Laundry Bitch At Your Service

Everyone should have a pet name for themselves, don't you think?  Of course, you do.  It's important you agree with me on everything.  Around here, I'm known as the Laundry Bitch, mainly because that's what I call myself as I'm schlepping the laundry basket downstairs.  I'm sure there are nicer names I could give myself:  Rock of Middle Ages.  Supreme Goddess of Sherman Oaks.  But Laundry Bitch is the one I prefer.  It sums up so many things about the job at hand:  "Yeah, you heard me, I'm doing the @#$%'n laundry again.  Your laundry.   And maybe a little bit of mine.  But mainly, your @#$%'n laundry.  I sure hope there aren't any surprises in there."  Most likely, this laundry bitchery stems from the fact that sometimes, there are weird things in those pockets that no one seems to check, pre-wash.  Apparently, that's my responsibility.  Which explains why certain unwashables have gone through the rinse cycle more times than I care to disclose.  Watches, wallets.  Bus passes.  Loose change.  Cash.  I've laundered money more than once.  "Oh, look what I found!  A clean 20.  Finders-keepers."  With one son in college, ruining his own laundry, and one living in his own apartment, you'd think the SJG would get to slack off, laundry-wise.  Au contraire!  Let's not forget my main purpose on earth, my raison d'etre, the role I was born to play:  Overly Solicitous Jewish Mother/Glutton for Punishment.  Why should my eldest do his laundry when I can do it for him?  He works all day.  I'm happy to wash his clothes.  Except when he forgets to take things out of the pockets.  Then I'm not so happy.  Not happy at all.  The other day, a piece of gum played peek-a-boo in his jeans.  Naturally, I only discovered this game when I opened the dryer and spotted the minty fresh green goo shellacking the interior.  First, I swore a bit.  I cursed the gods and my own existence.  Then, I sent the eldest some pointed text messages:  "How old are you again?"  "Spanky-spanky!"  "No dessert for you."  Sometimes, it just feels good to vent.  Next, I got busy with the Googling.  "How the @#$% do I get gum out of the dryer?!"  I found many interesting suggestions, and tried all of them.  The one that worked best,  I'll share with you now, in case, God forbid, you find yourself in the same sticky situation.  Dampen a fabric softener sheet, your Bounce, your Snuggle, and wipe like there's no tomorrow.  Eventually, the gum will peel off, along with the tips of your fingies and your will to live.  But hey, that's okay.  What's a mother for?  The Laundry Bitch is here for you, ready to spread the love and the resentment, whenever possible.

Here Comes Trouble

Last night, my dance teacher Doug Rivera threatened to send me to the Naughty Corner for moving my hips too much.  I told him I couldn't help it.  Turn on the music and my hips move, involuntarily.  He let me off with a warning.  But it did get me thinking about the dark consequences of bad behavior.  There was that time in 7th grade at Emerson.  So traumatic.  I really don't like to talk about it.  Okay, I will.  It happened in... oh, this is harder than I thought... Girls Glee.  A very cranky man whose name I've conveniently forgotten taught this silly class.  One day, he was at his snarkiest, and said, "Now, see if you can do this."  Implication:  we couldn't do it.  I turned to the girl next to me, and mimicked him.  He didn't hear me, but noticed the extreme smirkatude etched on my punim.  I may be the first person in history sent to the Girls V.P. for making a face.  The conversation went something like this:  "Carol, did you make a face in Girls Glee?" "I guess so."  "Why did you make a face?"  "I dunno."  "Do you understand that making a face isn't okay?"  "Uh-huh."  "It's very disrespectful."  "Sorry."  This high-ranking disciplinarian handed me a note and told me to bring it back with a parent's signature.   Oy vey, now I was really in deep doo-doo.  How could I tell my mom about my horrible fall from grace?  Oh, the shame!  The indignity of it all!  I was barely in the door when I spilled it.  "Mommy, I'm so sorry, I was sent to the Girls V.P. for making a face, I'll never do it again."  I waited for her to get mad, send me to my room, ground me for life.  Instead, she started laughing.  "Oh, honey, you really are your mother's daughter." Then she regaled me with the story of how she got busted in school for making a noise.  She and her fellow delinquents would make random high-pitched noises when the teacher was at the blackboard.  One day, she turned around and caught my mother in the act.  As punishment, she had to stand in front of the class and read a letter of apology, while the boys threw spitballs at her.  I think I got off easy.

The Classic Jewish Dog Joke

Morty visits Dr. Saul, the veterinarian, and says, "My dog, has a problem."
Dr. Saul says, "So tell me about the dog and the problem."
"It's a Jewish dog. His name is Irving and he can talk," says Morty.
"He can talk?" the doubting doctor asks.
"Watch this!" Morty points to the dog and commands: "Irving, Fetch!"
Irving, the dog, begins to walk toward the door, then turns around and says, "So why are you talking to me like that? You always order me around like I'm nothing. And you only call me when you want something. And then you make me sleep on the floor, with my arthritis. You give me this fahkahkta food with all the salt and fat, and you tell me it's a special diet. It tastes like dreck! YOU should eat it yourself! And do you ever take me for a decent walk? NO, it's out of the house, a short pish, and right back home. Maybe if I could stretch out a little, the sciatica wouldn't kill me so much! I should roll over and play dead for real for all you care!"
Dr. Saul is amazed, "This is remarkable! What could be the problem?"
Morty says, "He has a hearing problem! I said 'Fetch', not 'Kvetch'."
(courtesy of www.jewishmag.com) 

One Ringy Dingy

This morning I woke up singing my favorite Manhattan Transfer song.  It goes something like this:  "Operator? Information.  Give me Jesus on the line."  Don't worry, I haven't become an SJG for JC.  I'm singing this song in honor of my late mom, who would've turned 85 today.  How I wish I could place a collect call and get her on the line.  I'm sure such a call could get pricey, but she never did mind when I reversed the charges.  In fact, she encouraged it. When I was 15, I went on a teen tour around the USA.  For six weeks, I traveled the country on a Greyhound Bus with a bunch of horny boys and a few nice girls.  As I recall, the ratio was 32 boys to 12 girls.  Let's just say I had fun and leave it at that.  Naturally, my mom missed me, horribly and wanted me to check in now and then.  So we had a little phone game we'd play.  I'd call and invoke the name of my childhood imaginary friend, Mrs. Salarni.  Why the very young SJG used to channel a grownup with a name that sounded like Salami, I couldn't tell you.  Nor could any of my therapists.  I picked Salarni out of thin air.  I have no idea why.  Anyway, here's how these collect calls would go.  One ringy dingy. Two ringy dingies.  My mother: "Hello?"  Operator:  "You have a collect call from Mrs. Salarni."  My mother: "I do?" Operator:  "Will you accept the charges?"  My mother: "Hmm.  Who's calling again? I'm not sure I know a Mrs. Salarni.  Maybe if she could just say something it would help."  By now, I'd be cracking up on the other end.  Operator:  "Mrs. Salarni?"  Me:  "Yes?"  Operator: "Your mother wants to hear your voice, but doesn't want to accept the charges."  "Oh, no.  My own mother won't accept the charges?"  At this point, the operator would disconnect the call.  So, Mom, wherever you are, happy birthday.  Mrs. Salarni sends her love.

Live, Laugh, Love

At "Follies" with my brother John.   We first saw it in 1971.

Some folks stay home and scream at the TV while the Kings win game two of the Stanley Cup Finals.   Some folks go see "Follies" with John and Tim.

Tim calmly accepts the news of John's pending nuptials.

I wish I could post the photo of the three of us, but the gal my brother foisted his phone at and said, "Take a photo of us," did issue a warning: "I can barely see out of one eye."  It came out a little fuzzy, and a fuzzy SJG is unacceptable. So there's that.  But even without photographic proof that the three of us where there on a cultural outing together, you'll just have to believe me.  On the way to see "Follies," John shared an exciting update, in time for the Queen's Jubilee.  He fully intends to marry Prince Harry.  "At the Royal Court, they'll identify me as the Old Bald Jew." "I'm so happy for you," I said.  "I'll start practicing my wave."  Tim, who's been with John for over 10 years, took the news rather well, offering to help pick out the perfect venue for the occasion.  As of now, the Royal Hawaiian Arms in Koreatown is a strong contender.

Spell Check for the Middle Aged

It's official.  I can no longer spell.  I used to be able to spell.  I was a good speller.  One of the best.  When it came to spelling, I had it going on.  What's happened to me?  I blame my sons.  I haven't quizzed them for a spelling test in, oh, at least 10 years.  Quizzing them for spelling tests kept my brain working on all cylinders.  So yes,  it's their fault.  On second thought, my sons are only partially to blame. The main culprit is the ever-present Spell Check.  It makes me a lazy spelling bitch.  So what if I can't spell excurciating?  Who cares?  Spell check will underline it with a teacher-like red line, and quickly give me the correct spelling.  Excruciating.  Where I was once an accomplished speller, I am now a complete slacker.  Maybe there needs to be another spell check, just for the middle aged, the lapsed spellers who used to be good spellers in school, or they got nothing but sh*t from Miss Wilson or Mr. Buttwinick. And what kind of good boy or girl wanted that kind of abuse?   Pre-spell check, you'd get publicly flogged for misspelled words.  But today, spell check has made that sort of justifiable punishment obsolete.  To help us reclaim our status as good spellers, what we boomers need is a combo Guilter/Spell Checker.  For lack of a better name, GSC would guilt you, mercilessly, until you got the word right, with nasty, mean-spirited prompts.  "Seriously?  What's wrong with you?  You used to have a few brain cells.  You used to know how to spell this word.  Think, bubbeleh, think.  Why must you give up so easily?  Don't you see a lifelong pattern of surrender here?  Try it again.  You've got two more chances to get this word right, and then, GSC will automatically post your sad failings for the world to see.  That's right, slacker.  It'll hit Facebook and Google Plus, Twitter and TMZ:  "Guess who spelled 'traveled' with two L's?  The SJG of Sherman Oaks.  LOL.  Her brain is fried.  Ha ha. Loser!  Please 'like' this moment of ridicule, brought to you by Guilter/Spell Checker. Or, as the SJG would spell it, Pleez 'like' this moment of ridicule."

Applause, Applause

Every now and then, it's important to add a new skill set to my extensive repertoire.  It reminds me that I'm not quite done yet.  I'm still evolving.  And so, it is with pride that I tell you what I can now do.  Not only can I recite the alphabet and count to ten, I can now apply calamine lotion to my eff'n mosquito bites, in the dark! Ta-da!  Can you do that?  I didn't think so.  You may ask yourself, why didn't the SJG turn on the bathroom light?  Is she that dense?  No.  I'm just far too considerate to wake mine sleeping hubby.  He puts in a long day at the promo factory.  He needs his beauty rest.  So last night, when the eighteen mosquito bites I acquired that afternoon, sitting outside, luxuriating in nature, woke me up from a deep sleep,  I dragged my tush out of bed and reapplied more of the useless, drippy pink stuff that, historically, has never worked.  I dabbed here and there and made a complete mess of things.  Then I stood there like a dummy, waiting for the useless drippy pink stuff to dry.  Then I crawled back into bed.  Another proud moment in the life of the SJG.  Woo-hoo.  I wonder what I can do for an encore.