Your Doorstep Just Got A Lot More Exciting

Hi SJG,
We're ecstatic to let you know that your order of sparkly rhinestone stilettos has been delivered. Trust us, these babies are a game-changer. Please let us know how they alter your life and bring out your inner 'ho.
You're Super Welcome,
Vixens Etc.

Dear Vixens Etc.,

I'm returning these hideous sandals tout de suite, and expect a full refund. Clearly, I was sleep-shopping when I ordered them. I'd dozed off mid-way through "Rhinestones Are A Bitch's Best Friend" on SJG-TV-After-Dark, and my subconscious figured, hey, a short gal deserves a little manufactured height now and then, why the @#$% not? There's no way I can dance the hora in these horror shows -- at a black-tie Orthodox wedding yet! Not to mention, I loathe them on a level I reserve for a certain D.C. demagogue. I nearly had a coronary when the postman rang twice and handed me the package marked X-Rated. Don't ever do this to me again or I'll have to take legal action. 

Thanks for bupkis,

The SJG 

The Theory of Fanning

Dear SJG,
My mama told me that that fanning myself on a hot day does bupkis in terms of cooling me down. Was she right, or what?
Thankie,
Dehydrated in Duarte

Dear Dehydrated,
Few people know this, but way back when, and please don't ask me to be more specific other than to say I had entered a humbling stage known as perimenopause, I dabbled a bit in physics. Did too! In an effort to understand my escalating body temperature's correlation to my overall level of intolerance, I conducted a series of highly sensitive experiments, not just on my personage, but also on certain unsuspecting women at Schvitz! who melted down when the thermometer in the gym hit 72. To say these gals lost their ka-ka doesn't do justice to the heat-related hysteria I witnessed firsthand. Naturally, I took the high road, kvetching and screaming "IT'S EFF'N HOT!" in five-minute intervals, which, under the circumstances, exemplified restraint, compared to those crazy bitches. Not that I judge. What I'd like to tell you is this: Your mama was half-right. Fanning yourself will definitely increase heat production, but it will cool down those peeps in your general vicinity, and isn't that why we're here? To help others?
You're Incredibly Welcome,
The SJG

Missing You

Lately, I've been lost like a satellite floating through space, ever since DirecTV bumped CBS from my flatscreen. You know how I take these things personally. I've even offered to help end this silly standoff. I've dropped off a supersized kugel. I've suggested ways for them to make nice. I've called, I've texted, I've hashtagged my pleas. My heartfelt efforts have accomplished zilch. Sure, I'm one of 6.5 million viewers going without, but this blog is about me, dammit. Don't the bigwigs get it? I'm suffering. Stephen Colbert, James Corden and that nice Jane Pauley on Sunday Morning are members of my Mental Health Team. They level me out. They keep me sane. Meanwhile, the battle over fees and whatnot rages on, depriving the SJG of joy.

But please, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'll just be sitting in the dark...

... waiting for my TV friends to return.

I think I miss you most of all. 

Hand Over The Toothpick & No One Gets Hurt

"The Man of The Toothpick" - Jocelyn Millet

I'm just going to put it out there on a Sunday morn: Toothpicks. Not a fan. Why? I'll tell you why. Because when I see someone walking, driving or picking a banjo with a toothpick dangling from his mouth -- have you ever seen a gal walking, driving or picking a banjo with a toothpick dangling from her mouth? -- my mind starts in with the worrying and the what-ifs. What if he trips? What if he stops suddenly? There goes the toothpick down his gullet, wreaking internal havoc and a near-death, call 911 episode. This has been an issue of mine for so long that I've been publicly shamed at birthday celebrations by someone I thought was my friend. Did he have to regale a room full of people with the decades-old story of "Carol & The Toothpick" at my 40th? Just because I asked, okay, demanded that longtime hubby hand over the toothpick while driving? What's wrong with that? When did wifely thoughtfulness go out the passenger-side window?

Deal With It

Today, I plan to look adoringly at my high school boyfriend, just like Sissy gazing at Robert, in what we hope will be a theater as near-empty of humans as the one above, God willing. 

We haven't quite reached our golden years, like these nice people, but in many ways, we're already old codgers, aka altacockers, in that we know what we want and what we don't want. 

We want to see "Yesterday," a film that came out weeks ago, but honestly, what's the rush? We don't want to be annoyed by the talkers, the cellphone users, the poorly behaved patrons. Not that we have any problem shushing and giving them looks. We excel at both. 

Go ahead. Call us judgy. Call us stuck in our ways. Call us fuddy-duddies. This is how we roll, baby. Deal with it. 

Silliness Spoken Here

It's true, the SJG has been known to say the silliest non-sequitors in the history of personkind. You don't believe me? Look it up. Now and then, my brain skips a beat or three and off I go to Nonsense Land. Take the time, years ago, when I made the following announcement, while in the throes of preparing a festive meal for the sons:

"I'm FAX-ing the Corn!!!!"

For clarification, what I was actually doing was microwaving the corn. I'll never forget the adorable look of alarm on their boyish punims, FAX-ing each other a message of uh-oh-Mom's-having-another-breakdown. Last night at dinner, I do believe I topped myself, when I turned to my sweet angel daughter-in-law, pointed to the salad bowl... 

And said... 

"Would you like some more ice cream?"

"Oh, are you thinking about dessert?" she asked, politely. "Always," I said. 

All The Rage

Hellody, friends. Here I am, actually, here's someone who doesn't look anything like me, but aren't the gloves the best, doing something that's all the rage.

What exactly am I doing? I'm so glad you asked.

I'm practicing patience. As in, making myself wait. Why? I'll tell you why. Because it's a mindfulness exercise. Supposedly, waiting for things makes us happier in the long run. Delayed gratification, that's the ticket.

Just between us, who ever came up with this ridiculous notion must've been heavily medicated. Or not Jewish. Or both.

Not working for you yet? Yeah, me, neither. So try this, instead: Stop doing things that aren't important. Well, I hope they don't expect me to stop collecting doves. That's my new hobby. I just love it, except for de düva kaka. I just got this schmatta washen!

What's that? You want more? I'm right there with you: Think about things that make you impatient, which for me, is pretty much everything. Start by releasing all that emotional baggage you've been schlepping around since birth. Come on, gang. Let's do this together. On the count of three. Baggage, be gone! Or, if you prefer, check it, bevakasha. (See what I did there? Anyone?)

I've saved the best, and easiest for last, you're welcome: Relax and take deep doggy breaths. Doggies are so much more chill than humans, don't you agree? As long as no one steals their food, invades their personal space or appears in squirrel-like form to taunt them. 

For the impatient: Instant fashion. Quick ways of becoming a raving 

beauty with no age tag. 

I'll take it. Sorry. I mean, I'll wait a few minutes, pretend to be patient, take deep, cleansing doggy breaths, and then I'll take it.