Oh, Ficus Tree, Oh, Ficus Tree

SJG Family Folklore, from, who else, my brother John: "My memory may be faulty, but before you were born Mom bought a Christmas Tree once and only once. I think the estranged brother was 4 and I was 1. Grandpa saw it and refused to come in the house. I believe Dad had to literally drag it outside to the trash." The only shanda here is that John didn't embellish this story more, and that I wasn't alive to see this incident as it unfolded in our first house, high atop the little town of Beverly Hills. The young and impressible SJG would've loved a Giving Tree that gave more than apples and branches. Yet the rapidly aging, not to mention, very wise SJG is a harsh judge of such blatant commercialism. Oh, please. Who am I kidding? How fun would it be to find a Star of David-crowned, pretty tannenbaum in my living room just once? That's right, I said it. I'm talking once!

When we moved to Westwood in the early '70s, plenty temple-going families on the block went through a brief Xmas tree phase, not that they'd admit it now. Even John and I got swept up in the mania, and fashioned a Hanukkah Bush out of a ficus tree, hanging handmade foil decorations on every leaf. Every day, we checked for gifts, but the bush brought forth bupkis. So we returned to our beloved annual ritual, checking every closet and drawer in the house till we found where Mom had hidden our Hanukkah presents. If there's a tradition lovelier than that, let's hear it.
12-12-18

It Is What It Is, Whatever It Is

Three aging goddesses

Here we are, enjoying a lively kvetch session: On one side, Maura, a great gal I've known since we first met at the light in 7th grade and bonded over why it took so long to change, not realizing at that tender stage that the correct answer was, and will always be, "It is what it is." On the other side, Yael, a great gal Maura introduced me to a while back and a true "It Is What It Is" expert. After an illuminating kvetch-o-rama about our temperamental bodies, the meaning of "It is what it is" became clearer. "It Is What It Is" is really "It Is What It Eff'n Is." Or, if you prefer, acceptance. Yet you can't accept whatever you're dealing with unless you complain about it at length, shed a tear or two along the way, and get some excellent advice from wonderful friends who get you. After all, if you can name one boomer who doesn't wish they could order up a nice replacement body part on Amazon for the holidays, then you hang out with a much healthier bunch than I do.

When I got home, I asked Sir Blakey, wise and noble and oh-so-royal, if he knew what "It Is What It Is" means. He struck this pose, one of his favorites, as if to say, "What does it matter? It means what it means, now give me a belly rub." If that's not acceptance, canine-style, what is? 

And speaking of acceptance, I'm not sure what this Beverly Hills decoration is, a Xmas Tree, Palm Tree or Overgrown Hanukkah Bush, but I can accept that it's pretty. What I'm saying is: It Is What It Is depends on your personal needs, and that sums it all up, don't you agree? 

Thanks For The Reminder

Hey SJG,
We wanted to remind you that it's almost your birthday. Selfless gal that you are, we figure you're way too focused on everyone else in your life to remember the exact day you were born. Plus, let's face it, you're getting up there in years and your memory isn't what it used to be. And then there's the whole issue of whether the world will even exist on your birthday. Relax. According to a special algorithm our founder, the guy with the bad hair cut, dreamed up one night after eating a magic bagel, our swiftly melting planet will still be here on January 16. Yay! As for February, he'll get back to us. Meanwhile, it's never too soon to pick a charity and guilt your many Facebook friends into donating in honor of your Miracle Oldsmobile Birth. Maybe someone will raise a cyber hand and say, "I pledge a thousand dollars." Maybe not. Either way, we'd love to kickstart your philanthropic mission with a nice contribution, but who're we kidding, we'd go broke if we did that for our gazillions of members. Just know we're kvelling over you daily from our eco-friendly castle in Silicon Valley, and keeping track of how much gelt your cause inspires. What makes you look good makes us look good.
Happy Everything,
Facebook

Hellody Facebook,

Wow. Thanks so much for the birthday fundraising reminder. I'm touched. I'll be sure to ask my 562 close personal FB friends who haven't been hit up for a donation in at least two minutes, to raise challah for my favorite cause, which happens to be Me. You heard me. Me. The care and maintenance of the SJG keeps going up yearly. Insurance doesn't cover everything, you know.
Hugs,
The SJG

Dear Thursday

Dear Thursday,
What have you got in store for me today? Will you bring joy and rapture? Will you bring me nothing but nachas? Or are you going to stick me with nothing but nachos? FYI Thursday, I've never ordered nachos. Not once. I'm not into nachos. Chips and guacamole? Bring it. Nachos? No thankie. But nachas? Yes please. An extra order of that would be divine. What's that, Thursday? You have no idea what nachas is? And why do I keep italicizing it? Isn't it too early to get all fancy with the slanting of the letters that may give my readers vertigo? Thursday, you are wise beyond your days. I'm not a big fan of italicizing. But if I don't italize nachas, guess what happens? I get nachos. The auto correct is an autocrat. The auto correct doesn't speak Yiddish. Sorry, Thursday, I digress. You want to know what nachas is. Well, other than the thing my sweet daddy used to say his children brought him plenty of, but let's face it, he was being facetious, nachas means happy and proud, especially of someone's accomplishment. As in, "Watching you get Bar Mitzvahed, after all the threats we made, and all those Sundays we wouldn't let you out of your room until you recited your Torah portion like a mensch... after all your kvetching and ungratefulness, do you know what this party is costing us, but look, there you are on the bima, speaking Hebrew like you know what you're saying, it brings us nothing but nachas." To review, Thursday, I'm hoping for a nice helping of nachas, but I'll settle for a moment of Zen.
Thanks for your consideration!
The SJG

Time Travel: Family Edition

Pack your bags. It’s 1989 again, and big hair rules the day. There's your SJG, 31 and wrinkle-free. Check out my pink and blue plaid shirt with shoulder pads out to here. I’m a line-backer with rosy cheeks and coiffed-up hair, in the living room of my parents’ condo, waiting for guests to arrive. That’s you on camera, hon, tilting it this way and that. Artsy balloon shots. Cupcakes from various angles. You’re making me dizzy, you know. Pull back. Keep it simple, if you can. Now friends appear in the hallway, with precious babes in tow. Little ones crawl on the carpet, walk a few steps, plop back down. Some cuddle in blankets, suck on bottles, coo. The toddlers take turns on a rocking horse that’s not a horse at all. It’s a duck. A rocking ducky. So much cooler than a horse. Look. There’s my mother, so pretty at 62, with 10 years left. Happy. Healthy. Full of life. Her hair short and stylish, too. There’s that laugh of hers. God, I miss it.

Hey, there’s my dad at 68, 24 more years to go, working the room, cracking people up. There’s my grandma, 92, only two years left, and who’s she talking to? Your grandma. Can you believe she made it to 104? In the corner, there’s my cousin and my brother. Your folks, your brother. Look at our friends, hon. How they mingle… laugh… sip drinks. A few of them are gone now, too. Check out the couples who didn’t stay married, in a time warp, back together again. Smiling, holding hands. How strange is that? Now the room sings “Happy Birthday." All the people in our life, hon, the ones we lost, the ones still hanging around, singing to our eldest son, a year old, chewing wrapping paper, scooting on his butt. Wait. Our youngest son… where is he? Oh, right. He won't be born till late '91. Okay, shut it off now, hon. That’s enough for today. Time travel takes its toll.

Plenty of Gelt

Dear Molly and Sheldon,
Enclosed is enough Hanukkah gelt to pay for your new sewer line. If you hadn't been in such a hurry, we might've had the thing gift wrapped. Your mother and I have always believed that Hanukkah gifts, particularly for adults, should be useful, not luxurious. I'm sure you realize how fortunate you are, considering how few people receive a new sewer line for Hanukkah. We hope that every time you flush, you'll think of us. Lots of love to the grandchildren we rarely get to see, even though we're just a short four-hour flight away.
Trying To Stay Warm,
Dad & Mother
P.S. You're welcome.

Light Up A Life With A Llama

It’s my favorite time of year. Why? I'll tell you why. Because my mailbox fills with the strangest assortment of holiday catalogues. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa. Bring it on. I can’t get enough. The opportunities to blow money are endless. I can buy a neon jukebox, a snow mobile, a five-foot tall steel menorah. I can even buy a llama. And seriously, why wouldn’t I? How many times does a llama come along? I’ve been around a while, and this is my first shot at purchasing livestock. I’ll admit the llama option came as a surprise. For $150, I could “light up a life with a llama.” For $5,000, I could spring for an entire ark. We’re talking cows, sheep, camels, oxen, pigs, goats. You get the picture. Two by two, that’s a lot of animals to feed. As I flipped through the catalogue, debating how many llamas to buy, I couldn’t believe all the name-dropping going on in there. So many celebs have something pithy to say about the healing nature of rabbits and water buffaloes. I called up longtime hubby at work to get his opinion on the matter. “Honey, how do you feel about llamas?” “Why do you ask?” “Oh, I was thinking we could get one as a playmate for Blakey. It’s only $150.”

On the other end, a long sigh of resignation. “Listen, if you want a llama, if you really can’t live without one, go for it. What’s one more mouth to feed?” Is it any wonder why I married the man? I should’ve asked for a llama a long time ago. I called the toll-free number. “I’d like to buy a llama, please. I like the gray one on page 23.” “We can’t guarantee the color, ma’am.” “Why not?” “Sometimes they’re white. Is white okay?” “I guess I can live with white. But I prefer gray, if you can swing it.”

I gave her my credit card number and asked how soon I’d get my llama. “Hanukkah starts December 22. Will I have it by then? And does it come UPS?” “You don’t actually get the llama." “I don’t? Then why did I just pay for it?” “It’s a donation, ma’am.” “You’re telling me I don’t get a llama?” “That’s right, ma’am.” “What do I get?” “You get the satisfaction of knowing you’re bringing help, healing and hope to millions of impoverished families worldwide.” “Oh, dear God! One llama can do all that?” “One llama is a good start. You can donate as many animals as you like. We’re having a special on sheep this week, if you’re interested.” “I’ll just stick with the llama.” “How about a beehive? For another $30, you can help pollinate a village in Uganda.” “Did Diane Lane buy a beehive?” “She bought eight.” “I’ll take two beehives and one llama.” “Anything else?” “I’m done.” “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”