My Mug Shot

At last, a mug big enough to suit my caffeine needs; a gift from Amy Smallman-Winston, a fabulous cast member of "Brushes" who watched in horror astonishment as I transitioned, over the the course of several months, from co-playwright/cast-caterer/cheapo prop finder in rehearsals, to full-on Girl Boss.

Or if you prefer, Head Bitch In Charge. "You were really angry at those video guys," Amy said to me last night at the cast party. "Not angry, Amy," I insisted. "Assertive." Well, it's true, I was bossing the camera dudes around a bit, ordering them not to do really dumb ass things. I was out of my comfort zone and it felt so good. "Tell me you're not planning to sit on top of the chair while recording the show," I said to the tall one, with just a pinch of panic and a nice spoonful of venom. "Yup," the camera dude said. "I'll get the best view of the stage." "So, yeah, that's not happening." "Huh?" "You're not sitting there. You'll block everyone's view." "Yeah, but..." "This is closing night. We'd like the audience to be able to see." With that, I walked away, all diva-like, my Met Gala ball gown swishing behind me. What? Sometimes I overdress. Backstage, Amy took my hand. "It's going to be okay. Here at the Bad Hair Days Inn, we've seen everything." She was rehearsing a scene, but still, she gets me. And guess what? It was okay. It was more than okay. But if I hadn't played the Girl Boss card, who knows what sort of pandemonium might've gone down at the Whitefire. Call it anger, call it assertiveness, call it head bitchiness. I did what I had to do. Sure, I'll miss bossing folks around. I really will. Oh wait, I can still boss Sir Blakey around. "Hey, you, stop with the barking." Not that he listens to me. Over at the SJG Palatial Estate, it's hard to get a word in sometimes. I may have to flash my mug shot more often. 

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Here's why the baby is an earl.

Dear SJG,
You are in error and it is my duty as Queen to correct you. My most recent great grandchild, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, is not a prince, although he's sweet as a buttery scone smothered in clotted cream. Have you seen those cheeks? They're simply edible. You could make a meal out of that punim. However, Archie is merely an earl. Whether Harry and the American call him an earl or leave him untitled is entirely up to them. Seriously, I've given up trying to control those two. Nonetheless, I hereby grant you permission to call him Earl Archie, because I have a lot of power and can do as I please. But if I catch you calling him Prince Archie, you shall be summoned to court for a testy talking-to.
Royally Yours,
Elizabeth R

Dear Queen Elizabeth,
I'd rather be summoned for tea and crumpets. Let's check our calendars and coordinate.
Respectfully Yours,
The SJG

Royal Prince Nameless

Hear ye, hear ye, the Sussex Royal Babykins has arrived. Methinks it's time to come up with a name already, don't ye?

It may surprise ye not that the SJG has a few suggestions that may or may not be appropriate:

1. Prince Dayenu (Hebrew for: "It would have been enough." As in, "It would have been enough if you weren't all that royal, but let's face it, you are the Royal Babykins, so milk it, baby.")

2. Prince Kugel (In honor of the kugel I sent Meghan and Harry at Rosh Hashanah, even though it got returned with a note that said, "Ta! But we only eat gluten-free.") 

3. Prince Tchotchke (Seventh in line to the throne, this Royal Babykin's role, at least at the beginning, will be that of a petite yet meaningful bauble, a pricey knickknack, a miscellaneous royal until he grows up, launches a coup and takes over Buckingham Palace.)

4. Prince Mazel (For all the luck he'll bring his parents, kina hora, poo poo poo.)

5. Prince Pipik (For his pristine belly button that shall never collect a speck of schmutz, or heads will roll.) 

The Parachute Club

Rebecca and her widowed mother Rose are chatting on the phone. "Mommy, why don’t you do something useful with your life?"
"So nu? All of a sudden, sitting around my swimming pool, drinking good wine and relaxing is no longer a good thing?"
"I’m talking about something to make you get out and meet people. Like going down to your local Senior Center and meeting with the people there. You need to get active, Mommy."
The following day, Rose emails her daughter. "I took your advice and I've joined a local parachute club."
Rebecca emails back, "Are you meshuggah, Mommy? You’re 88 years old and now you want to start jumping out of planes?"
"Yes, and I’ve even got a membership card. I'll email it to you."
So Rose emails Rebecca a copy of the card. Rebecca immediately calls her mother. "Oy vey, Mommy! Where are your glasses? This is a membership card for a prostitute club, not a parachute club."
"Oy, am I in trouble," says Rose. "I've signed up for at least five jumps a week."
http://awordinyoureye.com

Head Bitch In Charge

Well, come on now. Who doesn't like getting wonderful gifts, especially when they relate to the show that took, oh, six years to get up on its bristles? Let's do a quick review, shall we? The Brush of Honor, I believe, is self-explanatory, as is Head Bitch In Charge, which describes me perfectly, just ask the cast. The Alien, you might not get unless you saw the show, and if you did, nine zillion thank you's for your support. Let's just say that sometimes, even aliens worry about their hair, or the lack there of. This particular alien receives answers from the 4th dimension when you ask it a question. What say we do a little demo right here. "Hey, Alien Head, will Brushes get another run somewhere on Earth?" Shake shake shake. Hang on.... be patient. "For sure," says the alien. Good answer! 

"Make us look thin, make us look young, 

make our hair look sensational," 

I commanded the youngest before 

he took this historical photo. 

The gifts, courtesy of this amazing human, the only, the only Cathy Hamilton, my brilliant writing partner in hair-larity, commemorate the closing of "Brushes." We're sad to see it end, of course, but according to the Alien, this is just the beginning... kina hora, poo poo poo. And the Alien wouldn't lie.

The Coconuts In Question

Amy Smallman-Winston & Andrew Villarreal 

at the Bad Hair Days Inn 

You could say it was a sticky situation. Last night, the night before the closing night of Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs, which happens to be tonight, at precisely 10:33 p.m., I received the following Shakespearean email from one of the greatest humans ever, that's right, Mr. Kevin Bailey, the director/exec producer of our show. "Hey there, did I perchance loan you my glue gun for the coconuts when we were trying to glue them?" - K

The coconuts, you see, have been an issue since the beginning of time. Rehearsal time, that is. I found them, where else, on Amazon, these cheapo plastic coconut drink cups with little flowers and straws, for "A Brush With Humidity." When terrified guests arrive at the Bad Hair Days Inn, Chester, the aging lobby boy, hands them a Hairy Mary cocktail in a cute coconut cup.

The problem: these cheapo cups consistently uncup, or if you prefer, come apart. They drop on the floor, bounce hither and thither. It's been a whole thing. One day, Kevin took them home. "I'm going to glue gun these mutha-effers together," he exclaimed. "They shall come apart no more." "I have the utmost confidence you will succeed," I said, although, I wasn't convinced that a glue gun would solve the dilemma. I cheered him on, despite my misgivings, for I am a team player. A few days later, when he handed back the coconuts in disrepair, with traces of ooey-gooey encircling them, I stifled my laughter. Oh wait, no I didn't. I laughed plenty and made a promise I knew I couldn't keep. "Leave it to this incredibly uncrafty Jew to fix them." "Good luck," he said, knowing full well that I would never fix them. Only, dammit, guess what, I did fix them, not with glue, but with double-sided tape. Not once in the entire six-show run have these mutha-eff'n coconuts come apart. Not once.

Here's what I wanted to write back: "Alas, poor Yorick, I know diddly about the glue gun's whereabouts. I will search high and low at the Whitefire, I will question the usual suspects, and if your glue gun appears, justice will be served." Sensitive gal that I am, I could sense his late night panic. He was a man in need of his glue gun. I needed to respect that. "Nope, haven't seen it," I wrote back. Did I mention the coconuts have never uncoconuted, not once in the entire run?

"Is that a glue gun in your pocket, 

or are you just happy to see me?" - Mae West 

SJG Introduces Lit Bit For Literal Crimes

The SJG Lit Bit: It's Literally Bejeweled

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG called an early morning fress conference at her palatial estate, during which she served a spread of leftover Passover matzoh -- "Try a schmear of Nutella, it's to die for" -- stale macaroons and something called Gefilte Surprise, deemed "a little iffy" by the minyan of journalistic fressers -- and introduced a new product that's making her simultaneously kvell and wince. "Some people wear a Fitbit to count steps and calories burned. I wear a Lit Bit to count the number of times I say literally... ouch... in the course of one day. According to my pretty bejeweled Lit Bit, which goes with literally... double ouch... everything, yesterday, I committed 82 literal crimes. Ow ow ow. Sure, I should be alarmed by my extreme overuse of... that word, and yet, let's face it, I've... umm... what's a better word... actually stumbled onto something so brilliant, I can't wait to help the rest of the world Get Lit. Here's how it works. Every time you say... that word... you literally... oh eff me... get a strong electrical zetz you won't easily forget. If that's not linguistic modification at its finest, what is?" The SJG Lit Bit will sell for $300. "To sell it for less would be a shanda. Those are real rhinestones, you know." She ended the fress conference by offering each reporter a coupon for 10 percent off her Lit Bit, a doggy bag of "mushy but delish" Passover Matzoh Brei, and a heartfelt promise to reduce her use of... that overused word by "literally a lot." With that, she screamed in pain and self-medicated with leftover Manischewitz.