Betcha thought I had forgotten I had this little site, huh? Nope. Just been, well, not around. And when I was around? Nothing amusing to write about.
But! That’s all about to change. Possibly.
First, I want to say thank you to all of you who included my family in their thoughts and prayers. They clearly worked because Mom is getting “sprung” from the hospital today and Dad is hell bent on leaving Little Rock this weekend for another long, much needed break.
Oh, what a difference a week makes.
Today is Yom Kippur. The highest of the High Holidays – or the Day of Repentance. (Think confession once a year, all at one time with no eating for 24 hours and you get the drift – a total party). We decided to go to services at the temple I grew up at – ‘cause quite frankly they have a rockin’ childrens’ service and we like taking The Swimmy there.
High Holiday services require “tickets” to get in. You see, they are the one or two days most Jews go to services (out of sheer fear and guilt I assure you), and the sanctuary becomes overflowing with people. So, most synagogues try to make sure their congregants are the ones coming. Also for security, but it’s a weak attempt at security.
My old congregation had a policy of letting anyone attend services. They welcomed any one who wanted to come. If you were a member of another congregation, just bring those tickets and they’d let you in.
Notice I said “had”. That, apparently, has changed unbeknownst to me. We got there and started to walk in and some dude asked for our tickets. It suddenly occurred to me that we (a) didn’t have our tickets, and (b) may not be allowed in. So I lied.
You know, because sinning on Yom Kippur is extra special and I wanted to guarantee my needing to go again next year right away.
I told them we were guests of my mom (who is volunteer numero uno at this place) and dad and they were already inside. The snippy blonde (??) woman at the little folding table asked who my parents were and I told her.
“Oh. I know them. Go right in.”
Now, mind you, no self-respecting bouncer at any good club would have fallen for that line. Especially since if you really knew my folks you would know that THEY ARE NOT IN TOWN YOU SAD LITTLE POWER HUNGRY LUNATIC.
So, in we went. Pray, pray, pray, sing, sing, sing, sorry, sorry, sorry. Amen.
Benjamite has begun drooling. Husband is convinced he’s teething. Possibly because he had to watch the Little Dude for an hour (two times!) and he got fussy with him. So apparently the formula goes:
Fussy + Drooling = Teething
I disagree. He’s ELEVEN WEEKS old for chrissakes. But, anyone wanna take any bets that he’s possibly on the fast track to hell?