Show Some Restraint

Now you tell me.

Yesterday the SJG showed such restraint, I just had to share it with you. And by you, and I mean my worldwide, not to mention, intergalactic readers. Thanks for coming back, especially the 45 of you in Moldova.  I had to look it up to find out where it is -- Russia, of course. The Ukraine, where my grandparents hail from. I bet Grandma and Grandpa are kvelling from somewhere, as my dad liked to put it, "up there."  But back to the restraint I demonstrated, as opposed to the restraining order I don't like to talk about.  Listen, it was years ago.  I was a kid.  Davy Jones forgave me.  We both moved on.

And speaking of moving on, Operation Condo continues at a snail's pace. I start off with the best intentions.  I'm going to empty this closet, I'm going to throw out this... oh, hang on just a minute. What have we here? A whole pile of letters I wrote home, in the most minuscule handwriting imaginable, from my year as a broad in England? These deserve my immediate attention. So I stop and travel back in time, instead of Feng Shui-ing the condo of clutter and ghosts, and I wonder why my parents -- addressed in every letter as "Cita and Beanbag" for reasons that escape me now -- saved them.  My letters are filled with the most mind-numbing, microscopic details ever.  At 19,  I sound so self-involved, I'm embarrassed on my own behalf. Still, they're hilarious to read. I use "bloke" every other sentence.  "And then this bloke..."  "This bloke downstairs." "This bloke in my seminar." I want to tell the younger me, "Pick a bloke and get over yourself."


Oh, but back to the issue of restraint.  Clearly, I showed zero when it came to the letters or the 800 greeting cards my dad saved or the zillions of photos: "Look, there's Mom and Dad in Amsterdam." "Look, Mom's wearing a cowgirl outfit. Where the hell are they?" Two hours later:  "Look, Billy and Scotty wrestling each other on the ground and they haven't hurt each other yet."

No, the restraint came later, in the garage, where an ancient sign warns you'll be fined $25 if you dare leave the premises without waiting for the garage door to close.  To this day, that sign scares the crap out of me.  Anywho, I sat in my car, I turned on the ignition, I looked up and there she was.  That Woman.  The gal directly below my dad's condo. The individual my brother and I called "that @#$%'n bitch." The angry kvetch who kept turning up at my father's door in the middle of the night, complaining about "the noise." And by noise, she meant the oxygen machine.  She complained about other things, too.  The washing machine.  The dryer.  She recited rules. That Woman. She made us very mad.  Well. I wanted to get out of my car. I wanted to confront her.  I took off my seat belt.  I reached for the door.  And then, I heard my dad's voice in my head.  "Forget it."  So I did.  For now.