Good Riddance

And so Junior left, it took him a while

To get up and flash his signature smile

She stayed behind to cry with abandon  

As he went off to woo back her stand-in 

Bachelor Nation, they gave a geshrei

They wanted to know: what's wrong with this guy?

How could he flip flop and bolt from the scene?

Is that how he rolls, is that his routine? 

But sometimes these things work out for the best 

The gal who got dumped is rid of this pest 

She's over her heartbreak, her future's bright

And now it's her turn to find Mister Right 

Just Go Already

Just go already. 

Oh dear God, why did I get hooked again? I promised myself I wouldn't, and I made good on that promise for a while, but then, prodded by the newlyweds, I caved. So here it is, my confession. I watched the whole damn thing. I tried to get out of it, I really did. I even sat the lovebirds down and said, "I'm sorry, I can't do it." They countered with, "You can and you will." Well, there went my will power. So fine, go ahead and judge me. But the truth is, I've cringe-watched "The Bachelor" once again, as if the world isn't cringe-worthy enough on its own, including last night's epic shanda with the handsome race car driver and the two lovely ladies who split his heart in half. How many times can one dude say, "I love them both"? So many times, you could lose your mind. I almost did. But then, I kept watching and waiting for a decision. His family certainly didn't help matters. They loved both gals, too. He went with the one they thought made the most sense. "She'll kick you in the ass when you need it," said Arie Jr.'s dad, Arie Sr. And so, he picked Becca, the nice gal from Minnesota, informing Lauren, the nice gal from Virginia Beach, "I love you, but in terms of an $80,000 Neil Lane engagement ring, you get bupkis." Lauren left Peru, as one does, confused. Can you blame her? But wait, hold on to your tallis! Arie Jr. changed his mind again. "Sorry Becca, but I need the Neil Lane back, I'm still in love with Lauren."

And Becca said, "Are you @#$%'n kidding me?" Apparently, he wasn't, for the whole season, he showed no sense of humor. Why start now? The whole "history-making" break-up debacle was presented "unedited" and let me tell you, it was painful to watch. "Just go," Becca said. "Okay, I'll go," Arie Jr. said. Then he sat there as she cried so quietly, I couldn't believe it. She was a total mensch, given the circumstances. The SJG would've screamed, yelled, kicked and hurled so many bleep you's, I would've set a record. But Becca just sat there, sniffling, and said, "Just go." So he'd go, then turn around and come back. "Are you okay?" "No. I'm humiliated. Don't touch me. Just go."

Oh, the heartbreak, the humiliation. 

It took a number of tries, because exiting seemed difficult for Arie Jr., but finally, he went, and thank God for that. Tonight, he'll keep going, all the way to Virginia Beach, to woo back Lauren, who, if she has any dignity left, will tell him to bleep off. But she won't.  Because she loves him. And guess who'll be watching the whole damn thing? The SJG, of course. And the newlyweds, but that goes without saying.

Oscar-Style Group Hug

The cuzzie (Andy), the brother (John) and the SJG (who else?) share a group hug in honor of the Oscars. Or maybe, savvy show biz types that we are, we know a great photo op when we see it. "Take a photo," I commanded hubby. "Make us look young!" Hmm. Not sure hubby succeeded, youth-wise, but still, he took a nice shot that proves we are related, should anyone ever question our genetic connection.

Following our lead, the four actresses who didn't win celebrate the gal who grabbed Oscar, momentarily, then set him down on the floor.

I'm talking about Frances McDormand. She had a few amazing things to say.

Sure, there were some dud moments during the evening. Someone in the room nearly tripped over a tiny dog, but did I need that as part of my legacy? No, I did not. "Nice recovery, Ma," said a son I've proudly enabled. "I know, right?!" Someone in the room spilled wine, but did I shame my brother? No, I did not. There was, however, plenty of shaming, per my prediction, of celebrity cheeks over-injected, of musical numbers overdone, of remote control overuse, but did the entire room shame my cuzzie for nearly fast-forwarding us past Best Actor? Yes, we did. And we forgot to apologize. There goes next year's invitation.

Let's Watch The Oscars

I like the bring my own TV to the party. 

The SJG predicts the following may or may not happen while watching the Academy Awards at Cuzzie & Sissy's sprawling westside kibbutz: The lengthy show will be paused 15 times, minimum, to allow various members of the extended mishpocha the opportunity to nosh on something wonderful, refill on alcohol and/or visit the poshly-appointed lavatory.
The questionable style choices of celebrities walking the Red Carpet, sitting in the audience and/or appearing on stage will undergo harsh and hurtful shaming. Post-Oscars, the level of guilt for the afore-mentioned fashion bashing will be non-existent. The Jewish nominees (Daniel Day Lewis, Timothee Chalamet, I'm looking at you) will be kvelled over, briefly and enthusiastically, even when they don't win, because as everyone knows, it's an honor to be nominated. Awkward speeches, awkward moments, awkward anything will be relished and relived, verbatim, throughout the evening. Musical numbers, in particular, will be in danger of repeated mockery. Let's face it, those of us who gather, almost annually, to watch and rudely critique the Oscars at Cuzzie & Sissy's are a tough crowd to please.

Dateline: Sherman Oaks

Monday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks":  A loud confrontation in Gelson's results from a love triangle involving a short, Jewish allergy-prone shopper, a handsome produce manager and a Greek yogurt supplier.
Tuesday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks":  The disturbingly cluttered closet of an internationally-known blogger is explored in hopes of finding that cute pair of flats she bought at Nine West 14 years ago.
Wednesday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks":  An enabling mother of two who has never won the lottery, let alone played the lottery, shares her uninspiring story.

Thursday on "Dateline:  Sherman Oaks":  Riveting details surrounding the various parking lot mishaps, bumper scrapes and traffic violations of a near-sighted kugel-maker who sometimes forgets to look where she's going.
Friday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks":  A hometown bagel-hoarder under 5'2" is shocked when she becomes a suspect during the investigation of disappearing trash cans in her posh neighborhood.
Saturday on "Dateline:  Sherman Oaks":  A rapidly-aging woman who holds her pen funny opens up about her challenging life as a left hander.

Sunday on "Dateline: Sherman Oaks": Keith Morrison travels to a dark, mysterious place called the Valley to interview the SJG about all the typographical, grammatical and linguistic crimes she has committed in her daily blog.
(4-4-16)

No One Will See You Now

A rainy Friday morning. I stop at the parking booth. An attendant sits there, ignoring me. It's 7:50. I'm 10 minutes early for my appointment. I look at the attendant through my window. She looks at me through her window. She does nothing. I wait. Still nothing. I raise my hand in the air, as if to say, "Nu?" She partially opens her window. I partially open my window. Progress. "I'm not here," she says. "Huh?" I say. "I'm not here till 8." "But you're right there." "The parking lot isn't open till 8." "I'm so confused." "Just drive down there and park." "You just said it wasn't open." "Technically, it isn't." "So I should take my chances and park." "Yes." "Are you going to give me a thingy?" She stares at me. "A parking thingy." "No." "So parking is free today?" "No." Well, so far this is going well. I drive down the ramp and park. And there, of course, is a parking attendant, who won't give me a parking ticket, either. I try not to take any of this personally.

The elevator takes me to the 5th floor. I walk down the hall. I see no humans. I take a few more steps and there is a human lady, dusting. "Oh hi," I say, more grateful than I've ever been in my life. Whatever is happening, I'm not alone. "Is anyone here?" I ask. She says nothing and continues dusting. Okay then. I find a magazine. The cover is a knife in my heart. Jennifer Aniston, smiling at me from the March issue of Architectural Digest. Her happy life with Justin, her dogs, her gorgeous house high above Los Angeles. I start to browse. "Timing's a bitch," I say to Jennifer, certain she can hear me. Finally, another human arrives, a front desk human. "I'm here to see Sylvia," I say. Sylvia is the highly-skilled designated technician. In this dark night of the soul, she's much in demand. She whitens, brightens and lightens the spirits of those in need of a good coat of sparkle.

"Have a seat," says the front desk human. I go back to Jennifer Aniston and the photos of the amazing home she'll undoubtedly sell for gazillions to another celebrity. What does she need with this self-designed, altogether stunning shrine to short-lived marital bliss? Get out, Jennifer. Get out and build anew.

Minutes go by. More minutes go by. I'm starting to get that feeling, you know the one, that dreaded certainty that whatever is supposed to happen, a career achievement award, a sudden growth spurt, isn't going to happen. Not today, anyway. I'm back at the front desk, flashing the look my family knows too well. My signature look of impatience, passed down through the generations by my Russian ancestors. "So, where's Sylvia?" "Oh, Sylvia isn't here today," says the second front desk human, a recent arrival. "Excuse me?" "She's not doing your soul bleach." "Who's doing it then?" "Let me check... I think Gabriella is doing it." "I don't want Gabriella. I want Sylvia. Sylvia knows how sensitive my soul is. She's got that numbing cream and -- " "Gabriella can't do it," says the first front desk human. "She's helping someone else." "So, to clarify, in terms of soul whitening, brightening and lightening, the nice spiritual cleansing I'm in need of, given these turbulent times... that's a no?" "Yes." "We're so sorry." "Are you really?" "Uh huh." "Do I at least get a validation?" "Sorry, we don't validate." "Figures." "We'll call you when we figure out Sylvia's schedule." "Wonderful. I'll just sit in the dark till then."

The Kvetchorcist

(Sherman Oaks) SJG Productions announces pre-production on a new movie called "The Kvetchorcist," the horrifying true life story of the Short Jewish Gal and her ongoing attempt to rid herself of debilitating kvetchiness. In an exclusive interview at her palatial estate, she gave away most of the movie. "A nice middle class family grows concerned when their short daughter starts kvetching in tongues, complaining non-stop about this and that, spewing matzoh ball soup at visitors while her head spins like a dreidel. Finally, Rabbi Mordecai, renowned Kvetchorcist catering to the good parts of Sherman Oaks, pays a visit and performs an ancient kvetchorcism on the adolescent SJG. Sadly, it doesn't quite take, because she's still actively kvetching, but it'll make a great movie, don't you think, and lead to many profitable sequels."