In the past few days, the brain of the SJG has needed a big dose of Beano. While preparing three dishes at once for the Rosh Hashanah din din, I reached for the cute little can of Diet Coke on the counter and took a big gulp. It was not as refreshing as anticipated. It tasted weird. It tasted like Olive Oil. Why? Because I'd grabbed a giant bottle of olive oil instead of my dainty Diet Coke. "Yech!" I said. "Icky poo!" What's that? You don't believe that's what I said? How dare you. Okay, fine. You're right. I actually said, "Oh sh*t!" "@#$% me, that's disgusting." I chocked it up to a big multitasking fail on my part. On Sunday, I had another brush with embarrassing cerebral flatulence, and this time, I went public. My peeps were gathered in the kitchen, yakking and snacking, blocking cupboards and drawers and anything I needed immediate access to, as I attempted to heat and hover over my kugel, my brisket, my chicken. It's hard to hover when you have to keep shoving immediate family out of the way so you can open the oven door. Over the years, I've found there's no nice way to accomplish this, other than to say, "Move!" Even then, they ignore me. It was time for a new command and I delivered it with gusto, loud and clear. My father looked at me and started to laugh. "What's so funny, Dad?" "Did you hear what you just said?" "I said, I'm opening the oven." "No, you didn't." "I didn't?" "You said, 'I'm opening the garage.'" "I meant to say that," I told him, cruel reality closing in on me. There I was, in my own kitchen, surrounded by major altacockers, two in their 90s, two in their 80s, and I was the one having a senior moment. It made me miss the days when I could blame these lapses on PMS.