How To Be Taller

Hell, yes!

"Limb Lengtheners of L.A.  How may we make you taller?"
"Hi, this is the Short Jewish Gal.  I was wondering the same thing."
"How much taller would you like to be, ma'am?"
"Well, I always wanted to be 5'2."
"How tall are you now?"
"On a good day, maybe 5'1 and a half."
"We can get you to 5'3," no problem."
"Tell me more!"
"First, we'll set up an appointment with one of our highly-trained height specialists."
"Cool.  Is it covered by insurance?"
"I'm guessing no."
"Oy.  Is it expensive?"
"We charge by the inch."
"So, what's involved?  I hope we're not talking medieval torture racks."
"God forbid.  Mostly, it comes down to top secret supplements, top secret stretching techniques, and, above all, positive thinking."
"Get outta here!  What does positive thinking have to do with height?"
"Everything.  You see, SJG, height is a state of mind.  If you think tall and feel tall, you're tall.  How do you feel right now?"
"Pretty short."
"Then you need to come in, immediately."

More Short Jewish Jokes?

A man is lying on the operating table, about to be operated on by his son,  the surgeon.
The father says, "Son, think of it this way ... If anything happens to me, your mother is coming to live with you."

Two bees buzz around what's left of a rose bush. "How was your summer?" asks bee number one.
"Not too good," sez bee two. "Lotta rain, lotta cold. Not enough flowers,  not enough pollen."
The first bee has an idea. "Hey, why don't you go down the corner and hang a left?  There's a bar mitzvah going on. Plenty of flowers and fruit."
Bee two buzzes, "Thanks!" and takes off.
An hour later, the bees bump into each other again.
"How was the bar mitzvah?" asks the info-bee.
"Great!" sez buddy-bee.
The first bee peers at his pal and wonders, "What's that on your head?"
"A yarmulke," is the answer. "I didn't want them to think I was a wasp."

 

Ba-dump-bump.

Marital Advice

Every day, I follow the same mental health regimen.  I read two advice columns, Dear Amy, and my personal favorite, Dear Kibitzer, and instantly feel better just knowing that the problems of this little SJG don't amount to a hill of beans, compared to all the other troubled souls in this crazy world.  Sometimes the advice-givers are so wise, I take their suggestions out for a test drive.  The other day, a frustrated spouse asked Amy how to reconnect with his wife, a standoffish gal who's pretty chintzy with the affection.  Amy told him to "devote 10 minutes each day to looking her in the eye, stroking her hand and asking questions and listening."  Naturally, I challenged hubby to do the same. I bet him he couldn't do it without cracking up, losing his mind, or falling asleep.  "Oh, you think so?" he said, whereupon he looked me in the eye and patted my hand while I shared some important concerns.

"We're almost out of dog food," I said.  He stroked my hand.  "Uh-huh."  "I noticed the sink is cracked in the guest room."  He touched my knuckles.  "Aw." "Sometimes, I feel like you'd rather wash the car, than my hair, like, the way Robert Redford does in that movie... with Meryl Streep, the one where she says, 'I had a faarrrrmmm in AFF-ri-Ka...' How come you never wash my hair while I bask in the sun outside, like Meryl?" He petted my left pinky.  "I could hose you, and the dog off at the same time.  Would that work for you?"  "That would be wonderful.  I feel so connected now."  He caressed my right thumb.  "Good talk." "Hey, come back here.  It hasn't been 10 minutes."

You're Fired!

How dare you!

The youngest went all Donald Trump on me yesterday.  "You're fired, Ma!"  "Fired?  From being your Ma?" "No, Ma, you're not fired for being my Ma." "Whew!  Color me relieved!"  "You're fired from appearing in any more of my student films."  "Oh, eff them!  I wasn't that bad!"  "You got some big laughs."  "So, you're firing me just as my acting career takes off?  Oh, the cruelty!"  "I'm not the one firing you, Ma.  Blame the head of the film department."  "The head of the film department is canning my ass?  Ouch."  "He wants us to use actors we don't know.  But he liked Uncle John."  "Oh, I see. The clown stays in the picture, but the mother, the one who schlepped you around in utero, who gave birth to you -- "  "Ma, it's not personal."  "Have I taught you nothing, son?  Write this down:  Everything is personal."  "Hang on, let me get a pen."

The Art of Whining

The SJG has passed along my gift for kvetching, whining and complaining to my sons.  They're like sponges, my boys, soaking up all my quirks and putting their own personal stamp on each and every neurotic tendency I've exposed them to, and well, I couldn't be prouder.  But now, a disturbing canine trend has come to my attention, and I wouldn't be me unless I unloaded it onto you and roped you into my latest cause for concern.  Too bad all the good causes are taken, and I'm left with this:  my dog, my Labrador, my daily companion, is the biggest whiner in the family.  I'm not sure how exactly I transferred my love of whining to Dusty, and yet, the evidence is all around me, so, once again, I must accept blame.  All day long, he whines about something.  If I talk on the phone, he whines.  If I talk to someone in my house, he whines.  Basically, if I don't meet his demands, he whines.

Each whine conveys the same two-pronged sentiment: 
1) "What about me?"
2) "Give me a treat and maybe I'll stop whining."

I've come to the conclusion that Dusty is the neediest dog, not to mention, the most manipulative.  They say children learn by example.  I'd like to add my dog to that equation, and well, I couldn't be prouder.

Hospital For Overacting

This is the Richard the Third Ward

After viewing my very silly performance in "The Nicolas Cage Speed-Dating Mixer," I'm checking myself into the Hospital for Overacting. Of course, it couldn't all be my fault.  I do believe the director, my youngest son, deserves some blame.  He's the one who kept urging me to go bigger.  My delivery is plenty big, I assure you.  Turns out, there are many ways to say, "Welcome to the Nicolas Cage Speed-Dating Mixer," and I tried every one.  Just the word "welcome" gets bigger with each take, till finally it becomes its own soliloquy. I make that one simple greeting last for days and days: "Weeeeeellllllllcooooommmmme." I promise you'll get to see the reason I never pursued acting, once it's on YouTube and open for public ridicule.  But you have to wait till after his fellow film students rip his three-minute short to shreds in class tomorrow.  On a positive note, my brother, aka Johnny the Clown, is a revelation. 

You're Projecting!

 Boxes of Intrigue

Sometimes a box is just a box.  This we know. And yet, when is a box not a box?  I'm so glad you asked.  The dance studio where I flash the jazz hands on a regular basis had four inexplicable boxes stacked to the ceiling on Sunday.  The SJG just couldn't stop wondering about the boxes.  Why all the boxes? The boxes weren't there the other day.  Why now?  Well, no one knew, not our dance teacher Doug, not anyone.  In fact, the boxes didn't bother my fellow dancers.  They took a very Zen-like approach.  As in:  "Boxes are boxes.  Enough about the boxes. We're going to shove you in a box if you don't stop talking about the boxes." Humph!  That's a little harsh, ladies, not to mention, dismissive. But you know me, I wouldn't let it go.  I needed answers, mister.  I wanted to... forgive me... you knew it was coming... think outside the box. I wanted to make a game of it.

"Please, shut up about the boxes."  "Make me!"

"Hey, gang.  Let's go around the room and everyone say what they think the boxes are for."  "Let's not," I heard someone say. "I'll go first.  I think the boxes are for some kind of modern dance. Like, maybe the boxes represent something symbolic of something else. Like, maybe the dancers dance around the boxes and leap over them.   And the message is screw conformity!  Don't get boxed in! Be free! Free! Freeeeee!" After I demonstrated my Modern Box Step, and waited for some much-needed applause, applause that remained elusive, one of the dancer gals, a therapist, no less, got all Freudian on me.  "Carol, I think you're projecting your feelings onto the boxes."  "Spoken like a true therapist," I said, projecting, "How dare you!" in her general direction.

And yet, it's always nice to have a shrink on call, don't you think? She was onto something.  So was another dancer gal who took pity on me. This gal, with the type of flowing, lustrous hair the SJG will never have, not in this lifetime, pointed to the floor.  "Look, Carol, look at the stickers on the floor."  What say you about stickers? Sure 'nuff, there were bright stickers on the floor in various places, and all of them said Freelusion.  First clue.  Nice work, girlfriend. The rest was up to me, mainly because no one else gave a baby possum's patootie about the stupid boxes.  Thanks to a little compulsive Googling in the privacy of my home, I discovered that the boxes really are all about projection, just not the psychological kind.  A dance troupe called, what else, Freelusion, projects images onto the boxes during performances.  Said troupe must have been rehearsing in the studio earlier, marking their territory with green stickers here... and pink ones there... and red ones over there... and left the boxes behind, probably just to eff with the shaky mental status of the SJG.  Ha!  Nice try, Freelusion. What else you got?

A dance to non-conformity!

Projecting happy thoughts

Pretty pretty boxes