Always Something To Work On

On Yom Kippur, many years in a row, I used to sit in temple and ask forgiveness for all the yelling. When the sons were younger, I used to yell a lot. It was the only way I thought I could be heard. So I'd yell. I'd yell upstairs, "Turn that down." I'd yell, "Dinner!" I'd yell, "We're going to be late." I'd yell, "What's all the noise?" I'd yell, "Stop that." I'd yell, "That's not okay." You get the idea. I was a yeller. But I didn't feel good about all the yelling. I'd grown up in a house full of yelling. I wanted to break that pattern. It was enough already with the yelling. So I made a vow. It took a while. It took a lot of work, a lot of behavior modification. I just didn't want to yell at these wonderful humans anymore, and so, I stopped. And now, I can't remember the last time I yelled at them. I feel so good about that.

In terms of atoning, the yelling was my main go-to, year after year. Now when I sit in temple during the High Holidays, I atone for other things. Impatience is top of the list. Intolerance is another. One thing I know for sure. On Yom Kippur, there's always something to work on.

An Early Birthday & A Bit About A Clown

Is there a law that says you can't celebrate your daughter-in-law's birthday a few days early? Hang on, let me do some quick scholarly research. Whew, according to Koogle, you can celebrate anyone's birthday early or late, what's the diff, as long as there's cake. On Sunday, we decided to go for early. So here she is, the wonderful Chlo-Chlo, only days away from turning 26. Remember being 26? I don't. Not really. Well, maybe a little. But I do know this. When I turned 26, no one texted me. I had zero Facebook friends. They had to regale the wonder that is me in person. Let's hope that never goes out of style or I believe we're doomed. Doomed, I tell ya! 

I've learned so much in my advanced years, and one thing holds true: If you put silly party hats on the table, people of all ages will put them on. Take the birthday girl and her hubby.

Or these three right here. Meg, Scotty and a gal who'll wear anything that gives me a bit more height.

This guy here. The party hat really works for him. Don't you agree? If only we could've found a clown to make the celebration complete. Wait, here's one now. Check out this BuzzFeed video, featuring my brother aka Johnny The Clown, the first in a series on clowns. I'm so proud of him, I could scream, but instead, I'll kvell and invite you to join me.

The Fix Is In

Hmm. What's happening here? Looks like another hubby-related fix-it project, the first project he personally inflicted on the SJG Palatial Estate -- sorry, second such project; I forgot about that time he decided to attach the bookshelf in my office to the wall and hit a pipe. (All the other projects, he tells me, have been acts of God.) So. After Sunday's scary tumble off the ladder in the powder room, where no one ever powders anything, I can assure you, and denting the wall, turning it into a statement of "oy vey, that must've hurt," my aging, manly spouse has entered Phase Two. Phase One had something to do with drywall, please don't ask me to be more specific. Phase Two involves something called Orange Peel. "You're making the bathroom smell all citrusy and fresh? I approve." "No," he told me, semi-patiently. "I'm giving the wall texture." "What good is a wall without texture?" I asked. It was rhetorical. I didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Unless you count this: "I'm going upstairs to shred stuff while it dries." With that, he hobbled up the stairs. He's sore in places. Very sore. You should see the giant purple bruise on his bum. On second thought, you don't need to see it. I've seen it more than once and trust me, it isn't pretty. But hey, if you can't show your giant bruises to your beloved, if you're not oversharing the good, the bad and the ugly after 39 years, what sort of relationship is it, anyway? Later on today, in what I'll call Phase Three, because I can't think of a better name, he'll paint over the wounded wall, and probably wind up painting the entire room, even though he promises me he won't have to, which guarantees he will. Meanwhile, I plan to be out of the house. Like I said, it's been 39 years. I know my customers.

You Look Familiar

At the deli counter, I notice a woman smiling at me. I smile back. This is the SJG way. I just can't help being friendly. Unless you cut me off in traffic, flip me off, steal my newspaper, my parking spot, or the last good banana. Then: not so friendly. But at this moment in time, I'm Little Miss Sunshine. I've found a pair of jeans in my closet that actually fits. A miracle. Hence, Smiley SJG. "You look so familiar," she says. I don't know about you, but I love when people say this me. Love. It. The fact that I have a doppelganger out there in the world delights and alarms me on several levels. "I do?" I say, faux-flattered, in my movie star voice. I'm always ready to sign autographs. You should know this about me. I'm armed with a pen at all times. "Are you a psych nurse?" she asks. "No," I say, "but I feel like one most of the time."

The Atonement Song

Dear SJG,

I was kinda mean to this chubby bearded guy in a red suit and I know I'm supposed to feel bad about myself, and ask forgiveness and all that, but I'm pretty sure I'm right and he's wrong. Let me explain. I saw him at the mall, see, and I said, 'Hey, Mister, stop singing that song.' To which he replied, 'Make me.' So then I said, 'It's early October, we haven't even done Halloween or Thanksgiving, and already you're here, hyping your holiday. It's uncool, I tell ya, uncool. Go back to the North Pole, Mister, and wait your turn.' To which he replied, 'Make me.' And then he started singing his stupid song at the top of his lungs, so I whipped out my tambourine and drowned him out with my song that sounds just like his song only different: 

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

At that point, things took an ugly turn when the old coot grabbed my tambourine and threw it in the fountain, and I told him where to stick his sleigh. But somehow, I'm the one writing this from Mall Jail and he's off with the reindeer. Is that fair? Also, can you do a gal a mitzvah and put up my bail?
Thanks,
Santa Shamer

via GIPHY

Dear Santa Shamer,
I'll get back to you.
You're Welcome,
The SJG

If You Serve It, They Will Come

Another in an endless series of blurry mishpocha pix.

The three noshing rules of Rosh Hashanah: Kugel. Brisket. Chicken. If you serve it, they will come, and by them, I mean the peeps who show up expecting to fress. It's been a hectic couple of days for the SJG, a little tiring, a little hard on the lower back. Maybe it's been the same for you. The schlepping of groceries, the prepping, the marinating, the cooking, and the après-fress cleanup. Who knew it could be so exhausting? As I kid, I selfishly didn't give it a thought. The food just appeared on the plate. It's possible that somewhere in my child brain, I knew someone I loved, my grandma, my mom, my aunt, had cooked up a storm, but that's the extent of it. Then one day the universe said, "Due to circumstances beyond our control, it's your turn to cook, mazel tov," and just like that, I inherited various holiday feasts, and oy, such a revelation of "oh, so that's what's involved?" I'm honored and I love doing it, but if I don't kvetch, what's my reason for being?

You've Got To Be Kidding

On the morning of Rosh Hashanah, Rivka goes into the bedroom to wake her son and tell him it's time to get ready to go to the synagogue, to which he replies, "I'm not going." "Why not?" Rivka asks. "I'll give you two good reasons Mother," he says. "One, they don't like me, and two, I don't like them." Exasperated, Rivka says, "I'll give you two good reasons why you must go to the synagogue. One, you're 54 years old, and two, you're the Rabbi."