Jewish Reasoning

A Jewish woman goes to see her Rabbi and asks, “Yankele and Yosele are both in love with me, who will be the lucky one?”  The wise old Rabbi answers, “Yankele will marry you. Yosele will be the lucky one."

If a married Jewish man is walking alone in a park and expresses an opinion without anybody hearing him, is he still wrong?   

A Beautiful Poem About Growing Older

 
I hope this poem has the same effect on you as it did on me.  (shout out to Mila who sent it to Carla who sent it to me.)

Walk with me by the water... 

 Sh*t... I forgot the words....

Torn Between Two Owners

... feeling like a fool

What happens when the owners of a fancy-ass eyewear mini-empire get a nasty divorce?  The ex-wife gets a few stores.  The ex-husband gets a few stores.  And loyal customers like the SJG get a bad case of guilt.  I wanted to stay faithful to the very pushy ex-husband.  I didn't want to cheat on him, especially after that time he caught me wearing a pair from Lenscrafters and had a sh*t fit right there on the street.  So it was with trepidation that I walked into the ex-wife's store in the mall. "Oh my God," I said, "you-know-who will kill me if he finds out I was here." "So don't tell him," she said.

Fast Food In Hell

Easier said than done

If they serve fast food in hell, something tells me Subway has a counter.  Ordering a sandwich at Subway is way too complicated for the delicate brain of the SJG.  Next time I attempt it, I will watch the "how-to-order-a-sandwich-at-Subway" video on YouTube.  I will practice at home.  I will hire professional actors to play the roles of the angry sandwich makers who hate my guts.  I will over-prepare. I will be ready.

A Short Quiz

Get out your pencils.  There will be a Short Jewish Gal quiz today.
1.  Who declared:  "Enough of this!"
a.  Jennifer Lopez
b.  Cleopatra
c.  the SJG
2.  Who responded: "Enough of what?"
a.  Marc Anthony
b.  Mark Antony
c.  Someone the SJG birthed, while hollering, "Get this thing out of me NOW!"
3.  Who answered: "This!"
a.  Golda Meir 
b. Joan Rivers
c.  the SJG

Round Two

Thank you, sir, may I have another?

The victory dance went over a little too well with the folks at "Wipeout."  Damn it.  The eldest nailed the four-minute, let's-get-you-on-video phase, during which he confessed his somewhat exaggerated addiction to cheddar cheese.  "What's the weirdest thing you've ever put cheese on?" the interviewer asked.  "Ice cream," he said, "and it was delicious."  "Why do you want to be on 'Wipeout'?"  "So that all of my friends and family can watch me make a complete ass of myself and laugh hysterically till they fall off the couch."  "Alright.  Now do your victory dance."

Wardrobe Choices

Would you want your son doing this?

Uncle John's space suit? Uncle John's clown costume?  Authentic cowboy ensemble?  Jeans and a T-shirt?  In the end, the eldest goes with his daily schlub-wear, for fear of looking like a complete and utter idiot for his "Wipeout" audition.  There are those who can pull off the clown costume (my brother) or the astronaut look (my brother) or the authentic cowboy ensemble (Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid).  And there are those who can't pull it off (the eldest).  "Are you excited about the audition?"  I ask him. "Yeah.  I figure what the eff, I've got nothing to lose.  It's not like I'm an actor or anything."  "That's the spirit.  Just go out there and be yourself."  "Wanna see my victory dance?" "Don't you think that's a little premature?  You haven't been cast yet."  "They want to see the victory dance at the audition."  I tell him, "Hit it!"  He proceeds to spin around in a circle, arms spread out, airplane-style, and whoop a few times.  "That's it, huh?"  "You don't like it?"  "I think you need to up the enthusiasm, and crank the volume on the whooping."  I reinterpret his victory dance, give it my own pizazz.  "Like that."  "Okay.  I see where you're going with this.  More energy."  "Or you could change it up and go another way, entirely.  Allow me to demonstrate," I say, forgetting my lower back, Zumba-related issues.  I shake the booty, I roll my neck, I twirl like a dreidel, emitting obnoxious toot-toot sounds that send Dusty cowering behind the sofa.  "You do my dance, and you're in, baby."  "Yeah, I don't think so," he says.  "Fine," I say, trying not to take the rejection too personally.  He heads out the door.  "Good luck, honey," I say, conveniently omitting the kina hora, because, honestly, I won't be disappointed if he doesn't score the chance to go on national TV and risk breaking every limb in his anatomy.  But that's just between us, right?