A Tentative Truce

What gives the SJG the advantage over other international blogging sensations? That she's the SJG, of course. In an interview with Sherman Oaks After Dark, the SJG bragged that she doesn't have to put on a false demeanor when making her way through everyday life. "I'm one of the few bloggers who gets to be herself every day. It doesn't take me six hours to get ready to blog. I don't have to wake up in the morning and slap makeup on or remember to blog like this or blog like this. I just have to be me. I make up silly sh*t on the spot. Either you like it or you don't like it, but I like it, and God willing, what I do doesn't bring too much shame to my family. Let's just say not all bloggers are created equal."

Although she wouldn't come right out and say it, the SJG is most likely referring to her longtime blogging rival, the Tall Shiksa Goddess. The SJG and the TSG started feuding after the SJG discussed their rivalry on KJEW-FM. "What's the TSG got that I don't got? Height. That's all she blogs about.  How she can reach the top shelf at the market. How she likes to be nice to 'the little people.' She acts like she's freakin' Glinda, the Good Witch of the North. So what if she's tall and pretty? Not everyone's blessed with legs that go on for days, and perfect hair. But you can't hang an entire blog on height and gorgeousness, can you?"

Shortly after the SJG granted the radio interview, things turned fugly with the TSG. Their respective posses got into a huge fight at Oh, No, She Didn't, a Sherman Oaks nightclub known for attracting lady bloggers and their groupies. Plenty verbal sparring went down, not to mention a nasty exchange of bitchy retorts. "Oh! It's on! Take this, Glamazon!" the SJG allegedly shouted, hurling a loaf of white bread, a jar of mayo and a package of ham at the TSG. The TSG threw a can of Diet Dr. Brown's at the SJG. It barely missed her keppy! A rabbi and a minister performed made an emergency intervention. The SJG and the TSG have since called a tentative truce. But after the TSG reads the SJG's latest interview, it's safe to assume all bets are off.
(5-30-15)

Happy Make-Believe Birthday, Sir Blakey

According to the make-believe-it's-your-birthday-gods, today is the make-believe 6th birthday of none other than... trumpets please... Sir Blakey, the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. I was going to bake him a doggy cake. Okay, fine, you know me too well, in terms of my culinary limitations, I wasn't going to bake him a doggy cake, I was going to buy him a doggy cake. But then, and there's no nice way to put this... yesterday, he made a pre-b'day celebratory yak on his preferred indoor spot, the living room rug. Any surprise treats must wait. This morning, I'm happy to report, he's in fine form, digestive and otherwise (kina hora), and spunky as ever, determined to capture his biggest demon, specifically, any squirrel that crosses his path. I just love his optimism and drive. We could all learn a few things from Sir Blakey, don't you agree?

Rent-A-Baby

"I want a baby." "Uh-huh." "I want a baby like the one in the commercial." "Uh-huh." "How do I get a baby like that?" "You can't." "Why not?" "That baby isn't real." "Of course it's real." "It's a TV baby." "So?" "So, nothing." "I want to rent a baby then." "For how long?" "An afternoon." "Go for it. I'll be at work."

The SJG's TV Picks

Has a truer statement ever been uttered? Personally, I don't think so. I grew up watching TV, and I'm still watching it. I'm pretty consistent when it comes to TV. Addicted? How dare you! Sure, sometimes I watch with my family. But mostly, if I'm being honest, I watch upstairs by myself, and it is my version of nirvana. If you pop in on the SJG during a nightly telly fest, you won't find me watching sports, but you will find me watching hoity-toity intellectual fare a la "Project Runway." You won't find me watching "Game of Thrones," only because I never started watching it and the thought of catching up, well, it's too much for my brain to handle. And if we're talking about today's telly needs, as opposed to yesterday's - "Barry" and "Killing Eve" - you won't find me watching "Woman Gives Birth To 15-Year-Old."

But you will find me on Royal Baby Watch. Just like this gal in the photo. Except I won't be ironing. I have a staff to do that for me. Today is all about Prince Harry and Duchess Meghan and the royal babykins-to-be, due any second now. Go ahead and judge. I can't help it. I'm hashtag Sussexroyal. I need a big basket of happy news to forget the horribleness the telly brings us hourly.

So, to repeat, in case you weren't paying attention, because, let's face it, your mind tends to wander, if you need me today, please remember I'm a little distracted. I'm on Royal Baby Watch. And you can't stop me.

"Why, yes, in a past life, I did star in the SJG's 'When Sparks Fly,' but I've moved on to more important things, like giving birth, royally. You may now let go of my regal hand." 

Just As I Suspected

Well, well, well, look who dropped by Brushes last night, that notorious rock legend Ziggy Markman! The crowd went insane, begging for autographs and rides in Ziggy's limo and it got so out of hand, the SJG had to step in and put an end to the commotion. "Listen up, bitches, you came to see Brushes, not Ziggy Markman. Show some respect, for eff's sake!" Oh, and speaking of a comedy of hairs, can someone please tell me what in God's name happened to my hair en route to the Whitefire? I'm telling you, it looked pretty good before I left the palatial estate, what with all the manufactured oomph and bounce. And then... then it just fizzled out like flat seltzer. Sigh. If only I could have statement hair like Ziggy's, so spiky and full of danger. "What's the secret?" I asked. "It's a wig, Carol." A-ha! Just as I suspected.

The Beauty Team Weighs In

As the run of Brushes winds down, people stop me in front of Gelson's and want to know, "Hey, did any actual hairdressers come to see a show about hair?" To which I respond, "Well, duh. Of course, they did, dummy." Take the SJG Beauty Team. I gave them no choice. After guilting them plenty and threatening to withhold tips and granting them a nice discount, my facialist, my colorist, my colorist's assistant colorist, my stylist, and my stylist's best friend, also a stylist, sure as bleep came. And then later, once they calmed down from laughing till they practically needed medical attention, they cornered me, collectively, at the Whitefire, and said in unison, "Oh my God, oh my God, we loved loved loved it so much, thank you for forcing us to come see it." Fine, maybe those weren't their exact words, but you get the idea. The gifted squad in charge of my on-going, never-ending beautification gave "Brushes" such a glowing review, my flat, baby fine, lifeless kaka hair magically attained volume and shine right there in the theatre. You could say my 'do was born again, and you'd be 71 percent accurate.

Enter Dancing

"Would you like some advice before your interview?"
"Not really."
"Enter dancing."
"I don't think so."
"Enter dancing like Fred Astaire."
"No."

"Enter dancing like Gene Kelly."
"Who?"
"Tell me you didn't just say that."
"I gotta go, Ma."

"Enter dancing like Bob Fosse."
"I'll call you later."
"It's important to make an entrance."
"I'll try not to trip on the way in."
"That works, too."