A Lot Like Goldilocks

Run, Goldie, run!

The SJG is always looking for the right one -- the right shoes that don't hurt my feet, the right jeans that don't make my badonkadonk stop traffic. In this way, I'm a lot like Goldilocks, looking for the right chair, the right bowl of porridge, the right -- oh, you get the picture. This doesn't mean I break into houses like that little fairytale thief. I don't just walk right in and help myself to whatever is available. That, my friends, would be wrong. But finding the right anything takes time. Some might say the fun is in the search. These are Zen-like people I tend to avoid. The SJG begs to differ with this meditative approach to life (maybe because I've never mastered it). Let's face it. The fun is in the finding, which doesn't happen enough, in my humble opinion. Sometimes I just don't find the right fill-in-the-blank. I search for the shoes, the flattering jeans, and I go home with bupkis. What's fun about that? In these moments of disappointment, I realize that once again, I must rejigger my expectations. Sometimes there's no right anything. And sometimes it's better to settle for what fits okay, more or less... to accept this version of me right now. These days, the SJG doesn't need three bears for a teachable moment. I have only to step into a fitting room and I'm up-to-speed on yet another life lesson.

All About That Base...

... 'bout that base, 'bout that baseball 

Last night, I called downstairs: "How are the Dodgers doing?"
Up came hubby's less-than-glowing response: "They aren't making good decisions."
Whereupon I started laughing and went to console him.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked. I could tell he was a little wounded by my cruelty. But I meant no harm. Once again, I had a deeper thought rolling around the SJG keppy.
"Honey, you just summed up the entire universal dilemma in one sentence."
"I did?"
"Imagine a world where people made good decisions all the time. There'd be no wars, no conflict of any kind. There'd be peace on earth, good will toward men. It would be an on-going Christmas card out there."
"Maybe. But it would make sports pretty dull to watch."
"Some of us already find it super dull. What's the diff?"
"If everyone made good decisions, there'd be nothing to get worked up about, and no one to root for."
"And my life would be so much quieter."

You Look Familiar

I get that a lot

At the hamish book-signing party for my friends on Sunday, pre-reading, a nice woman said this to me: "You look so familiar." I hear this line a lot. I've got one of those punims, apparently, a punim that reminds people of their aunts, cousins, college roommates. And yet, I'm never any of those alleged people. I hate to disappoint, but I'm only me, not alas, the cousin you once visited that time you went to the place and then got back on the plane and came home. One time, someone came up to me and said, with absolute certainty, "I met your sister!" The shocking reveal that I don't have a sister didn't go over too well. "Of course you do." "Nah-huh." "You have to. She looked just like you." "Sorry." When in doubt, apologize, even though I'm not sorry I don't have a sister. Sometimes, being the only girl in the family comes with extra perks. Sometimes.

So yesterday, at the cozy book-signing for "Expecting," by Ann Lewis Hamilton (what, you didn't think I'd mention you in my blog?) and "Hollywood Digs," by Ken LaZebnik, when the nice lady told me I looked so familiar, I didn't have the energy to pursue it for fear of disappointing her. And I didn't want to say, "Listen, I've never met you in my life." That would've been rude. So instead, I rolled out my standard response: "You've probably seen me at Gelson's." I didn't specify which one. There are Gelson's everywhere. I figured Gelson's was a safe bet. Before she could ponder this possibility, the reading began.

Ken read from "Hollywood Digs." Ann read from "Expecting." And somewhere in the middle of this literary nirvana, it hit me. I remembered that indeed, the nice lady and I did know each other. The connection popped into the SJG Brain like a lost kernel of Orville Redenbacher (Butter Flavor). I wanted to leap across the room and tell her, but I thought this might not go over well with Ken and Ann. So I waited till they were done (I wasn't raised in a barn in Westwood), and then leaped across the room.

"Guess what? I know where we met."
"You do?"
"I'm 100 percent positive."
"Where did we meet? Gelson's?"
"No."
"Ralphs?"
"No."
"Whole Foods?"
"No."
"Trader Joe's?"
"No, we didn't meet at a market. We met in Physical Therapy."
"At --"  insert mumbled name of place I didn't go to for P.T.
"No, at -- " insert mumbled name of place I did go to for P.T., about 12 years ago.
"Oh my God, that's right."
"We were next to each other, kvetching about our backs."
"You'd had the accident."
"Right, and you had the sciatica."
"Right."
"Everything good now?"
"More or less. You?"
"Fine, for the most part."
"Happy New Year."
"You too."
"You too."

Case solved.  Next?

The Good Seats

Not to be confused with these seats.

It all comes down to the seats, am I right? Wherever you go in life, you hope for a good seat. Sadly, it doesn't always work out. Sometimes, you get a terrible seat that hurts your back. You can't see or hear anything. You sit there in your crap seat, bemoaning your existence, wondering why all the people in front of you managed to get the good seats.

There are two, and only two reasons, why people get the good seats. Wait, I just thought of another one. There are three reasons why people get the good seats in life:

1. They got there early. Case in point: temple. Get there early, a good 30 minutes before the service starts, and you get to sit close to the bima and the rabbi and the choir, where all the action is, and aren't you a happy Jew? In my temple, the good seats aren't just about the view. They're about the comfort level. The good seats are the newer, reupholstered seats with the extra padding for your tush. You sit down and go, "Wowza, it pays to get here early and get the good seats." Yesterday, by some miracle of timing and planetary alignment, I arrived at shul early with substitute family members Candy, Joe and Colin, who, unlike my own family, actually go to temple with me every year. Also arriving early, my temple hubby Phil, who, unlike my own hubby, likes to go to temple with me. I'm a lucky Jew to be in temple with these mensches. Candy and I spent half the service in a State of Awe. "We got the good seats!" "I know, right?"

2.  Someone saved them a good seat, or at my temple, an entire row. "Sorry, this row's taken." "Sorry, this section is saved." Just to lay it on thick, they often use props to save seats. A shawl stretched across four seats. A tallis draped around two seats. A handbag, a yarmulke, a cell phone (on vibrate) on three seats, to signal "Taken," like a Liam Neeson movie, but only the seats have been kidnapped.

3. They paid extra for a good seat. Paying extra is the universal way to guarantee the good seats just about anywhere. A plane, a play, a concert, a ballgame. You want luxury? You want the aisle? You want the front row? You want the center? You want first class treatment? You have to pay, bitches. You. Have. To. Pay.

But not always. Sometimes, like yesterday, you don't have to pay to get the good seats. But a nice donation is always welcome.

Looks For Fall

 

The dismissive look

The "oh snap, you just got dissed" look

The "mazel tov, you just got 
dismissed from jury duty" look

The Suspense Is Killing Me

Suspense. I don't like it much. I'm going to put it right out there. Not a big fan. Unless, of course, I'm watching something fabulous. Give me a good cliffhanger and I'm a happy SJG. Give me a crappy cliffhanger and I'm ready to throw a tomato at the screen, an act that hubby discourages. He's still trying to get the seeds off the flatscreen after last week's "Under the Dome" finale. It was so dumb, I just had to hurl something. It was almost as dumb as "Extant's" season finale. Why do I keep watching dumb shows with dumb cliffhangers? Perhaps this is a question for my rabbi. Perhaps I'll pose it on Friday night. "Excuse me, Rabbi, sorry to interrupt on Kol Nidre, but --" This is when the ushers will usher me out the door. So better I should wait. With my luck, I'll be running late on Friday, anyway, thanks to... oh God, it pains me to even say it... Jury Duty. A brief summary of my pre-JD week. Every day, a few minutes after 5, I get a knot in my tummy the size of...

... a hot pretzel. I turn to a higher power to see me through. "Papa, can you hear me? A little divine intervention, please. Remember the scary three-week gang trial, Papa? The police escort to the car? We don't want me to have to go through that again, do we?" I sit at my computer, I type in the info on my juror badge -- this badge matches nothing in my closet, by the way -- and the suspense mounts. Monday and Tuesday, my plea works, nicely.

Papa, can you hear me?

Wednesday, not so much. Here's the personalized message I receive on my JD portal: "Oh, come on. You didn't think we'd let you off the hook all week, did you? Show up on Thursday at 9:30 and try to behave yourself. And don't wear the T-shirt that says, 'We shouldn't mix in!' like the last time you were picked for jury duty. We let you off with a warning, but this time, SJG, we mean business."

So today, in I go. I know, I know, it could be worse. Much, much worse. I could be the one on trial for my crap attitude and overall lack of civic enthusiasm.  

Sidewalk Jewish Geography

Put two gals together, neighbors meeting for the first time - thanks to their labs sniffing each other's butts -- and you've got yourself a game of Sidewalk Jewish Geography:
"Your daughters went to Ranch Dressing Drive? My sons went to Ranch Dressing Drive."
"How old are your sons?"
"Twenty-two and 26."
"Mine are 22 and 28."
"I bet the 22 year olds are friends on Facebook."
"Does your  youngest know Shlomo Weinberg?"
"Does he know him? Shlomo is his best friend since pre-school."
"Get out of here. Which pre-school?"
"Temple Beth Kreplach."
"Both my daughters were bat mitvahed at Beth Kreplach."
"Both my sons were bar mitvahed there, too."
"So you must know Amy Plotkin?"
"I haven't seen her since last Rosh Hashanah."
"She's my second cousin."
"Nice lady. How is she?"
"She finally divorced that idiot she was married to."
"She's better off without him."
"If you know Amy, you probably know Susan B. Seltzer."
"I just ran into her at Gelson's. She's claiming whiplash."
"That explains why she wore the neck brace to the Mahjong Tournament."
"I didn't think my cart was going that fast."
"She tends to overreact."
"Who doesn't?"
"Medication helps."
"So much! Oh, by any chance, did your youngest go to high school with Brian Schmendelbaum?"
"Of course. They dated for two weeks."
"So you heard what happened to him?"
"No, what?"
"He converted."
"He's no longer Jewish?"
"He's no longer a Bruin. He's in grad school at USC. He's a Trojan."
"It happens. I'm in a mixed marriage, myself. I'm a Bruin. My husband's a Trojan."
"What happens when they play each other?"
"I leave town."
"Smart. You want a ride to services Friday night?"
"No, thanks. We let our membership lapse at Beth Kreplach, after the girls got confirmed."
"Listen, I'm the only one in my family who still goes. I've got to atone for everyone. It's a lot of pressure."
"Hey, by any chance are you related to the Minskies?"
"The Minskies, no.  I'm related to fewer and fewer people."
"What about your dog?"
"He's like a son to me."
"He looks a lot like Dexter, the Minskie's lab. I thought maybe they were from the same litter."
"Dusty's from the Bernstein litter, 12 years ago."
"Get out of here. Barkley's from the Bernstein litter, five years ago."
"So Dusty and Barkley are cousins. How crazy is that?"
"Plenty."
"Well, I've got a kugel in the oven. Stop by some time. I live one street over, on SJG Lane."
"Maybe I will."
"Happy New Year, neighbor."
"To you, too."