Lost in the Cloud

Dear Tech Support,
Like a dummy, I got a little distracted and forgot to backup my perspective and now I've lost it in the Cloud. Without this file, I tend to dwell in a dark place. It's Doom & Gloomsville. It's Why Don't They Choose Someone Else for a Change? Without this file, there's no silver lining. Everything just looks nebulous. Please help me retrieve my lost perspective. There's a nice kugel in it for you.
Thanks,
The SJG

Dear SJG,
You haven't lost your perspective. It's just stuck in the Cloud. Getting it back is easy-peasy. Simply click Backup Settings and select the Tab called File Selection. Then select "Manual Selection." Up pops a window to your soul, where you'll be able to see what files have already been selected, with or without your permission. All those names you can't remember? They're in there. All those brain cells you took for granted? You can get those back, too. Simply click Retrieve, followed by OK, followed by Pretty Please. Then simply go back to the Backup App and see if your Perspective File has magically reappeared. If it hasn't, simply click I Give Up and create a new file we can lose for you at a later date.
Good luck,
Tech Support

Sock It To Me?

When the college son's socks go missing, as his socks often do, choosing to hide inside pant legs or shoes, under the bed or in the DMZ of his closet, he raids his father's sock drawer. This has been going on for a while now, at least a decade, but who's counting? Normally, the raid takes place in broad daylight. In terms of a stealth mission, it lacks the necessary stealthiness. It's not quite up to CIA standards. Unless it happens at 5 a.m., as it did this morning. Then it's less a raid and more of a rude awakening that elicits the following SJG response:
"Wha-the-@#$%-huh?"
"Sorry, sorry. I need socks."
The mention of socks lessens the SJG's early morning disorientation.
"Oh, hi honey, I love you, make a good movie."
Then I go back to sleep, sort of.  Hubby is now wide awake, already putting his jeans on, ready to help in any way, and asking the pertinent questions.
"What time do you want me to bring lunch?"
You see, hubby is the caterer on the college son's senior project, a 10-minute short he must film in three days, each one beginning around, you guessed that right, 5 a.m. Hubby performs other tasks, as well, including, but not limited to, prop master, go-fer and continuity expert. The SJG supervises the whole mess, excuse me, process, from afar, issuing supportive texts from the comfort of my palatial estate, such mini-pep talks as "Yay!" and "Woo-hoo!" I've already done my job, as Highly Qualified Script Adviser, with such helpful notes as, "That comma should go there," and "Make sure your main character wears his own socks. That's important to his arc."

Who's Stalking Me Now?

Snap, snap, snap, everywhere I go. It's such a nuisance, you have no idea. I can’t even leave my house without someone taking my photo. I go about my day, I hear that sound embedded in my brain. Click, click. I look around, I know they’re there, somewhere, hiding in the bushes, lurking behind shopping carts, balancing from telephone polls, hoping to steal a shameful shot of me, maybe make a few million bucks in exchange.

To A Doctor...

You're no doctor. But you're cute, so who cares?

Dear SJG,
I'm thinking about getting the flu shot today, but I'm afraid I might get the flu from the shot. I'm torn and bewildered and not all that well-informed. I heard you've got a medical degree from a little-known boutique med school in Sherman Oaks. What are your thoughts?

Thanks,
Already Feeling Achy

Polly wants a flu shot

Dear Achy,
My medical degree from the prestigious SJG School of Hypochondria qualifies me to answer any and all health-related questions and act like I know what I'm talking about, even though I get most of my info from WebMD. But then, doesn't everybody?

The world is divided into two categories. Those who get the flu shot and those who don't. I get the shot because it's written in the Torah that I must, and I do what the Torah tells me to do. I'm that kind of Jew.

God forbid the flu shot doesn't kick in the second you get it, and you're exposed to the virus as you leave CVS. You wind up with the flu. I have it on good authority (my own) that this rarely happens, but leave it to you, Achy, to be the one person it happens to, and then, knowing you, you'll tell everyone, "I got the flu shot and got the flu,"and now, thanks to you, no one gets the shot and everyone gets sick and guess whose fault it is? Yours.

What kind of person are you, anyway?

My advice: Get the shot. Just get it. Why are we even having this conversation? And as an added precaution, never leave your house. That way you'll never get the flu. You might be lonely, but you'll have your health, and that's everything.

You're welcome,
The SJG

I'm Late, I'm Late

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
All the Valley Jews are ready to congregate.
They've been searching for parking since quarter past eight.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
Should I save him a seat, or leave it up to fate?
He can't get in without me, so he'll have to wait.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
I lost my Star of David in the sidewalk grate.
On Rosh Hashanah morning, I'm in such a state.

I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.
I'm meeting temple hubby at the temple gate.
I might just get there faster if I roller skate.
The wheels would make me taller, wouldn't that be great?

I'm off to the synagogue! 

Just In Time For Rosh Hashanah

In the SJG's vast email receptacle, came this cryptic message:

May you & yours be inscribed in The Book of Life for another year of health & happiness.
Love,
Not the Rabbi's  Son

Well, if that isn't apples-dipped-in-honey sweet, what is? Not sure of the sender, I immediately wrote back, for I was raised properly:

Thank you so much.  I wish you the same, whoever you are.
Love,
Not the Rabbi's Daughter

Then I started to think, a sometimes dangerous endeavor, about what a wonderful new line of clothing this would make. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Jeans. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Shabbat Shalom Sweater Set. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's High Holiday Dress. Not the Rabbi's Daughter's Yoga Pants.

Is this the greatest idea ever? Am I onto something, or what? So much subtler than Not Your Daughter's Jeans, don't you think? I mean, for those of us who don't have daughters, who live in a manly zone of testosterone, why would I want to wear those kind of jeans, even if they make me look "noticeably slimmer"? But then, Not Your Son's Jeans wouldn't be a big selling point, either.

Before I got too carried away with this awesome get-rich scheme, I decided to track down the sender of the mysterious Rosh Hashanah message. Aha! It came from the Comedy Writer's Son, kinder than kugel, sweeter than Manichewitz wine. My brother John, of course. I wish you the same, hon. I wish you all the same.

Happy Jewish New Year, Bitches! Wait, that didn't come out right. Happy Jewish New Year! (Better?)

Apropos of Nothing

Just before heading upstairs to get ready for beddy, I said this, apropos of nothing: "Boutros Boutros-Ghali!" "Where did that come from?" hubby asked. "I have no idea. I will investigate and get back to you." Junior detective that I am, I went in search of an answer. These days, it's so nice when you can find one. Answers can be so elusive, don't you think? Of course you do. I'm so glad we agree. Hubby, a student of the world, reminded me that B.B.G. once served as Secretary-General of the U.N. (He just knows stuff.) But the SJG, a student of People Magazine and HGTV, suspected this exclusive info had little to do with B.B.G.'s sudden appearance in my keppy. Unless, pre-Atonement, some force from above decided to float a random reminder my way: Strive for diplomacy each and every day. Hmmm. Your thoughts? Exactly. No connection whatso. And then it hit me. The other night, I'd watched "Seinfeld," as I do many nights. The episode in question takes place in the Hamptons. When Jerry, Kramer and Elaine see a half-naked woman on the beach, Jerry says, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali." (Jerry pronounces Ghali "golly.") So there you have it. For the next few days, "Boutros Boutros-Ghali" will be my go-to expression... until I get to temple and start atoning for my lack of diplomacy, among other things.