First SJG Middle School Graduation

At SJG Middle School, we love a pop of color.

(Sherman Oaks) Today heralds the first graduating class of SJG Middle School, a boutique learning center where short, curvy gals can learn key survival skills, such as how to think and act taller, how to dress taller, how to talk taller, and how to reach impossibly high shelves in the market without breaking a pickle jar or a collar bone. "I went through school trying to fit in with the tall gals," says SJG Middle School founder, the SJG. "I walked around on my tippy toes.  I wore high heels. I hung upside down from the monkey bars like a freak. I went to a height specialist. I took vitamins. I did anything to make myself taller. And guess what?  It didn't worked. At 60, I've just now realized that I'm never going to be any taller than I was at 12. And yet, I'm so proud of my short gals, moving on to high school, with their heads held as high as they'll go. These shorties are ready to reach new heights, metaphorically and academically, and God willing, their new lockers, thanks to the bedazzled step stools we're handing out today, along with the nice sparkly diplomas."

At SJG Middle School, you get extra credit for bedazzling. 

"These gals, each one menschier than the next, are going places, let me tell you. I can't help but kvell and take total credit for making them feel special in a world that makes everything out of reach. If only someone had shared these secrets with me sooner. A teacher, a guidance counselor, a rabbi maybe. If only I'd gone to a liberal-minded school devoted to short gals, who knows where I might be today. I might've learned how to handle myself better in tall situations. I might've learned to accept myself 'ass is.'  I might've developed major 'tude at an earlier age. I might've started my own clothing line called Short Gals With Booty. I might be starring in my own reality show, ' The Short Bitches of Sherman Oaks. ' I figure, why should other shorties suffer the same indignities growing up -- up being a relative term. Naturally, I blame genetics." Enrollment is limited to gals under 5'2," although 5'2 and a half might be considered, if the student brings bagels and lox every Friday.  SJG Middle School still has a few spaces left for fall. Applications available online. So hurry.  The bell just rang. You're already late to class. And to the first graduating class of SJG Middle School, a hearty Mazel Tov!

Beyond The Fax

Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed my FAX machine was back
And sitting on the floor

I dreamed I saw my FAX machine
The FAX was jammed again
And the paper that was stuck inside
Said "hi" from Daddy Ben

And when my father was alive
He loved his FAX so much
He used it till it broke because
It helped him keep in touch

And happy were the words he sent
His joyfulness came through
I long to get another FAX
From Brooklyn's finest Jew

Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed my FAX machine was back
And sitting on the floor

(apologies to Pete Seeger; I couldn't help myself) 

A Little Morbid

It was wonderful to reunite with my workshop peeps yesterday. I hadn't seen them for an entire month, mainly because they demanded a break. "We can't take any more of those store-bought cookies you pass off as your own," they said in a signed affidavit. Hurtful? You betcha. Oh, wait. That didn't happen. I was the one who demanded a break. Theater junky that I am, I needed to jet off to NYC, see overpriced Broadway shows and come home with an egregious cold that left me sofa-bound for days. Days, I tell ya. On Tuesday, it was gals only in the conference room, only because our lone guy somehow caught my egregious cold, long-distance. "You had a cold, then I got a cold. Do you see the connection?" he emailed me. "No," I said. "There's only so much blame I'm willing to take in one lifetime." That put him in his place. He stayed home and the five us laughed our tushes off over the strangest assortment of what some might call disturbing topics, including an urn with a lid that couldn't be pried off (we hate when that happens) and the scattering of un-urned ashes in unlikely, most likely illegal locales. Sure, it gets a little morbid when we're Laughing At Life (copyright pending since 1958), but a shared sense of black comedy is so useful, don't you agree? Of course you do. So ends my Wednesday blog. If anyone has an urn story that can rival the aforementioned lid incident, please keep it to yourself. Thank you.

If You've Got Money...

... You can travel.

As everyone knows, if you've got money, you can travel. In this era of Air BNB, they'll pretty much let in anyone with a credit card that hasn't been hacked, so with that in mind, listen up, nice people. If you're schlepping to Sherman Oaks, and why wouldn't you, it's got plenty of parking spots, consider Casa de SJG, one of the S.O.'s most popular hangs not exactly on the rental market, but the owners charge on a sliding scale, depending on how many mitzvahs you're willing to perform in their honor, and your ability to cough up your tax returns for the last 25 years. Located in the scenic, resurfaced flats of the San Fernando Valley, this palatial estate sits on a concrete foundation that has occasionally caused epic leaks and major tsuris for the SJG and the man she calls longtime hubby. Surrounded by the 101 and the 405, this cozy manse offers a private swimming pool built back in the 50s when every pool looked exactly the same, and this pool is no exception. But it's got water, so what else do you need? Not to brag, but the beautiful property has turned up in many TV shows, coincidentally produced by the SJG's rapidly shrinking television empire. Look for the kitchen in "The Meschugganah Mrs. Mensch," and the laundry room in "One More Load Before I Drop Dead." Yes, Casa de SJG is the vacation home for you, as long as you don't mind the residents sharing the fridge, the TV, the sofas, the bathroom facilities, and everything outdoors. "It's our house, after all," says the SJG. "Why should we leave? We live here."

Raise Your Hand If...

1. You know the answer.

2. You don't know the answer.

3. You used to know the answer.

4. You wish you knew the answer.

5. You don't want to know the answer.

The Honesty Policy

Except when it isn't

I hadn't seen her since the mid-'80s. After a decade-long friendship that started in high school, we had the strangest falling out. A letter arrived from her, a harsh scolding. My hands were shaking as I read about my horrible error in judgment. Once again, I'd been too honest. A lifelong curse. Born in an Oldsmobile without a filter. At first, I hadn't been honest enough with her. "Oh, he's great, he seems great," I said, or some white lie, not wanting to hurt her feelings. She was dating this guy, they were a new, seemingly mismatched couple. Then when she had second thoughts about him, I fessed up, "Well, to be honest, you didn't seem that comfortable with him." I was 25. I was just being me, as opposed to somebody with the afore-mentioned filter. I wrote back, apologizing. "I'm sorry" comes easily for me. If I've messed up, never an intentional move, I take full responsibility. The thought of hurting anyone kills me. But in this case, my heartfelt mea culpa failed and a friendship I treasured vanished, unexpectedly. She went on to marry the man in question. I hope they were happy. After my mother died, she ran into my close friend of a zillion years and said she always felt terrible about the way things had ended. She asked if I'd be open to a phone call or an email. "Tell her of course," I said. "Absolutely." But no phone call or email came. Today I found out she passed away a few days ago at the age of 60. I hadn't thought about her in forever, but now the memories flood back. All the laughter. All the secret sharing. The endless silliness. The fun we had. May she rest in peace. May her memory be a blessing. Here's hoping she had a wonderful life.

Multiple Choice

A Saturday morning quiz. The teacher will take you out for ice cream if you get the correct answer. Who sent the following braggy email to a close personal friend?

"Exciting news. I'm finally potty-trained. No more embarrassing leaks."

a. A proud, tech-savvy toddler.

b. A proud, tech-savvy puppy.

c. A silly, Short Jewish blogger.

If you answered "a," no ice cream for you.
If you answered "b," you're getting warmer.
If you answered "c," you know me too well.