Call Me By My Nickname

It's my personal belief that everyone should give themselves at least two nicknames as they navigate through life. If you wait for others to nickname you, the moniker may be uninspired, if not altogether mean-spirited. I speak from personal experience. As an exchange student in England back in 1970-something, one of my drunken British housemates inscribed this in my bread within a day of my arrival: "American Wanker." Well, I never! Instead of crumbling amidst such cruelty, packing up and returning to Westwood, as he expected, I decided to laugh like a hyena in heat. Good decision. The joy of calling me "American Wanker" lost its zing, and he soon went back to calling me "The American."

When I started my galactically-embraced blog, I named myself Short Jewish Gal, or SJG for short, because that pretty much sums me up. Had I started this blog back in 1970-something, I might've named myself Short Jewish Woman. In the '70s, you see, we didn't want to be called girls or gals. It sounded demeaning. So we spent a lot of time chastising the menfolk, which was fun. "It's woman. Not girl. Woman!" But after a certain age, I've been so happy to be called girl or gal. It just makes me feel younger. And while I've always been proud to be Jewish, I can't say I've felt that same pride in my height. Into my 30s, I kept expecting a growth spurt. "Give me an inch!" I'd pray at night. "Give me half an inch and I'll be happy." So that didn't happen. At some point, I figured I might as well accept that I'm short and getting shorter. Better I should call myself Short than have you call me Shrimp. Plus, Shrimp Jewish Gal just sounds wrong.

Recently, I've given myself another nickname. My wonderful and hilarious writing students, a great bunch of seniors who keep reminding me I'm rapidly become a senior myself -- to which I reply, "How dare you!" -- call me Rabbi Carol. Mainly because I sign my emails "xo Rabbi Carol." Sure, I may have flunked confirmation, and the whole Hebrew thing eludes me. And yet, the way I dole out advice, the wisdom I impart, the guidance I offer, and the nice cookies I bring to class, qualifies me, rabbinically, don't you think? So, if you see me on the street, or more than likely, in Gelson's, call me SJG, or call me Rabbi Carol. These days, I answer to either. Call me American Wanker and I'll kick you in the cojones. 

The Changing of the Years

Last night, the SJG and hubby continued our annual tradition of inviting ourselves to our neighbors' house to celebrate the Changing of the Years. "I'll bring the main course," I told Candy, "just let us come back." "Okay, but no dancing the SJG Go-Go Hora on the dining room table." "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Just promise to behave and we'll let you come back." "I promise." "Do you agree to have your promise notorized?" "Absolutely." So, given the harsh conditions and the necessary legal documents, we arrived at Candy and Joe's party with Ina Garten's Sweet Italian Turkey Sausage Casserole. I'm happy to report my hooves never hora'd on the table top. Overall, I did quite well, behavior-wise, until we started playing a game called Quiplash (jackbox.tv) on the Nintendo Switch. (Like I even understand that last sentence.) The trouble started when Quiplash asked, "What's the wrong thing to say at the end of this sentence: 'Sorry, I was late to our wedding, but ---' " Quiplash gave us two seconds to answer, and Joe, married to M.T., as opposed to Joe, married to Candy, and I came up with the exact same very rude, not to mention naughty, response, with one variation. Joe said "... your  Mother," and I said "... your Mom." The room thought "... your Mother" was funnier than "... your Mom" and gave Joe more points and he won the round. I demanded a recount and got bupkis. Let's just say I got a little worked up over the injustice of it all and gave a lengthy, yet moving speech on voter fraud and was accused of being a sore loser. But sometimes you have to take a stand. Am I right? Of course I am. Thank you for agreeing. And happy new year, nice people.

New Year's Eve Cohorts:

 Joe, Hubby, M.T., SJG, Mike, Gina, Candy, Joe 

A Toast To Life

It's the last blog of Seventeen
Spent the last week watching the Queen
Claire Foy's last season on "The Crown"
Her last chance to dance in a gown

It's the last day of Seventeen
The last look back, know what I mean?
My last kvetch of this long-ass year
My last bagel with a nice schmear

And then it's the first of Eighteen
The first plea for a world serene
The first day comes with a promise
The first move as Nostradamus

The first prediction on the list
The first attempt to co-exist
The first time you say, "Twenty-Chai!"
The first toast to life zipping by

In Denial

Last night, I'm all cozy in bed, with Mr. Stinky Butt by my side, oh sorry, he doesn't like that nickname, I meant Sir Blakey, and I'm on my iPad, in brief denial about the world at large, watching a very funny Judd Apatow special on Netflix, when a texted image of a TV screen pops up and interrupts my bliss with the following testy alert: "Too many people are using your account!"

It's 10:45 and the eldest son is in crisis mode. I better pause Judd Apatow and get to the bottom of this dire situation. "Ma! Netflix won't let us watch." Dear God in heaven, how dare they deny the newlyweds access to my account? "Oh, no! No! What fresh hell is this? Why are they doing this to you? Who else is watching?"

His brother. Of course. So it's his fault, but somehow, it feels like mine. "They must've changed policy not to allow three viewers at a time," the eldest reports. "Those bastards!" "It's horse sh*t." "Let's sue their asses!" Just between us, all I want to do is go back to Judd Apatow. I mean, whose account is this, anyway? What are my maternal rights, if any? In a shocking, year-end development, I claim a slice of ownership. Aren't you proud of me? 

"The show is over soon," I text. "No worries, enjoy, Ma," he says, granting his mother permission to continue watching. Is he a mensch, or what?

Maybe You've Noticed

Maybe you've noticed that the SJG volunteers the most random info about myself, but only on a daily basis. Some are born to save the planet, fight injustice, cure horrible diseases. I, on the other hand, was born in a car, new then, vintage now, much like myself; born to travel down a very silly road with no particular destination in mind. I never really know where I'm going, but that's okay by me, as long as I wind up somewhere relatively safe where they serve hot coffee. It's got to be hot, or I start to kvetch, "It's not hot enough."
Anyway, going nowhere but enjoying the ride pretty much sums up this ol' blog of mine. I've been doing it for quite a while now, eight years or so, but who's counting, and since nobody out there has started a nasty petition entitled "Make Her Stop! Please! We're Begging You!" I guess I'll just keep ramblin' on. It's better than the alternative, which in my case, means staring into space, questioning my existence, and trust me, that's never a good thing.

Oy, What A Year

Not soon enough we say shalom to 2017, an endless stream of bad news, political insanity and deep global concern. What with the hurricanes, the fires, the shootings, the harassment, the overall unraveling of security, we end the year exhausted and more than a little afraid of what comes next. All we can do is cling to the happy stuff, the gratitude and joy for the wonderful things we kvell over daily in our personal lives: Family, friends, pets, and God willing, good health, and maybe a little mazel now and then. That's all we need. That, and a roof over our heads. Come to think of it, there's still plenty to feel good about, we just have to look a little a harder to find it.

Phone Calls From The Dead

"Is anybody there?"

Every time the phone rings, land-line or cell, no diff, I tend to overreact. My mind races, my heart pitter pats. It's an internal cluster-eff of oh no, something's wrong. Is this a healthy way to go through life? Probably not. But bad news seems to find me. I don't have to go looking for it. In the past two days, I've received three collect call messages on my cell phone, all from some correctional facility up north. First thought: Do I know anybody in jail? Not since my Great Uncle Seymour did that naked dance at Nat n' Al's, and that was a while ago. Second thought: Why do I get so worked up every time the phone rings? I believe I've got the answer. I blame a book I read in 1980, when I was a researcher on a TV show. A personal career low point for me, by the way. I got fired after eight days for asking the a-hole producer not to smoke a cigar in closed-door meetings. So much for that correspondence course in assertiveness training.

How I came upon "Phone Calls From The Dead," I can't recall. Maybe I found it in a little place we used to call a book store. Either way, the concept still freaks me out. All that "evidence" of phone calls people received from Grandma, only to find out, uh, Grandma died before you got that call. What up with that? Clearly, "Phone Calls From the Dead" traumatized me for life. Just thinking about it now disturbs me, deeply. Next time the phone rings, land-line or cell, I'm letting it go to voicemail.

"I've told you never to call me."