Not That I Judge

I know, I know, Rosh Hashanah doesn't start till Wednesday night. You think I don't know that? I've got a calendar. In this way, and so many others, I'm old school. I don't need a reminder that pops up on my OyPhone to tell me the Jewish New Year is upon us. Why not? I'll tell you why not. Because all I have to do is step foot in my personal homeland of Gelson's, on the corner of Van Nuys & Nova Scotia, and I know the holiday is imminent, thanks to all the decorative signs that say: "Pre-Order your Rosh Hashanah Meal Here!" Just between us, pre-ordering your Rosh Hashanah meal does strike the SJG as lazy, not that I judge. And yet, I applaud anyone willing to announce at the table with all the relatives jammed side by side, "Hey, gang, you like the brisket? Guess what? I didn't make it, ha, ha. Last year, some of you gave mine a 10 on the Dry Meter, so this year, you can blame a stranger if it doesn't meet with your high standards. L'chaim!" Later today, I'll be visiting the afore-mentioned grocery shrine to purchase the secret ingredients for the kugel I'll be bringing to my mother-in-law's Early Bird Rosh Hashanah on Sunday. One member of our tiny, but stylish clan refuses to attend the Early Bird dinner on principal. "Doesn't she know the Emmys are on?!" "I feel your pain," I said to the unidentified relative. "Is it tacky if I stop by for a to-go plate?" "Yes, it's very tacky, but that never stopped you before." I ask you this, my friends: Are there worse shandas in life than having to watch the Emmys after the fact, when the Internet has spoiled the fun and revealed all the losers? Let me think about that. Nothing comes to mind at the moment, but I'm sure something equally heinous will come to me.