You're Getting To Be A Rabbit With Me

Happy Bunny Day!

A Visit To The Pharmacy

This week, the SJG has paid many un-fun visits to a giant pharmaceutical empire that in my brain now resembles the DMV.  The only difference is this version of Hell grants me a license to kvetch and doesn't take my photograph, which at this stage, is a very good thing. My current facial color palate is chartreuse.  When I first arrive, I weave in and out of aisles, erratically, drunk on frustration, till I find the long trail of customers waiting in the Pick-Up Line.  (Note to self: cute idea for singles bar scene?  Would certainly clarify the mating dance.)  After I wait in the long line, memorizing all the colonoscopy-prep products, and reliving my own disastrous prepping ritual -- please, let's not go into the plumbing issues that led to a brand new driveway -- the Pick-Up Line gal beckons me forth and rudely asks my age -- "I'm 39, I told you that yesterday, and the day before" -- and informs me the giant pharmaceutical empire hasn't filled my 19th prescription of the week.  Not yet.  Or they never got the prescription.  "But my doctor called it in yesterday."  "You can go check in Drop-Off, but it's not in our system."  "But -- "  "Next!"

The Secret Ingredient

Actually, it's cinnamon.

I'd like to think some of the greatest recipes are the result of a culinary boo-boo.  As in, "Oopsie, I didn't mean to toss curry in there, but dang, that's delish."  I'd like to tell you that's what happened last night.  For starters, it's dicey to cook and chat on the phone with my mother-in-law at the same time. I'm not the best multi-tasker on the planet.  When it comes to cooking, I need to focus.  But I've made turkey burritos so many times, I could do it in my sleep.  Or so I thought.  "Uh oh," I said, while seasoning the ground turkey in the pan.  Followed by, "Oh eff, I can't believe I just did that." "What happened?"my mother-in-law, ever the inventive cook, asked. "I poured a ton of cinnamon all over the turkey, instead of chili powder." "Just say it's a fabulous new Mexican dish." "Great idea."  I wiped off as much cinnamon as I could, and waited for hubby to sample my creation. At first, he didn't say a thing.  "Taste anything different, honey?" "No." "You can't taste the cinnamon?"  A long pause. "Well, now that you mention it, this burrito is a little cinnamony." "Do you like it?" Another pause.  "I don't mind it." "It's a fabulous new Mexican dish."  "It is?" "No.  I messed up." Sometimes cinnamon happens. Sometimes it's a happy accident. Other times, an epicurean fail.  Oh, well.  It could've been worse.  It could've been curry.

Press One For Denial

Just when I thought we were done talking about Matt, Matt, Matt and Ann, Ann, Ann, the story about the jilted co-host and what part Lauer played in the debacle, rises up again in a lengthy piece in New York Magazine. "Matt never liked Ann."  "Matt wouldn't have lunch with Ann." "Matt wanted Katie back." "Matt was going to jump ship to ABC." The SJG would like to go on the record as saying, once again, that it's all about chemistry.  People either click or they don't.  You can't fake it. When it's there, it's worth millions. And even when it's not there, you still get paid millions to walk away.  So, fine, it wasn't a match made in heaven.  It was manufactured in a boardroom.  Matt needs to stop talking about it to the press.  It's a no-win, Matt.  Just hit the SJG Denial App and move on.  You remember the SJG Denial App, don't you?  One touch and here's what you get:  An unconscious defense mechanism that helps you avoid emotional conflict and anxiety!   Plus, the chance to bury all those unpleasant thoughts, feelings, desires, impulses, or facts you find intolerable!  This is the only app you'll ever need, Matt.  Just cough up $30 million, God knows you're good for it, like Yahoo paid that 17-year-old British pisher for his Summly App, and together, Matt, we can make all that guilt you keep regurgitating go away.   

Excuse Me...

Go ahead, ask me.

Monday afternoon, I'm walking the dog, when a woman standing on a driveway asks, "Excuse me, are you Jewish?"  Well. I must be radiating extra Jewishness today.  "Yes," I say.  As opposed to, "Who wants to know?" Or, "What's in it for me?" "Do you happen to know if you're supposed to light a Yahrzeit candle on Passover?"  I must be sending out an aura of intelligence, too. The SJG just knows stuff, or I make it up, accordingly.  I nod, rabbinically, and pull on my imaginary beard, as I often do when called upon to answer important questions. "Personally, I don't light a candle on Passover, but I know there are people who do light Yarhzeit candles during Jewish holidays. I think you can light a candle in memory of someone whenever you want."  At that moment, my neighbor Liz comes out and wishes me a happy Passover.  "I don't think we light a candle on Passover, do you?" she asks me.  I give her a truncated version of my previous scholarly answer.  "I think you can if you want.  It probably depends on how observant you are."  "I think the Orthodox light candles at Passover," her friend says.  Dusty inches forward.  He's done with this conversation.  I have nothing left to offer on this topic, either.  I wish them both a nice seder, secretly thrilled that mine has already taken place.  There's only so much gefilte and matzoh I can consume in one lifetime.  Later, in my never-ending quest for truth, I look up the official answer.  In addition to annually on the eve of a loved one's Yahrzeit, there are four times a year when Jews light a special candle in memory of those we've lost:  The first night of Yom Kippur, the 8th night of Sukkot, the second night of Shavuot and, the last night of Passover.  So, there you have it.  Next time you see me, feel free to ask me if I'm Jewish.  But something tells me, you already know the answer.  

Passover Puns and Sinatra

At the early Passover seder, scheduled for family convenience, as opposed to Biblical significance, we got through the Haggadah in under 10 minutes, with only 18 interruptions.  There were puns delivered by an unnamed brother (John), including "charoses of the liver" and,  "It Succos a long time." Post-Haggadah, there was a lot of spilled Manischewitz on the nice tablecloth, a lot of March Madness discussion, and some delightful stories courtesy of my dad.  The best:  a Hollywood party in the 50s, at the home of a famous movie director, or maybe it was the son of a famous movie director.  Frank Sinatra is there.  My mom walks up to him and says, "You owe me a quarter."  He says, "I do?  What for?" She says, "When I was a teenager, I paid a quarter to get your photograph.  You never sent it."  Frank declines to pay her back.  With interest, it would cost too much.

Hit It!

Sometimes, a Short Jewish Gal such as myself just has to dance, to cut a rug, as it were, to let loose in a living room, even if the doctor might not approve.  So let's keep this between us.  There was no way I was going to miss last night's dance party at the lovely home of the lovely Mila.  It was her birthday.  Let's start with that.  A little cough isn't going to prevent me from celebrating with people I adore.  "I'm not contagious," I said, between coughs.  "I promise, I haven't brought the plague with me." Good thing hubby was there to keep an eye on me.  "Don't overdo it."  "You're over-doing it."  "You're -- " "Oh, hush and come dance with me." My favorite part was learning the Madison from "Hairspray" -- the swingingest, the zaniest dance ever, thanks to Tim, boyfriend of my brother John.  It went something like this.  Hit it!  And please, double click for double the fun: