Hi, I'm The Short Jewish Gal

Oh, Peg, you inspire me not to do so many things.

... and I wrote "The I Hate To Pack Book" for people like me who hate to pack.  I hate it so much that if I could hire someone to pack for me, I'd do it in a jiffy.  Fact is, I've hated to pack since I was a little girl going on an overnight to visit my granny in the Fairfax District.  There's just nothing fun about deciding what to bring and what to leave at home, which explains why I tend to procrastinate.  Shucks, I'd do just about anything to get out of packing. I'd rather do 18 loads of laundry. I'd rather clean the toilet and mop the kitchen floor with Spic n' Span.  I just hate to pack.  I hate it.  I really do.  I hate it so much I have to take little tiny baby steps to accomplish what most folks would do in 20 minutes or less.

Who Let Linda Blair In?

"How'd you sleep?"
"Pretty good.  You?"
"Okay.  I had to nudge you a few times.  You were making sounds."
"Oh, please.  I heard you snoring down the hall before I came in."
"You did not."
"You sounded like a diesel engine."
"That wasn't me."
"Well, someone was making scary 'Exorcist' sounds."
"That was you."
"I beg to differ."
"I started this conversation complaining about you, and you turned it around on me."
"I would never do that."
"You just did."
"That was your other husband."

Loves Means...

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Is there a gal alive who grew up in the 1970's and doesn’t remember that line… who doesn’t have those immortal words tattooed on her brain for all eternity? When “Love Story” by Erich Segal took the publishing world by storm in 1969, I was 11 years old and barely had breasts. Puberty hadn’t taken siege yet, but I was ready. I just couldn’t wait to get my period and be a woman. I thought it was going to be great!  In the meantime, I brought “Love Story” with me to summer camp, read it in one sitting and sobbed my eyes out. I passed it along to all my cabin mates and they cried, too. Our counselor didn’t know what to do with all these hysterical girls. Then she read the book and joined our uncontrollable sob fest. A lot of tear-stained sheets went through the laundry that summer.

The story of Jennifer Cavilleri, the beautiful, feisty daughter of a humble baker, who falls in love with rich, snotty Harvard jock Oliver Barrett IV, only to die of cancer, hit me on many tender levels all at once. My own dear uncle had just passed away from bone cancer, leaving a lovely young widow and two sons behind. So I sobbed for Jenny, I sobbed for my mom who’d lost her only brother, I sobbed for my cousins who’d lost their father, I sobbed for my aunt, I sobbed for the entire universe. The experience was cathartic, to say the least.

The Only Dieting Advice You'll Ever Need

Dear SJG,
My diet isn't working.  I'm counting my calories.  I'm exercising like a deranged hyena let loose on Ventura Boulevard.  I'm doing everything right.  All I'm losing is my mind.  Will I ever fit back into those hot pants I wore once on a dare in 7th grade?
Thanks,
Hungry in Sherman Oaks

Dear Hungry,
No.
You're welcome,
SJG

Dear SJG,
Is it true that pulverized rocks are more nutritious than gluten-free waffles?
Thanks,
Just Lost A Tooth in Sherman Oaks

Dear Lost,
No.
You're welcome,
SJG

Dear SJG,
I just ate a garden snail, and now I'm eyeing the schleffera in the corner of the living room.  Is it okay to eat a houseplant?
Thanks,
Trying to Make Smart Choices

Dear Trying,
No.
You're Welcome,
SJG

The Five Stages of Sofa Withdrawal

1.  Denial - "The sofa is fine; you can't even see the rip on the side; nothing bad is happening to the sofa.  In the right light, the sofa still looks new-ish."
2.  Anger - "Why this sofa?  Why not your sofa?  How could this happen to our sofa?  Who did this?  Who sat on it and made it look old and lumpy and neglected? There must be someone we can blame."
3.  Bargaining - "I'll do anything to save this stupid sofa.  I'll give my life savings to recover it.  I'll go to hell and back for this sofa. Just make it look good again."
4.  Depression - "I feel bad about my sofa.  It makes me cry just to look at it.  What a sad sack of a sofa.  What a loser sofa.  Let's just put it out on the curb and let someone else deal with it."
5.  Acceptance - "The sofa is going to be okay.  It's in a good place now. Carlos the upholsterer is taking care of it.  He'll beef it up with extra padding.  Wait till you see the pretty fabric my mother-in-law found shlepping around the Design Center.  One day, we'll get the sofa back and we'll be happy again."

Throwback Tush Day

Exactly.

I won't deny it.  I kinda love Throwback Thursday.  Give the SJG permission to slip-slide into the past, and I'm there.  Why live in the present?  That's my motto.  In recent weeks, I've posted photos of my younger self with dental difficulties and photos of myself heading off to school, and on Thursday, I guess I went too far.  I posted a photo of myself at my 40th birthday party.  I'm standing with my dad and in the background is a poster my parents had blown up in my honor -- it's me butt naked at the bathtub.  I was a baby at the time.  A baby!

Well, the "likes" of my backside poured in.  So many "likes," I felt so good about me, me, me and my baby butt and the fact that I still have pretty much the same tuchus today.  All those "likes" gave me a lift.   It takes so little to make the SJG happy.

And then, it pains me to tell you this, but tell you I must, I got a message from the powers-that-be, a notification, if you will, that shook me to the very core of my being.  It felt like a big brother-ish spanky-spank of disapproval:

"Someone reported your photo for containing nudity or pornography. Your photo was reported for violating our community standard on nudity and pornography.  We are investigating this matter further."

Yikes.  I had to read it a few times to make sure it wasn't a prank. There were questions to answer (or, in my case, ignore), but I did reply to this one: "Would you like to delete this photo?"  My answer: "The only thing I'd like to delete is the a-hole who reported this baby photo."

But so many of my cyber friends had "liked" it.  The reviews were in and they were 100 percent positive.  "Adorable."  "Cute butt."  "Nice tush."  The overall approval rating warmed my heart and confused my soul.  Not one baby butt hater in the bunch.  What gives?

This morning, I got the latest update, after an exhaustive investigation:

"... Since your photo doesn't violate our community standard on nudity and pornography, it was not removed."

Well, phew! Color me relieved.  Still, that's the last photo of my ass, baby or otherwise, I'm planning to post.  I've learned my lesson... to turn the other cheek.  Oh come on, you knew it was coming.

Is There A Problem, Officer?

"Someone get the door...  there's someone at the... oh, never mind, I'll get it.  Oh, hi, Officer... lean in so I can read your badge... Markowitz.  A Jewish cop.  Your mother must be very proud.  And worried.  Very worried all the time.  Everything ok?"
"What's with all the yelling, ma'am?  We got some complaints from the neighbors."
"Oh, that.  It's Game 7, Officer Markowitz.  My husband and sons get very excited."
"I could hear them down the block, ma'am."
"Yeah, that was my youngest.  His yelling comes from another dimension.  It's somewhat demonic.  Feel free to arrest him."
"That won't be necessary.  I'm just here to make sure there's no domestic disturbance."
"Please.  I'm domestically disturbed on a daily basis.  I sweep and sweep, and I can't get rid of the dog hair.  It's everywhere.  No matter how many times I tell Dusty, 'Enough with the shedding,' he doesn't listen. No one listens to me, Officer Markowitz.  I might as well talk to the wall.  I'm losing my mind.  So go ahead and arrest me.  I won't put up a fight.  I could use a break from all this dander... not to mention, the yelling."
"No need to cuff you, ma'am.  Just tell the yellers to keep it down."
"A lot of good it will do.  Why don't you come in and tell them?  It'll be more effective.  Plus, there's a slice of kugel with your name on it."
"Well, maybe just for a minute."