It's The Thought That Counts

"I can't wait to use it." "Me, too."

How do you pick the perfect holiday gift for the long-married, rapidly-aging parents who seemingly have everything? Well, if you're the youngest son and his lovely girlfriend, you tie a red ribbon round the Tushy Spa, aka Bum Wash, aka Booty Cleaner, and await the ensuing hilarity. For reasons only Siggy Freud could explain, as a family, we find bathroom issues really funny. I'm not sure where I went wrong in the parenting department, although I have a few ideas, but ultimately, I blame hubby for playing the classic "Pull My Finger" medley during the car ride to school. In any event, we laughed and expressed glee and said, "What an inspired gift! You know us so well! Thank you!" Personally, I couldn't wait to use it. Fast forward to Sunday morning. After various installation attempts, Howie, my resident plumber decided, a las, that the Tushy Spa wasn't compatible with our pipes. I had to break the news gently to Scotty. "Honey, I'm so sorry, it's not going to work out with our plumbing." "Sh*t."  "Don't be upset. We're re-gifting it to you and Meg." "We accept."

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Nittel Nacht

I'm sorry, a lot like what now? Nittel Nacht? Oh, please. It's Yiddish for Christmas Eve. But if you think the Short Jewish Gal finally broke down and got a Tannenbaum, you'd be mistaken. This pretty tree with all the gifts currently resides in the home of the marrieds and the grandbaby who brings me so much joy, I don't know what to do other than coo, hug and kvell. Given the circumstances we all find ourselves in, my lovely daughter-in-law Chloé...

... seen here looking radiant with Claire, rocking away in a remote lakeside cabin that our family may or may not have built thanks to a "Build Your Own Cabin" kit we found on amazon, can't travel to see her family. She's missing them so much, and the fact that they've yet to meet the baby doesn't help, that I'm trying my best to overcompensate and conjure up a French Christmas Eve. What do I know from Christmas Eve, French or otherwise? Bupkis. But Chloé has guided me, a la Rudolph: the gourmet meal involves seafood and champagne, cheese and baguettes, and French pastries I may or may not be making from scratch, but take a guess and there's your answer. All I know is, whatever lands on my kitchen island will get eaten, and just thinking about that fills me, preemptively, with a bissel holiday glee. At this point, I'll take it. 

The Wilds of Westwood

So many Hanukkah questions pouring in this morning, my head is spinning dreidel-wise. Today's query comes from Molly Blankstein of Tsuris Town, Pennsylvania:  "Hi SJG, how's ba you? Good, I hope. I was wondering if you could share some of your fondest Hanukkah memories from when you were a child."

Well, Molly, ask and ye shall receive a nice warm platter of freshly-made, metaphorical latkes. For some reason that I need to go back into therapy to pursue, I only have one very special Hanukkah memory from childhood. Just one, but it's a doozy. As a wee lass growing up in the wilds of Westwood, what with the chopping of the wood to keep the stove burning, and the schlepping eight or nine miles through the snow to shul, come Hanukkah, my family didn't go crazy celebrating the birth of Judah Maccabee. My parents scrapped together some gelt and maybe a few toys if Daddy sold a script, and did what they could to make their ungrateful... excuse me, grateful children happy. 

During the lean times, let's just say they got a little creative. Watching my mother ride in on her horse Sassy, carrying a giant gift-wrapped box that I knew in my heart was an Easy Bake Oven, was the Hanukkah highlight of my childhood. You see, Molly, I understood what she had to do to get that Easy Bake Oven. I won't go into too much detail, it's too painful, but I will say she served her time. I'll always treasure that one afternoon we spent together, cooking mini-cakes, pizzas and pretzels before the police came to cart my Easy Bake Oven, and my mom, away.

(A little blog I wrote a few years back when "to mask, or not to mask" wasn't a question.)

I'll Take Potpourri For $100

"I'll take Potpourri for $100, Alex." "This eight-word sentence sums up the on-going psychological fall-out from COVID-19."  "What is, 'The pandemic has induced an epidemic of anxiety.' " "You are correct, SJG. Mazel tov from the Great Beyond. Go again." "I'll take Potpourri for $200, Alex. And please, say hi to my folks if you bump into them." "I'll think about it. This seven-word sentence is exactly what your mother once said to me when she saw me in a restaurant." "What is, 'I didn't realize you were so short.' "You are correct, SJG. It hurt my feelings, but I got over it, quickly. Go again." 

"I apologize on her behalf. What can I say? Bluntness runs in the family. I'll take Potpourri for $300, Alex." "A mixture of dried, fragrant materials that provide a gentle scent, commonly in residential settings." 

"What is, 'Potpourri.' " "You are correct." "Or, as I like to think of it, Alex, the same fragrant materials that have been marking time in the same Italian glass bowl for at least 18 years. The other day, I found a clump of yellow dog hair, property of Dusty, our late yellow Lab, stuck between a dehydrated leaf and a withered rose petal, and oh my God, it made me so sad, I started to weep. But just like you, when my mom called you short, I got over the dog hair thing, quickly. By the way, I've been called short my whole life, and it hasn't stopped me from reaching great heights, or has it? Of course, it has. You should see what happens when I go to Gelson's and can't reach the top shelf and start jumping up and down and then my mask slips off and it's an epic shanda." "You've strayed way off topic. Go again, already, before we cut to commercial." "Okay, okay, let me say one last thing about the category." "Is it really necessary?" "Yes, very. Potpourri, in general, sums up the past eight months -- a mixture of tears and fears and feeling proud, to say I love you, right out loud, to all the nice people, the wonderful friends and family who've kept me going through this hodge-podge, cockamamie time." "That is correct. Go again." "No, that's okay, let someone else take a turn. I need to check on the cranberry sauce."

Socially Distanced

"Nu?" 

"Nada." 

"Same."

"Zooming?" 

"Yoga." 

"Zumba." 

"Writing?" 

"Some." 

"Good." 

"You?" 

"Yes."

"Cooking?" 

"Nightly." 

"Take-out." 

"Smart." 

"Ha!"

"Kids?" 

"Great."

"Folks?" 

"Old." 

"Oy."

"Grandbaby?" 

"Sweetest."

"Election?" 

"Scared." 

"Terrified." 

"Hopeful?" 

"Sorta." 

"Ditto." 

"Lunch?" 

"Maybe." 

"Patio?" 

"Possibly." 

"When?" 

"2021." 

"Kinehora."

"Hugs." 

"Kisses." 

"Bye." 

"Shalom." 

It's As Tab As Tab Can Be

Can a rapidly aging short Jewish gal feel sentimental over a can of diet soda? You bet your sweet bippy. At this moment in time, I can feel sentimental over anything. 

As Goldie Hawn says in "Private Benjamin," "I wanna go out to lunch. I wanna be normal again!" This pretty much sums me up, as I, along with everyone else, hang on by a very thin thread, waiting for the election and the Covid and basically, all the 2020 tsuris to be over already. 

So last week, when Coke announced it was finally dumping Tab, the pioneering diet soda for "beautiful people," the refreshing, guilt-free drink I consumed all through my school years, the news sent me back in time to the '70s, when we weren't the slightest bit worried about the chemicals that accompanied each delicious sip. Back then, who even knew about sunscreen? Not this sun worshipper, I can tell you that much.

No question, Tab was aimed at the female consumer, from pre-pubescence on, determined to stay slim and attractive no matter how many carrot sticks you ate and diets you tried. The message was clear. Tab was your salvation. It would make you so bloated you wouldn't need to nosh before dinner. Just drink Tab and that sassy confidence and perfect figure will appear. I bought into it early. I can see myself in my room on Lindbrook Drive, with the yellow shutters and the white wicker chair, sitting on one of my twin beds, contemplating my homework, listening to "a little bit of heaven, 94.7, KMET, a twiddle-dee," and sipping a glass of Tab. 

As the ice cubes slowly melted, I dreamed of running off with Loggins and/or Messina, either one was fine by me. And even though I haven't had Tab in years -- the last time I drank it, I remember it just didn't taste the same -- I embrace the memories and the quiet moments we shared. The 15 year old in me wishes you a safe journey to that big recycling bin in the sky. You lasted 60 years. Not bad for a can full of sass and god knows what else. 

Sir Blakey Meets His Match

Doesn't the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage look incredibly mild-mannered here, just lazing on the comfy sofa, wanting attention from the mommy who didn't actually birth him, although at times the SJG needs to be reminded of this reality? Rapidly approaching his made-up eighth birthday, at first glance, this so-called "Lab Mix," no doubt conjured in some mysterious outdoor laboratory, this rat-killer that once left a mouse he'd murdered on my pillow as a loving memento, this possum-hunter, would seem, at least in the above photo, completely reformed. Impossible to believe that our very own Sir Blakey would still embrace the sinking of his sharp fangs into a squirrel as his ultimate #lifegoals. 

And yet, these innocent assumptions would be dead wrong. I blame Halloween. This holiday brings out the monster in him. It unleashes the beast he mostly keeps at bay. Take yesterday. Out for an afternoon walky, I'd done my best to distract Blakey from all the spooky skeletons dangling from trees and planted in the front lawn graveyards that have popped up in the past few days. As they do annually, my neighbors are going all-out with the creepy, spine-tingling decor, even though trick-or-treaters will remain indoors, thanks to you-know-what. Heading home, I thought I'd dodged the worst of the fright night offenders, when suddenly, the dog bolted for the black cat eyeing him from the white picket fence. "Blakey! No!" I yelled. Undeterred, he growled, flashed his teeth, and rammed into that feline, full-force. As for the cat, it just stood there, frozen with a "come at me, bro" scowl. On account of its cardboard status.