Buy This!

Dear SJG,

This morning I was invited to buy all sorts of luxury items from the Ritz Carlton, including their luxurious bed, which would allow me to sleep in luxury. Such luxury would cost me somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,000. Free shipping, too. And now, I turn to you, Goddess of Smart Shopping Choices, for guidance. Am I worthy of such a luxurious deal?
Thanks,
Slumming It In Sherman Oaks

Dear Slumming It,
Absolutely. Go ahead and splurge. Buy three luxurious beds and give me one.
You're welcome,
SJG

Dear SJG,
I notice your name is not on the short list for Time's Person of the Year. How hurt are you by this annual omission?
Just Wondering,
Wounded on Your Behalf

Dear Wounded,
I'm deeply hurt, if not, inconsolable. But I'll live. It comes down to this: To me, I'm an icon, but apparently, to an icon, I'm no icon. But there's always next year. After all, I'm shrinking as we speak. Maybe by next December, I'll be short enough to make the short list.
Fingers crossed,
SJG

When I Think of Hanukkah...

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see candles breaking as they hit the prongs
There goes a red one, there goes a blue.
I take more out of the box and try again.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see educational toys stacked in closets
Rejected by the two young sons
Who only wanted Hot Wheels and Power Rangers.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I smell latkes frying in a pan
I hear the smoke detector going off
A reminder to remove the batteries next time.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see Star of David cookies I bought at Ralph's
For the second grade holiday party
A better person would've made them herself.

When I think of Hanukkah:
I see me hunting for hidden gifts
Where did  Mommy stash them all?
Please God, let there be an Easy-Bake Oven.

When I think of Hanukkah:
My mind spins like a wooden dreidel.
Where did all the menorahs go?
Can we get back the one Scotty made in preschool?

Think Happy Thoughts

Twelves months flew by and it's time to reflect
On lofty goals I opted to neglect:

Didn't buy myself a mountain retreat,
Didn't recall what I'm doomed to repeat.

Didn't dance on Broadway or gain some height,
Didn't see the Eiffel Tower at night.

But I did some things, I'm happy to say,
Went to NYC, KC, Santa Fe.

There's still next year, and the one after that,
To pack my Samsonite, my coat and hat.

Never Neverland or my own back yard,
It's the simple questions that I find hard:

If Peter Pan can fly sky high and free,
How come I saw those wires on my TV?

Chopped

Here's what's haunting me. The onions. The chopped red onions. To be more specific, the cute little container of chopped red onions. It's true, I prefer to let others chop my red onions, and my white ones, too. I don't mind paying extra. Better someone else should weep while chopping onions. Let their eyes burn, not mine. This is one of the SJG's top luxuries in life. You won't catch me shopping for Prada, but already-chopped onions? Absolutal. In this way, I'm a little lazy and a bit extravagant. But how can I enjoy my lavish lifestyle when the much-covetted onions have vanished?

Somewhere between the market and my sprawling, Sherman Oaks country estate, the ready-to-go onions had up and gone. Such a loss, you have no idea. I had so looked forward to sautéing them, too. But where were they? I searched the perimeter. I investigated plenty. Those lil diced devils weren't in the fridge where they belonged. They weren't in the front seat of the car, the back seat of the car or the trunk of the car.  Under the seats. Under the car. Negatory. Not there. I re-checked the shopping bags. I checked the fridge again. Cabinets and drawers. I looked and re-looked. I went cray-cray. And yet, I came up empty. I'm sure there's some sort of hidden message here, some metaphorical significance. I'm supposed to peel back the layers one at a time, right? Figure out something, don't ask me what. Until I do, I'll just assume the universe is once again eff'ing with me. Either that, or the grocery gal charged me for the onions and gave them to the person behind me. I'll be D, as my daddy would say. Someone got a freebie, thanks to the SJG. In which case, you're welcome. I believe I've done my final mitzvah of 2014. I can now sit back and rest on my chopped laurels.

Chopping the laurels

The Hanukkah Movie Channel

"You Call This A Life?"

To get in the mood for Hanukkah - only two weeks away - I've been watching "Eights Nights of Hanukkah" on the Hanukkah Movie Channel. Last night, I treated myself to my all-time Festival of Lights favorite: "You Call This A Life?" Maybe you've seen it. Jimmy Stewart stars as George Bloomberg, a total mensch who's spent his entire life giving, giving, and giving of himself to the people of Schmendrick Falls. He longs to see the world, but when his father plotzes, it's painfully obvious that George isn't going anywhere. Better he should run the Building and Loan and keep an eye on that gonif Potter, than escape Schmendrick Falls, a town with a vice grip on his so-called life. Thank God, things pick up a little when George meets a nice pretty shiksa named Mary, played by, who else, Donna Reed.  

"Sorry, I can't marry a shiksa. Will you convert?"

George asks Mary to convert. She mulls it over, wondering how much it will upset her overbearing mother. "I'm in," she says. George and Mary have a lovely temple wedding. The guests throw matzoh crumbs in their general direction, and off they go on their honeymoon. But then, another plot complication that would give anyone a migraine. Wouldn't you know it, there's a run on the bank.  Rather than put themselves first, God forbid, the Bloombergs give away all their wedding gelt, instead. (Wouldn't you?  Of course you would! I hear you're very generous around the holidays.) So, George and Mary do a makeover on a shack that would fall down if you sneezed on it. They have babies and more babies and never complain. This is the only part of the story that strains credulity and makes me yell at the TV: "When are you people going to play the martyr card? It's enough already with the bad luck. What's wrong with you?" 

Peter Pan Audition Fail

I don't know about you, since you pretty much keep to yourself, but I am near-giddy about "Peter Pan Live!" coming to a flatscreen near you on Thursday night. What's that? Did NBC pay me to plug "Peter Pan Live!"? I should be so lucky. The truth is, I'm just a fan of Peter Pan. Always have been, so why stop now? Give me Peter Pan, with or without music, and I'm one happy lil shana maidela. Thanks to my brother John for sending me this hilarity.

What Do You Do?

When I was a school-age SJG, in love with recess and gym class and all other non-educational activities, including lunch, no one ever asked me, "What do you do?" The answer was obvious. "Back off. I'm busy learning stuff I'm going to forget, immediately. Like basic math. One plus one equals let me get back to you." The matter of validating my existence came later. I don't remember anyone inquiring about my reason for being on this planet till my lil bouncing bundles of testosterone arrived. The implication was, "Can we assume you're doing something more important than just changing diapers?" My answer has always been the same. "I'm a writer." But that's not good enough. They want to know what I've written. As in, "We need proof." In recent weeks, I've started making up answers to "What do you do?" "Dog walker and kugel maker." "Nuclear physicist." "Professional Turkey Baster."