The Shopping Gene

June 1995

"Come back friends," my dad would say, whenever my mom and I left to go shopping. The issue was always the same. She wanted me to look stylish. I wanted to blend in. She wanted me to try something new. I wanted to play it safe. The shopping gene didn't kick in for a few decades. We'd stand in the dressing room at an impasse. She thought I looked great. I thought I looked ridiculous. It was hard to compromise. Yet no matter how much I pouted, how much I resisted change, I wanted to please her. Which explains that one time I showed up at school in white Go-Go boots and blue and white plaid knickers, when the dress code called for worn-out bell bottoms. I'd committed a major fashion don't. The look of horror on the face of my junior high crush as I walked by continues to haunt me. Today marks 22 years without my fashion-forward mom. I think of all the things she's missed, the wonderful family additions and celebrations. What I'd give to go shopping with her again. And come back friends.

Your Warranty Has Expired

"Good morning, Rapidly Aging Short Jewish Gal. The mensches at Schlepper Auto Services of Van Nuys, you know the place, with the complimentary chocolate babka, a little stale but still tasty, thought we should warn you that your warranty on patience has already expired or is about to expire any second now. But please, don't panic. Or maybe panic a little, we hear it's your specialty. Not that we judge. By pressing 1, you can fix things by signing up for an extended warranty on patience at the low cost of... you have to press 1 to find out. By pressing 2, you can't fix anything and will face the legal consequences. By pressing 3, or worse, hanging up, we'll haunt your phone, not to mention your dreams, for eternity and in terms of patience, you never had much to begin with, so why are we wasting our time? Shana tova."

Atonement In Progress

On the eve of Yom Kippur, my atonement list isn't all that long, probably because I've gone nowhere and done bupkis in the past year, other than sit on my tuchas and binge watch darkly dystopian television. Since last Yom Kippur, I've barely yelled at anyone or flipped anyone off. Well, that's not completely true, I did flip off a jaywalker after he called me a bitch for not screeching to a halt and causing a pile-up on Magnolia so he could cross in the middle of a very busy boulevard. Still, I waited till he was out of view to flip him off, so he didn't see my hostile, well-deserved gesture. So it doesn't really count, does it? Of course not. Now, I'm not saying I've been a perfect human, but I've behaved better than other years. If that doesn't get me inscribed in the Book of Life Is Life, what will? Maybe this silly atonement song. Then again, maybe not. 

You better not cheat

You better not lie

You better not eat
I'm telling you why
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God's making a list
And checking it twice
Gonna find out who's atoning their vice
Yom Kippur is coming to town
God knows when you are fasting

God knows when you're a fake

God knows when you've been bad or worse

So atone for kugel's sake

May you be inscribed in 

The Book of Life Is Life 

Pass The Diapers

Well, it wasn't exactly your typical early-bird Shana Tova soirée. The look on Claire's face says it all. Can you blame her for pondering this particular moment? For thinking, "Why is Rosie, the Rescue Pup adopted by Scotty and Meg, wearing one of my diapers?" It's bad enough Rosie and Blakey, only half-pictured here, but trust me, fully engaged, are always trying to steal her toys. But her diapers, too? Where's the justice in that? 

Where's my festive doggy-approved diaper? 

Answer: In the dryer. 

If there's an easy way to tell a toddler that the diaper-clad doggy, supposedly fixed before her adoption, was, in fact, not fixed, and mere weeks before her scheduled fixing went into heat, I eagerly await your input. I barely understood the situation myself. Sure, a doggy diaper avoids leakage. That part, I get. But avoiding the very amorous Blakey, fixed long ago but still full of certain canine urges, turned out to be impossible. Cries of, "Blakey! Stop trying to hump Rosie!" accomplished zilch. 

And yet, the nice people in the above photo, and those who preferred to remain off-camera, took the whole diaper debacle in stride. Let's just say it could be worse. 

Shana tova! May you have a sweet new year. 

And may your diapers stay dry.