A Little Obsessed

French Baby gifts from Chloé's French friends 

Okay, so maybe I'm more than a little baby-to-be-obsessed. Is this healthy for your SJG? Hmm. Let me get back to you on that. Meanwhile, I can't help myself. The baby girl isn't even arriving till mid-May, kina hora, poo poo poo, the shower I'm throwing Chlo-Chlo isn't until end of March. And yet, I am a grandma in training. This is serious work, people. It takes preparation, Talmudic study and deep reflection. What's that? It's the role I'm born to play? That goes without saying, even so, here I am in my adorably cluttered office, in need of a handmade sign that says "Gone Googlin'." Who has time to make a sign? I'm way too busy. Yesterday, when I should've been working on my new play, I was ordering baby shower favors, instead. The choice was pretty clear. Re-read "Macbeth" (don't ask) or devour Pinterest for clever ideas? Pinterest, duh. What do I know about baby shower favors? Bupkis. The whole adult party favor thing is fairly new. For me, the cut-off was pre-Bar Mitzvah. I haven't put together a plastic bag of crappy toys, teeth-destroying candy and whatever little boys liked in the '90s since, well, the '90s. I'm in new territory here.

Chloé in Paris. I don't remember looking this
glam at five months preggers. Or ever,
for that matter. 

The parents-to-be in Paris, jetting home as we
speak. If only they could teleport and be here
sooner. Is that too much to ask? 

Need A Mensch? Give Us A Call

(Sherman Oaks) Welcome to SJG Such A Mensch Staffing Agency, your gateway to the finest mensches in your area. We take pride in providing a mensch for all your needs, and we do mean all. Why hire a schlepper, a no-goodnik, or a nar, when you can employ Such A Mensch, instead? Need a last-minute mitzvah? Someone who's happy for you just because? Someone who's there for you and no one else? Someone who listens while you kvetch? Never interrupts? Brags about you on cue? Hire one of our highly-qualified mensches and if you're not satisfied, there's something seriously wrong with you, and we say that with love. Here at Such A Mensch, we're dedicated to finding you the most compassionate and attractive humans you'll ever meet.

And all you have to do is cough up the gelt to get them! No one has to know that the cute mensch you brought to Shabbat dinner charges by the hour. No one has to know that the millennial mensch you're passing off as your "new business partner" is only there to make you seem young and hip. SJG Such A Mensch won't tell a soul. We're 100 percent trustworthy, unless we've had a little too much to drink, then all bets are off. The fact that you're paying for companionship (wink wink), expertise and excellent optics is strictly hush-hush. Listen, if it makes you feel good, and your check clears, that's really all that matters, right? So give us a call, send us a text or stop by our palatial suburban offices, where the coffee is free but the empathy costs extra.

To Life, To Life, L'Chaim

It's the last blog of Twenty-Nineteen

A year of moments that were serene  

Of all the news I'd like to select 

Grandma-to-be's the best one to check 

In May, knock on wood, a big event

Excitement score: one hundred percent 

It's the last toast of Twenty-Nineteen

Champagne wishes and caviar scenes

Out with the old and in with the new

To life, to life, l'chaim to you 

Guilt, Schmilt

Here's a random question. Guess who's been regaling you with silliness for a decade? I'll give you a minute. I know it's the end of the year, you're tired and it's hard to gather your thoughts. I mean, seriously, it's enough already with 2019, am I right, what with the global turmoil, the domestic turmoil, the all-round, unrelenting general chaos that greets us daily. I get it. Given all this kaka, I'll tell you the answer because I don't want you should suffer in any way that might hurt your overburdened keppy. It's me, your SJG. Ten years, I've been doing this. This year, I admit, I slacked off a bit. I gave you 48 less blogs than last year, igniting some anger in Gelson's, my personal homeland, that sadly, no one recorded, or maybe it would've gone viral, which just between us, is on my bucket list, so you'll just have to trust me that what I'm sharing is more-or-less accurate:

The general manager: "So, nu, SJG? You barely mentioned us this year."
"What the eff? Eleven times, I mentioned you. Well, not you, specifically, but the market. That's plenty."
"In 2018, you mentioned us more."
"Such guilt from a guy who dusts the bread aisle."
"If I don't, who will?"
"I gotta go."
"Fine, go."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath."

The butcher: "So, SJG, nothing about the brisket you served on Passover being tender as the night?"
"Say what now?"
"Remember how I spent two hours with you, selecting the best cut for your personal needs?"
"Two hours?"
"Maybe it was 10 minutes, but it felt like two."
"It was delish. Everyone raved."
"Whatever."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath."

The baker: "Hey, SJG, I noticed not much kvelling over the bakery in your blog this year. What are we, chopped liver? You bought so many princess cakes, we ran out of marzipan. And cookies, cookies, cookies. Rugelach. Bagels. Danish. But don't feel too bad, we get enough praise from our better customers."
"Better customers? We took out a second mortgage to pay our Gelson's bills."
"Ha ha ha. Really?"
"Maybe."
"A nod now and then would've been good."
"Listen, I'll do better next year."
"I won't hold my breath.

The candlestick maker in back of the store: "Hey, SJG.  Thanks for bupkis in the blog."
"You're welcome."

Put That Back Where It Came From

Sometimes I call it the Bermuda Triangle, other times, the Black Hole. I have many names for this dark and mysterious force of nature. It is alien, insatiable, Houdini-like, magnetically-powered. A saber-toothed con artist. A steamroller baby. A churning urn of burning funk. It wants what it wants, when it wants it. On any given day, it might consume: house keys, car keys, neighbors' keys. On any given day, it might devour: a phone charger, a sweater, a pair of earrings. It isn't picky. Try looking for the missing item. I promise you this: You won't find it. It's gone rogue. The locket with my mother's photo. Cash, credit cards, coupons for half-off. Things I hold dear. Things I don't give a crap about, but would like to know where they went, anyway. So long, sister. Sayonara. The Bermuda Triangle. The Black Hole. It zeroes in on a random target. The kitchen. The dining room table. The washing machine. The dryer. The garage. The office. The hall closet. The upstairs closet. Any closet. Any room. Pick one, any one. Put something there, on a counter or a chair, on a hanger or in a drawer, and kiss it adios. Sometimes the universe just likes to eff with me. Haha, SJG. You won't find it there, there or there. Enough already with the hide and seek. I'm so onto you. Put that thing back where it came from. Put that thing back, pretty please. No questions asked.

On The Day After Christmas

On the day after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
A tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day two after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day three after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day four after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Four deep blue ties
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And a tee shirt from the Dead Sea

On day five after Christmas
My hubby gave to me:
Five Hefty bags
Four deep blue ties
Three denim jeans
Two cardigans
And I gave it all to charity

Don't Let The Red Nose Fool You

"And the best part is, I'm Jewish."

Dear SJG,
I have a friend who has money coming out of her tush. As far as I know, it's not a medical condition. Every Christmas, she gives me an insanely expensive gift. Last year, she gave me a deer named Rudolph. For 365 days, Rudolph has followed me around, destroyed furniture, and eaten all the good bagels. Sure, he's cute, with his red nose and spunky demeanor, but it's enough already. He's the definition of naughty. I've had it with him. Plus, he doesn't get along well with our new dog, Sir Blakey. Will I rot in hell if I send Rudolph packing?
Sincerely,
Done with the Deer

Dear Done,
Don't look a gift deer in the mouth.
You're welcome,
The SJG