Scenes From A Millennial Wedding

The long-marrieds

Celebrate the newly-marrieds

A sweet gal we've known since babyhood.

A sweet guy who vows to fulfill her every wish.

And what could be better than that? 

A very hip and happening, Pinterest-ready downtown venue called the Millwick, where even the rapidly aging, yet glittery and glam SJG felt "like this" with the millennials in attendance, until they shoved me off the dance floor during the death-defying hora.  

Exclamatory Soccer Commentary!

Live! From the Palatial Estate of the Short Jewish Gal! The World Cup Final! Starring France vs. Croatia! Commentary by Longtime Hubby!

"Yep."
"Yes."
"That's a handball."
"You can't be any clearer than that."
"Penalty!"
"Yes!"
"Come on!"
"Who's gonna kick it?"
"Come on!"
"Come on!"
"His arm was away from his body!"
"Put some pressure on him!"
"Come on, baby!"
"Come on!"
"Yes!"
"A good first half!"

Well, thanks for stopping by. Help yourself to some coffee and a nice pre-sliced bagel. We'll be back after this message from Gas-X.

I Thought You Were Dale!

Exercise and the right kind of foods. Like a Post Grape-Nuts'

breakfast. It helps you stay in good shape. Fills you up, not out.

For absolutely no reason at all, I woke up this morning, took one look at myself in the mirror, and said, "I'm sorry, I thought you were Dale." Maybe I expected to see a much younger version of myself. Maybe I was feeling nostalgic. I haven't eaten a bowl of Grape-Nuts since the early '70s, when a few bites of that tasty gravel lodged in my braces, setting off a world of orthodontic tsouris. I think I finally understand how Mrs. Burke stayed so thin. She must've damaged her jaw eating Grape-Nuts, developed excruciating TMJ, and could only manage a sip of soup before the pain set in.  Please, enjoy this trip down memory lane, courtesy of, who else, your humble SJG. (7-30-12)

Le French Hello

Le French Hello 

Well, I was so excited and un peu nervous to meet the parents and brother of my French daughter-in-law that all my wonderful linguistic plans flew out the car window on the way to the restaurant. Longtime hubby and I rehearsed all sorts of hello's and nice to meet you's. He planned to say "bienvenue" and I planned to say "bonsoir." We practiced saying their lovely French names. The one thing I hadn't thought about, despite my recent binge-watching of the French series "Call My Agent," was the way the French greet each other. I didn't give it a thought.

The American Hellody Hug 

And so the minute they arrived, jet-lagged from the long flight and parched from the L.A. heatwave, I went in for the standard full-body SJG hug. It may have startled them, but did that stop me? Non. Not even when I heard my D.I.L. whisper to her mother, "She's a hugger." Longtime hubby course-corrected, offering a series of friendly handshakes/half hugs that achieved a nice balance of warmth and cultural respect. As opposed to my way of affectionately invading their space. Dinner was a delight, as the newlyweds did their best to interpret and I threw in any French word that popped into my brain, such as "peut etre," "fromage" and countless "oui"s. I even managed a few sentences, including, "J'adore Chloe," and "Je mange le pain." I could tell they were impressed. On the way home, the man I married a while back said, "We need to work on our French." "Speak for yourself," I said. 

Hedging My Bets

This morning, I rang up my personal shrink, a gal I keep on retainer, Dr. Stormy Schwartz. It went something like this:
"Thanks for taking my call, Dr. Schwartz."
"You're welcome. Who is this?"
"It's the SJG."
"Aw. You again. You realize I charge double for unexpected calls."
"How can I forget? You tell me every time I call."
"Do you have Vey-Mo?"
"Who doesn't?"
"When you're done kvetching, you'll Vey-Mo me the fee."
"It'll be an honor."
"So, what's the problem now, my short little Jewess? Is it height-related?"
"Dream-Related."
"Aw. For dreams I charge triple."
"You're kidding?"
"Gotcha."
"Ha ha hilarious."
"Go on, ma petite meshuggie. Tell me."
"Last night I dreamt about a hedgehog. He came in through the back door, hopped on the sofa and made himself comfy."
"Aw. The Hedgehog Dream. You're in luck. I wrote a paper about this very dream when I went to NYU."
"You went to school in New York?"
"No, here."
"But you said NYU."
"Neurotic-You-University. It's online. Very prestigious. Not everyone gets in."
"Back to the hedgehog, Doc. What's it mean?"
"You want to know? I'll tell you. To see a hedgehog in your dream means you are being overly sensitive to everyone around you."
"Only for my entire life."
"A hedgehog in your dream means you're misreading their intentions by taking everything too personally."
"Only since birth."
"A hedgehog in a dream means you tend to act a little defensive at times."
"Have you been talking to my family behind my back?"
"And yet, there are good things about a hedgehog in a dream. You want I should tell you?"
"Sometime today would be great."
"A hedgehog in a dream can mean you're looking forward to seeing someone you haven't seen in a long time."
"Oh my God, that is so true. My dear friend Cathy is coming to visit next week."
"Mazel tov. I'm not done yet."
"Sorry."
"A hedgehog in a dream can also represent loyalty and honesty."
"No one is more loyal and at times too honest than me."
"So, there you have it."
"What should I do if I dream about the hedgehog again?"
"Welcome it. The hedgehog is your prickly teacher. Don't be scared. Don't be afraid to take risks."
"In other words, don't hedge my bets?"
"It couldn't hurt."
"Thanks, Doc."
"All better?"
"Sure."
"Till next time, my elfin nutcase."

Reclaiming Ten Percent of French

"Ten Percent" aka "Call My Agent" 

Things I've done to relearn my college French by tomorrow, when I meet my daughter-in-law's parents and brother:

An app called Duolingo. 

Result: I can now say, "The girl is eating an apple." "La fille mange une pomme." That's about it. After a few minutes, the app wants money. To that I say, "Non, merci!" 

A CD series called Pimsleur.

Result: After one disc, I can now say, "I speak a little French, not well." "Je parle un peu francais, pas tres bien." 

The best prep of all: a wonderful French series on Netflix, recommended by my DIL, of course. "Dix Pourcent." aka: "Call My Agent." 

Result: I've reclaimed 10 percent of my French. Listening to French people speak French is something I excel at. And my ability to read English subtitles? C'est superbe. Even better, a show about French talent agents and their crazy movie star clients has rebooted my gift for swearing in other languages. Why say sh*t when you can say merde? 

Listen to your SJG and watch "Call My Agent" on Netflix. 

The Return of Blogger & Dogger

Coming this fall to SJG-TV: "The Return of Blogger & Dogger." In the season premiere of this global mystery sensation, the SJG and Sir Blakey, aka Blogger & Dogger, meet Sarah Birdstein during a shared Uber ride home from the race track. Sarah lives in the rural part of Sherman Oaks with her bubbe Rugelach. If Sarah and Rugelach don't raise enough money to pay the mortgage on Gefilte Gate Farm, they'll have to turn it over to The Gluten Liberation Front, an extreme health food cult illegally squatting in the barn out back. Their suspicions raised, Blogger & Dogger decide to stay at Gefilte Gate Farm for a week as paying customers. And sooner than you can say babka, they connect the GLF to a diabolical ring of counterfeiters, passing off delicious baked goods as gluten-free, sickening thousands of customers at open-air markets all over the area and creating a cloud of toxic intestinal gas over the San Fernando Valley. Can you say shanda?