If You Lie Down With Dogs...

...You will get up early. 

This morning's conversation, starting at 5 a.m.:
"No, Blakey."
"Blakey, no."
"Sleep, Blakey."
"Blakey, sleep!"
"Too early, Blakey."
"Shush, Blakey."
"Blakey, shush."
"Sleep time."
"Stop jumping on Daddy."
"Okay, let's go, Blakey, it's 6 o'clock."
"It is?"
"Oh @#$%! It's 5 o'clock."
"Not yet, Blakey."
"Blakey, not yet."
"Sleep, Blakey."
"Blakey, sleep!"
"He wants to go out."
"Not yet, Blakey."
"Blakey, not yet."
"No whining, Blakey."
"Blakey, no whining."
"Oh, @#$% it. Let's go, Blakey."
"But it's still dark."
"It's fine."
"It's too early."
"Not to him."

Silly Pills: Extra Strength

When I was a little SJG, my mother used to say, "Did you take your silly pill today?" She'd say it when I giggled with a friend, or made myself giggle, or even better, made her giggle. There was nothing more fun than making my mom giggle. Her giggle was infectious.

Someone should've bottled that giggle and sold it door to door. Along with a nice bottle of Silly Pills. Giggles and silliness. What the world needs now. An extra strength dosage.

SJG Appreciation Month

There are so many ways to deliver a warm and fuzzy heartfelt holiday message to the SJG. Email. Text. Voicemail. Pony Express. Facebook. Carrier pigeon. And then there are the huge, showy public statements that keep me going. I refer you to the outpouring of love I received yesterday. Why yesterday? It was SJG Appreciation Day, silly. The skywriting over my palatial Sherman Oaks estate: "We worship you, SJG!" The billboard on Sunset: "Stay Kvetchy, SJG!" The exuberant sighting at Gelson's: "OMG! It's the SJG!" That one caused a near-riot in the produce section. Have you ever tried to autograph a banana? Not easy, my friends. Not easy. But I'm learning. I'm learning all the time. In case you missed SJG Appreciation Day, relax in the slacks, as Grandma Shorty used to say. You can still make up for your hideously hurtful mistake. I've just declared December SJG Appreciation Month. I'll take my appreciation in any form: Gelt. Gifts. Giveaways. When it comes to swag, the SJG says, "Gimme." Hanukkah doesn't start till sundown, Christmas Eve. So step it up, people. Step. It. Up. There's still time to spoil me. Get busy.

It's About Time

"Tantala's Time Travel Agency. What time would you like to visit?"
"A nice time, where things were nice."
"Could you be more specific, please?"
"A simpler time."
"Go on."
"A time before Twitter."
"The '90s?"
"I'm thinking simpler."
"The '80's?"
"Shoulder pads? Pass."
"The '70s?"
"Bell bottoms? No."
"The '60s?"
"A little too turbulent."
"The 50s?"
"A little too rigid."
"The 40s?"
"Great music. But a world war. Next."
"The '30s?"
"Too much Depression."
"Are you sure you want to go back in time,  ma'am?"
"Well, I sure as hell don't want to go forward."

He Survived Doggy Day Care

At first he was afraid, he was petrified

Kept thinking he could never play without me by his side

But then he spent so many hours 

thinking I'd been gone too long

And he grew strong

And he learned how to get along...

Did he think he'd crumble?

Did he think he'd lay down and cry?

Oh no, not him!

He did survive

Oh, as long as he knows how to play he knows he'll stay alive

He's got all his life to live

He's got all his bark to give

And he'll survive

He will survive..

Hey, hey...

(apologies to Gloria Gaynor)

Plays Well With Others - Maybe

Today Sir Blakey of Sherman Oaks will surround himself with his fellow creatures at an elegant doggy daycare spa where dogs are treated like royalty, and that seems fitting, given his title. Shawn, the dog trainer (http://www.itsjustadogthing.com) still trying to train me to be a pack leader -- please don't tell her it's not working -- insists that Blakey needs to remember he's actually a dog, and not a short Jewish personage like myself. Oh, did I mention Blakey converted? Well, he did. It was a quick ceremony. He barked a few prayers in Hebrew and the rabbi said, "He's in! Welcome to the tribe. You may now start worrying." Speaking of worrying, when I drop him off today, it will feel much like I'm dropping one of the sons off for his first day of preschool. Except in this case, the dog is far more advanced than the sons were on their first day of early education. For instance, Sir Blakey knows where to do his business, whereas the sons were a little... oh, let's not say remedial... but if preschool taught them anything, it was how to hold it for a very long time. Preschool must've taught them more than just that. Like how to play well with others. Sir Blakey will be working on that skill today, and earning his first of many gold star doggy treats. I just hope he likes his new lunch box, even though I forgot to have it engraved. Maybe Blakey won't notice. He hasn't learned to read yet.

Must You Harp On It?

Go away, I'm practicing my harp.

Imagine, if you will, a harp in a living room, circa 1966-ish, in a humble town called Westwood. My friend Naomi (not her real name), a smarty from the get-go, took harp lessons. The harp was grand and imposing and for reasons only a therapist might understand, scared the crap out the SJG. To me, Naomi's harp sat there like a towering tchotchke of doom. The harp seemed to say, "Oh, Pluck Off, You."

I'm just going to put it out there. I didn't like Naomi's harp. Pithy thought: We often don't like what we don't understand. So, fine. I didn't understand what an eight year old was doing playing the harp. This couldn't have been her idea. This idea had to have come from her very strict, harping mother. As in, "Naomi, you will play the harp. You will be a harpist. You will travel the world, thanks to that harp. You will thank me, profusely, every time you step foot on stage. You will curtsy and say, 'I'd like to thank my mother for forcing me to playing the harp. I'm so grateful to her. I'm a harpist because of her belief in me.' "

Naomi and her stupid harp. One time, she was at my house, and we were having a fun time, doing what eight year olds did back in the '60s. We weren't texting or watching YouTube. We were playing with Barbies or playing Crazy 8's or checkers. Good clean, non-harp-related fun. And then my mom, who never forced me to play the harp, but did force me to wear some questionable outfits from time to time, came in and said, "Naomi, your mother just called. She said you have to come home and practice the harp." Worst play date ever.

So, did Naomi grow up to be a harpist? No, she didn't. How long did she play that unportable instrument? Not that long. One day, the harp was gone. I can't tell you when the men from Rent-A-Harp came and took it away. Much like the harp, the string holding our friendship together eventually frayed. But every time I see a harp, which is almost never, I think of Naomi. Naomi and her stupid harp.