Emotional Disturbia

A few years back, one of my neighbors used to call during the High Holidays and leave a long rambling recorded apology. It went something like this: "Hi, this is Eddie from across the street, the one you always ignore. Perhaps I've offended you somehow. I don't know what I did to create such a bad vibe between us, but I thought I'd apologize, and then you can call me and apologize for ignoring me, like you're some big epis, and then we'll be even on a karmic level. If I've upset you in some way, I'm sorry. If I've been an inattentive neighbor, I'm sorry, even though I think I've been a pretty great neighbor. Remember that time I took out your trash cans? No thank you note, no gift. That's okay. It's Yom Kippur. Time to let old grudges go. Speaking of which, I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me for whatever the hell I did to unbalance your Chi, although for the life of me, I can't figure it out. I'm a Zen-like person, a spiritual dude, even if you don't think so. Just thought I'd open up a dialogue. I wish you and your family a gut yuntif. Namaste."

Clearly, Eddie expected me to call back, but I never did. This coming Monday, I'm going to sit in my office, admiring my RBG mask (if it arrives, God willing, along with all the other RBG merchandise I bought in a state of emotional disturbia) and atone via Zoom for not leaving the following long rambling recorded apology: "Uh, yeah, hi, Eddie. It's the SJG. Listen, dude, just because I drove by you that one time without waving hello doesn't mean I intentionally ignored you. I was trying not to run over a squirrel. Still, let me take this time to apologize to you, from the depths of my being, for not killing the squirrel so I could say hey, neighbor, and not hurt your feelings. If we're being honest here, I never asked you to take out our trash. You did that all on your own for that Unsolicited Mitzvah Day you inflicted on the entire neighborhood. I'm still trying to locate our trash cans. Where did you take them, Eddie? Give them back. It would be a blessing if you'd lose my number. Gut yuntif to you and yours."

Pretty, Pretty, Pretty Good

Things I'm feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good about on this Monday:

1. The Pand-Emmys, hosted by Jimmy Kimmel, even if I've never seen most of the shows that swept the virtual ceremony. How many shows am I supposed to binge in one pandemic? To date, I've only seen 3.5 episodes of "Schitt$ Creek." Why only 3.5? Well, certain things in the opening episodes made me laugh and others made me gag. Your SJG has a very low tolerance for grossness. Just ask my family. They know if a puke and/or icky bathroom moment is coming up, I must be warned and protected. Often I sense something icky is coming and cover my face with a large pillow, trusting that longtime hubby or one of the mensches I birthed a while back will say, "Don't lower the pillow yet," or "It's okay to lower the pillow now." This is how we've built a strong foundation of trust in our family. These people know that trickery will lead to marital threats and disinheritance. A caveat: When I watch alone ("Schitt$ Creek") I have no one to blame but myself. And yet, so many people have ordered me to keep watching "Schitt$ Creek" that I'm proceeding, slowly, in between all the other shows I'm schlepping my way through. 

2. Virtual Rosh Hashanah was nothing short of a technological miracle. I sang at the top of lungs and no one heard me (God willing?) other than Sir Blakey. I stood when I was told to and swayed back and forth and during lulls I organized my office and no one saw me (God willing?). Close to 300 temple members joined the Zoom Service and entertained me with non-stop chat messages that kept popping up at the bottom of the screen for nearly two hours. "There's an echo." "Is anyone else hearing the echo?" "I am!" "The echo's gone!" "Shana Tova from the Plotnicks!" "Can you see me on the screen?" "Yes." "How do I take myself off?" "Why is the rabbi getting political?" "Everyone stop talking. Pretend you're in temple." "Are you kidding? Everyone talks in temple. At least here you don't have to read the comments." "How do I get rid of them?" "Click the thing in the top corner." "What thing?" And on and on. I pretty much loved it all, especially seeing the nice rabbis on the bima and hearing the Shofar and the kids blowing their ram's horns in their little backyard boxes. 

Turn, Turn, Turn

3. Claire turning over for the first time qualifies as above and beyond pretty, pretty, pretty good. These days, it's the little things that keep me going. 

Concierge Grandma At Your Service

"Where's Grammala? Is that her pulling up in the driveway?" 

What exactly is a Concierge Grandma? I'm so glad you asked. A Concierge Grandma offers a high level of love and attention to her only grandchild, while occasionally skirting the strict napping rules set down by the new parents. Instead, a Concierge Grandma pretends to follow the whole "let her cry it out for 30 minutes before you get her from crib" thing, holding out as long as humanly possible, five minutes max, before grabbing baby girl from the crib and snuggling her in an effort to calm her down.

"Don't cry, Grammala is here."

This type of specialized spoiling goes by several names: Direct Grandmothering, Grandma-Based Care, Old-School Grandma, Grandma Knows Best, the afore-mentioned Concierge Grandma, and Grandma At Your Service. No matter what company you choose, know that grandmas are available 24-7, ready to hop in the car and be there within minutes, no matter the request. The Concierge Grandma will drop everything because a good grandma knows that when it comes to her grandbaby, any situation is an emergency.

What about Concierge Grandpa? Don't forget him. 

He's there too, sometimes. 

In regard to basic skills, not to worry, a Concierge Grandma, though rapidly aging as we speak, has retained a vast wealth of knowledge from her young mother stage, even if she can't remember what day it is. Some things, such as diapering, bottle feeding, lullabies, Mother Goose Rhymes, "Wheels on the Bus" and "Head & Shoulders, Knees & Toes" just never leave the keppy. 

"Where's the on/off button for this thing?" 

Other tasks may need a little patient instruction: "Turn the sound machine on by tapping it, gently on the side, Ma. Got it?" "Uh huh." Important reminder: remember to ask how to turn it off. You can only listen to ocean waves crashing on the shore for so long while baby cries before you lose your kaka. This is when Concierge Grandpa comes in handy. In such instances, all Concierge Grandma has to do is yell, "I can't turn this @#$%'n off!" and Concierge Grandpa comes running in to give the noise machine a good ol' smack and voila, the ocean uproar goes bye-bye. 

Of course, I'm saving the best part for last. Concierge Grandma charges bupkis. And it's worth every penny. 

A Glass of Pessimism

On this bizarro Labor Day 2020, longtime hubby and the SJG face an important decision. Do we go ahead and crack open the Pessimist, an alarmingly red blend longtime hubby recently discovered at Costco?

Do we wholeheartedly embrace the undeniable motto slapped on the label: "A pessimist is never disappointed"?

Do we pour ourselves a half-empty glass of well-traveled pessimism? Or pause the collective despair, the mounting fears, the oppressive what-iffery and go for half-full? Talk about a tough call.

A card-carrying fatalist with "an oaky taste of the realism," my resident wine connoisseur was drawn to the Pessimist for "its haunting imagery and negative vibe."

I know how he loves to share his exciting new finds with the family. Still, I may have to pass on the Pessimist, at least for now, and pick a more upbeat Labor Day option, a crisp Rosé with hopeful notes. Plus, it will complement the tequila-soaked chicken so much better than a dystopian red. 

Right now, at this moment in time, I need to take reassuring sips. I need to believe that at some point, somehow, this big scary case of WTF will be behind us. Deep down, I know you feel the same.