Next Question

Q: Just one?

A: Sure. Fine. Whatever.

Q: What are you waiting for?

A: Something wonderful.

The Secret of Getting Older

A while back, when my sweet daddy turned 90, I begged him to tell me the secret of getting older. As usual, his answer was short and demanded a rim shot. The secret of getting older? "Keep having birthdays." I don't know about you, because you never call, you never write, but I think his wise strategy makes total sense, until the birthdays run out, and wherever you go, there you are. Still, the accumulation of birthday candles is just one component. Some make it to 90 and beyond, some don't. Why?

Yesterday, I decided to pursue the topic of aging with the gorgeous Twila, one of my mother's dearest friends. They met for lunch, regularly -- one time, both adorned in shocking hot pink outfits. And it wasn't planned. When the waiter asked if they'd like to order a Pink Lady, they got hysterical. They loved to laugh together, and ever since my sweet mommy went off to the Big Beauty Shop in the sky 17 years ago, Twila and I have been celebrating our birthdays and laughing our butts off. It's important to note that I still have a sizable butt while Twila's is practically non-existent, so clearly, we're not related, although given her penchant for brutal honesty, I could've sworn there was a genetic connection. Anyway, this birthday marks a big one for Twila, but I know she'd take me out of her will if I revealed which big one. Oh, wait, I'm not in her will. Let's just say she looks a lot younger than she really is, and after all these wonderful lunches we've shared, I finally asked, "What's the secret of getting older?" Without missing a beat, Twila said, "Lie."

It's Amicable

Hiddleswift is over. 

"It was an amicable split," a source told SJG News Service. To which the SJG replied, testily, "Amicable, schmamicable. When is a breakup, celebrity or otherwise, ever amicable? Give me an example. Just one. Go as far back as prehistoric times. I'm waiting. You can't come up with one, can you? Why? I'll tell you why. Because amicable is a made-up thing, a PR spin. The very nature of a breakup is the opposite of amicable. If things were so amicable, there'd be no breakup." The SJG admitted she was feeling emotional about Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston calling it off after only three months. "They looked so cute together," she said, between sobs. "I mean, so long and lean and elegant. And he liked to dance. When you find a guy who likes to dance, you don't walk away from that. You hang on for dear life." The source told the SJG to calm down, she was embarrassing herself, to which she replied, "When has that every stopped me before? I wanted Hiddleswift to work, I wanted it more than anything, but the truth is, the nickname doesn't really roll off the tongue, not like Shohub. (SJG & hubby). Still, I'm entitled to feel distraught at least for another few hours. Then I'll let it go. Why? I'll tell you why. Because this guy I met in 8th grade tells me I need to let things go. Of course, he hasn't specified which things I need to let go of, but I'm assuming the dissolution of Hiddleswift Inc. would meet his requirements." 

Oh, how we danced on that night at the Met

Where Did I Go Right?

"Guess who made yummy chicken?"
This is the kind of trick question I relish.
"Who! Who?" I texted the youngest, 99 percent certain that the maker of the chicken couldn't possibly be the asker of the question, 'cuz, come on, when's the last time he made chicken? I don't know about you, but I'm drawing a blank.
"Me me me me," he texted back.
Well, spank my tush and call me Shlomo, I was wrong and it felt so right.
Next came the recipe: "Salt and pepper and olive oil."
"Nice! Love that you're cooking."
"It was very tasty."
When I told hubby that his youngest son had performed a culinary miracle, most likely because his older brother/roomie refused to get off the couch, he wanted to know one thing:
"Did he clean up?"
Which made me think of this moment from "Now, Voyager":

"Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon, we have the stars." 

But I kept that to myself. Instead, I said this:

"I'm not asking him that."

Skip It

(Sherman Oaks) American blogger/long-distance kvetcher the Short Jewish Gal is only a few blocks from completing her arduous journey down Ventura Boulevard, hoping to become the first person to skip like Bugs Bunny from Sherman Oaks to Studio City without stopping for a latte, a smoothie, a pedicure, a cute top, a haircut or a quick nosh. The SJG has attempted her happy dance from Van Nuys Boulevard to Laurel Canyon during 15 previous Labor Day weekends, but never made it past Art's Deli. "The smell of a fresh onion bagel was too hard to resist. This time, I'm leaving the cash at home, and the only credit card on my personage will have expired two weeks ago," she said, right before beginning her anti-shop-a-thon. "Not everyone has the intestinal fortitude to pass Lululemon, Banana Republic or M. Fredric, especially on Labor Day weekend, when everything is on sale. I'm going to have to dig down deep and find some self-control. I could really use a new workout bra."

Ba-Bye, Summer!

Dear SJG,
Apparently summer is kaput. I turn to you, O kvetchy one, with a question of enormous import. Where the hell did summer go and how can I get it back?
Thank you,
Summarily Bummed

Dear Summarily Bummed,
Technically speaking, you asked two questions rolled into one, which is very sneaky of you, not to mention rude, especially this early in the a.m. To pose two questions in one is to drain the SJG brain of its awesomeness, but fine, whatever, I'll allow it. Why? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a giver. Let me address the first part of your dual question. Where the hell did summer go? Summer went ba-bye, while you were semi-busy living your humdrum life. God willing your A/C was working. How can you get summer back? You can't. You must wait impatiently till summer rolls around next June, and in the meantime, dwell on the things you can control, like the volume on the TV and the color of your nail polish.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

Do Your Chores

Wipe that grin off your face, missy!

Every time I go to the movies, I hearken * back (* first time usage of hearken) to my youth, when I paid $2.50 for a matinee at the Fox or Bruin in Westwood. And that $2.50 wasn't just spare change, people. It wasn't part of my vast reserve of gelt. It was hard-earned cash, the accumulation of various ridiculous chores and my weekly allowance. My parents made me work for my keep. They had me emptying the dishwasher, which I hated then and still do. I thought after I'd broken a few of their expensive bar glasses -- intentionally?  how dare you! -- that they'd get the message that this wasn't a good chore for the budding SJG. They could've fired me at any point. But noooo, they had me emptying the dishwasher till I moved out. The horror of it all.  How I suffered! 

And that wasn't all they made me do. There was more. Much more. They had me folding laundry, which I hated then and still do. I was lousy at folding then. I'm lousy at folding now. I start off with the best intentions, and then I just say, "Oh eff it!  I don't care." They could've fired me for insubordination and sub-par laundry service.  But nooooo, they kept me on, indefinitely. And that wasn't all they made me do.  They had me washing the patio furniture. You heard me. The cushions were just going to get dirty again. I stunk at washing outdoor furniture then. I stink at it now.  Scrubbing bird crap off cushions -- can you say undignified! Bird crap! Honestly. 

These people I lived with really put me to work. Set the table. Clear the dishes. Make the bed. "Why are you making me do this?" I'd whine on a weekly basis. "What have I done?" My dad would then deliver a lengthy lecture about surviving the Depression and walking three miles in the snow and how chores built character. "I don't need character!" I'd say, and storm out of the room, sobbing and slamming doors.  Overdoing it just a tad. I always did have a flare for the dramatic. 

The benefactors of my traumatic chore-centric childhood: my sons, who never got paid a dime for helping around house. Which may explain why they never helped around the house. I didn't want to burden them with all that character-building nonsense. Who needs character when you've got Play Station?