaltz,
And from Brooklyn alone,
the back pain, gevaltz!"

So we sat and yentehed,
and we spun the old dreydels,
(He took all of my money,
and one of my kanidels)

He said, "Business is not bad,
a living I make,
But I'm getting too old
for this Chanukah fake;

And the cell phones, you see
how my pacemaker dings?
For two cents I'd quit,
and move to Palm Springs?"

And he gave a geshrei
as he fled mit a lacht,
"Gut Yontiff to All,
Vey is Mir, Such a Nacht!"

--   courtesy of Jokes About Chanukah

Competitive Gift Wrapping

What color ribbon would you like?

I might as well confess.  So many years have gone by, I have nothing to be ashamed of, not really.  It was something I did, something I was good at.  Gifted, in fact.  Back in college, every Christmas break, I was a gift-wrapper for the goyim.  Not a sheet of Hanukkah wrap ever made it out the door.  I wrapped gifts in a tiny cubicle in the basement of a bookstore in Westwood, and it was hellish.  Why did I do it?  Why did I subject myself to such manual labor?  I wanted my job back.  In high school, I was a cashier at College Bookstore.  Other friends started waitressing or working in dress shops.  Not the SJG.  A spiller from way back, I knew, instinctively, that I would be the worst waitress ever.  I knew I would spill hot coffee, I would drop, I would break.  And working in a dress shop, which I did once, proved somewhat disastrous.  I was too honest with the customers.  "I wouldn't buy that, it's not flattering."  All I wanted to do was sell books, to soak up literature, to bath in the glory of words.  I'd only been there a few weeks when the owner came in and saw me at the register.  "How old are you?" he asked.  "I'm 16 and a half," I said, trying to sound mature.  The next day, I was fired for looking too young.  "The owner thought you looked about 14," they told me.  "We're so sorry."  I'm pretty sure it was illegal, but in 1974, I couldn't afford Gloria Allred.  So every Christmas, I'd audition to get my job back, to show how responsible I was, and it worked.  I always got hired back in the summer.  Hours of wrapping books during the holidays taught me a harsh lesson about people.  Sometimes, they're not so nice.  "I'm sorry, we can't wrap those for you," I told the a-hole standing there with a huge bag of toys. "Why not?"  "For starters, you didn't buy them here."  "So?"  "Store policy."  "Place is probably run by a bunch of cheap Jews," he said, storming off.  Gift wrapping brings out the anti-Semitic nasty in some folks.  Who knew?  Now I just gift wrap for fun, not profit.  I'm still good at it, too. Thanks to those hellish cubicle days at College Bookstore, the SJG  knows how to work the ribbon and the scotch tape, and most importantly, how to stick it to the putzes of the world.

This Idea

This idea came to me in the middle of the night and I thought it was genius.  This idea will make the SJG rich, rich, rich.  I could hear Dan Aykroyd pitching it on SNL.  "New, from Ronco..." In the harsh morning light, however, I see that implementing this idea may be a little difficult.  This idea may require tiny electrodes embedded in my keppie.  This idea may require backing from a giant Japanese electronics company.  This idea may not be ready for prime time, not quite, anyway, but I'm inclined to share it with you, in case you'd like to jump on the bandwagon as an early investor. Nothing irks the SJG more than Dream Interruption (trademark pending).  Dream Interruption happens when I flip over in bed and wake up, mid-dream.  Dream Interruption happens when someone I'm married to wanders in, past midnight, because he's fallen asleep on the sofa (nightly occurrence).  Dream Interruption happens when my bladder directs me toward the bathroom.  No matter the cause, I love my dreamworld, in which I'm the star, the hero, the gal in charge.  In dreams, I can fly and sing well and perform miraculous feats and visit with loved ones no longer in the here and now.  Sometimes my mother pops in to say hello, or my grandparents, or one of the wonderful close friends who checked out far too early from this overcrowded hotel.  I'm a huge fan of R.E.M.  Last night, my dream took me to a hip, happening party.  I was all dressed up, I was looking fine, I was... oh hell, right when the party was kicking into gear, I turned over and woke up.  What happened at the party?  Did I meet George Clooney?  I'll never know.  The not knowing is the worst.  A great party like the one in my dream only comes along once a decade.  But then this idea came to me: What if I could invent a special remote control to pause my dreams when necessary?  What if I could turn over, reposition myself, tap the remote and I'd be right back in nocturnal bliss with (insert celebrity name here)?  Wouldn't that be fantastic?  Granted, it's a little derivative, a little like that Adam Sandler movie "Click," were he gets a universal remote and can rewind or fast-forward his life.  But I don't want any of that sci-fi nonsense.  I just want to pause my dreams so I can get right back in there and see how they end.  I want closure.  Is that too much to ask?  I plan to spend every waking moment making the Dream Remote (patent pending) a reality.  Call me a dreamer, but I think I'm onto something.

Bad Hair Year

On Friday I called an emergency meeting of the SJG Beauty Team.  "Some people have a bad hair day.  I've had a bad hair year.  What do you have to say for yourselves?"  Renee, CEO of the SJG Coiffski, and Lenny, President of the SJG Hair Color Wheel, stared at me, bitterly.  "Well?  Speak up." Renee cleared her throat.  "Listen, SJG, you can't blame us for your baby fine ka-ka hair.  It's impossible to work with, but year after year, we wave our magic wands.  Once you leave the salon, you're on your own."  "Point taken, Renee."  I turned to Lenny, who was busy doing a crossword puzzle.  "Do you have anything to add?"  "What's a five letter word for female canine?  Oh, wait, I've got it.  Bitch."  "How dare you." "Here's the dealio, SJG.  I do what I can with that wispy mess you call hair.  I work the chemical process, I highlight, I get out the gray.  I do my best to help volumize that choppy mop of I don't know what.   Once you leave the salon, you're on your own."  "So what you're both saying is this is on me?  On my DNA?"  "Yes," Renee said.  Lenny looked at me.  "What's a four letter word for are we finished?  I need to get back to my real customers."  "We're done. I don't know what got into me. The truth is, I'd be nowhere without my Beauty Team," I said, handing them each a fancy gift-wrapped bottle of wine.  "Group hug?"  "What's a two letter word for I don't think so?" Lenny asked.  "No," Renee said.  "Guys, come back here, I was just kidding.  I love you.  I'd be lost without you." Meeting adjourned.

High Anxiety

The cover of this week's Time Magazine is a headscratcher.  Anxiety's good for you?  This is big news to me. My personal theme song, courtesy of Mel Brooks:  High anxiety, whenever you’re near/ High anxiety, it’s you that I fear... Anxiety entered my life at birth, if not sooner. I was born in a car in the hospital parking lot. The whole thing made me pretty jumpy out the gate and set the tone for a lifetime of inspired what-iffing and riffing on various imaginative personal catastrophes. Growing up, anxiety hid behind the door, biding its time.  In my early, post-college twenties, it pounced at me and said "boo." So I ran like hell, all the way to a grandfatherly, Freudian shrink with white hair, a white beard and a thick German accent, straight out of Central Casting.  "What's wrong with me?" I asked.  "You're a little nervous," he said.  I went to another shrink, a smart lady with short brown hair.  "What's wrong with me?" I asked.  "You're very nervous," she said.  I went to a support group full of very very nervous women. Very nervous didn't seem so bad, compared to very very.  I started to calm down a little.  Each decade brought a new therapist or two, a fresh look at anxiety.  Eventually, with a little chemical help, I found a way to kick anxiety in the ass. I got a little tougher. I turned my what-if's into so-eff'n-what's. It finally occurred to me that I can't control much of anything, anyway.  What a revelation.  Maybe someone could have told me this sooner?  Even so, no matter how fancy Time Magazine gets with it, how cerebral, how "this study said this, this study said that," anxiety has no "likes" on its fan page.  Anxiety is a bad road trip and some of us just get stuck in the back seat, till the car pulls over and lets us out, to pick up a new passenger.