Prayer for Sinfulness!

This (re)post reveals my inner world during a communal prayer on Yom Kippur Day, the culmination of this sacred time. On Yom Kippur, we make final effort after final effort, preceded by just one more effort, to atone for our sins. Moreover, we do so near the end of a 24-hour fast. During this benediction, one taps his/her chest with a closed fist upon reciting each sin, while anxiously anticipating a morsel of something (in my case, chocolate, of course). To all of my Jewish friends and those who love us: Happy New Year ~ 5772! 

**

Pound! Pound! For all of the sins that I’ve committed by - Pound! Pound! Pound that Jewish bosom with a tight fisted fervor. Pound! Pound with the vengeance of our oppressed people, enslaved and banished by the enemies for nearly 6000 years.

Harder! For the sin of adultery. Pound! Pound! For the sin of blasphemy. Pound! Pound! Don’t stop. The gates of repentance are still open. Pound faster! Pound harder! Pound!

Pound! For gluttony. For greed. For lust. Pound! Pound! Jesus! I mean, ah, Dearest Almighty, give a Jewish girl a break. I only wish I’d committed these sins for which I’m bruising my upper left boob. Pound! Pound! But, no! I’ve paid in the price of divorce, despair, emotional and fiscal bankruptcy, my dreams of childrearing dead with the sea, that holy Dead Sea – the one that’s of no use but to float upon in all of my misery and despair. Pound! Pound!

Oy, had I merely reaped the benefits of adultery along the way! Dayenu![1] But, no. No. It’s been nothing but tsores[2] for me, I tell you. Just my mazel.[3] Pound. Pound harder! This, it isn’t good enough?! Pound! For the sin of lust. Pound! For treachery. Pound! How long must this dreaded dirge go on for, and when was I ever treacherous, anyway? In fact, what the hell – I mean, heck—is treachery?

Pound! Pound! I’m fasting for Christ’s, I mean Miriam’s, sake! My knees are weak. I can barely stand. I think I'm going to die. I need one m&m, just one. For starters. Pound! Pound! Oy. This it is meshugenah,[4] it is.

Almighty, please let me sin as soon as the sun goes down. Oh Holy One, I beg of you to allow some sinfulness here. I mean, it’s all I’ve got. I swear, but not really. Not that often, and only when I’m not feeling lust. I separate my lust from swearing, to thoroughly savor each experience. Trust me.

Listen, I’m quite lousy at sinfulness. I’m good at most things, except, well, driving and sinning. Hmm, driving while sinning, now that sounds delicious. I mean – Pound! Pound! I’d really like to hone my skills without the guilt that has plagued my people for all time. Pound! Pound! For the sin that I’ve committed by not sinning, forgive me Dear One. Grant repentance and a new year chock full of opportunity for some juicy sinning. That’s all I ask, All Powerful One. I won’t ask for anything else. I promise. That’s all this little Jewish girl with a bruised boob requests.

Pound! Pound! Ouch!

[1] It would have been enough. (i.e.,The adultery would have been a blessing of its own.)
[2] Stress and misery. Oy, the stress and, oy, the misery.
[3] Luck, in a bad way.
[4] Crazy nonsense or nonsensical craziness.

Celebrating the Jewish Grandma

Everyone, regardless of faith, should have a Jewish Grandma or two. They're good for feeding you tasty comfort foods when you're most in need, reminding you to put your jacket on else you'll catch pneumonia (even in 100 degree weather), and cherishing you to no end.

I had two "bubbies"/"bobbis." Though long since gone, I'm grateful for the memories and the only Valentine's card I've kept for over 30 years.

I don't have dates on these, but the card and the photo of  me and my Bobbi Rose are both from the 1970's.

The Day I Became A Woman

That sexy title was merely a deceptive ploy to launch my following into the 3-digits. We see how well that worked! ...I'm so sorry to let you down, dear reader. I hate to break it to you, but this is, in fact, a clean Jewish post. I promise to post the story you were expecting later. You'll have to keep following. It'll be worth it. Don't look so skeptical. Would I deceive you?

Ms. Anthropy tagged me to post a picture and tell the story. [She's the youngest, sweetest, sharpest sarcastic grandma blogger in the sphere.] With Passover looming, I pulled out my Bat Mitzvah album. As you can see, my parents were clearly intent on cutting costs. This lousy photography was probably done by Morty, my third cousin twice removed - for bad table manners during Passover and lousy photography at all the raucous Hanukah parties.

I know, look how tiny and little (and so darn cute, huh?) I am. Yet this is the day on which I became a Jewish woman. It was a couple of weeks short of my 13th birthday, a number of years short of puberty, and -well- I'll save mention of other time frames for later. I promise. Would I deceive you? [See above photo of cute, tiny, little girl with a blurry face. ]

Have you heard the saying, "Good things come in small packages?" I coined it. Those were my first words when Dr. Sayre cut the umbilical cord. The quote served me well for a number of decades, actually. Over time, though, some horrid things were packaged small, like car bombs, Anthrax, and Gary Coleman. I really regret this saying. But I was young and naive. I didn't know better.

Back to the pic, the Bar/Bat Mitzvah involves leading a service, chanting from the Torah, and - the worst part (I mean, the greatest honor)- holding the darn thing. I mean, embracing these beautiful sacred scrolls for a couple of days or seconds. Should said kid drop the Torah, oy gevalt! The entire congregation, in fact, must fast for 30 days. Can you imagine? Minor slippage amounts to sentencing your beloved spiritual network to a month-long fast. You can surely forget the huge stash of cash you did this all for. Let me stress that we're talking about a large group of Jews (those very people who've sacrificed everything, mind you, so you could make it to this glorious point in your otherwise meaningless existence, and "By the way, why aren't you married yet?") not being able to eat for a month because of you. Not a pretty concept. Not pretty at all.

On the positive note, after the ceremony, said kid gets to:

1) wait 8 years along with said kids' peers to buy alcohol;

2) wait 3 years along with said kids' peers to drive;

3) wait 12 years along with said kids' peers to rent a car; and - here's the bonus to tip the scales -

4) pray! Is said kid doing the happy horah dance now, or what?! Said kid can pray! (Certain key prayers must be recited by at least 10 adults. When said kid has had a Bar/Bat Mitzvah, said kid is said adult.)

One hurdle left, and the pressure was on. Not only did I have to hold it, I had to hold it for a long ass, I mean a righteously sacred tuchas duration. With my little but tenacious arms wrapped around that Baby, the two of us were doing just fine. Thank you very much! The audience and I were silent. Intensity pervaded the synagogue's 250 mile radius. All eyes glared anxiously at that Torah. Folks who had never prayed before began bargaining with the Almighty, Moses, Allah, Jesus, and Mr. Kotter. Family members started waging bets on the amount of time before the crash. Everyone held their breath. Their faces turned red. They crossed their fingers and toes, running out to nibble at their last bites of food for a month! I was doing just fine, people! I held tight. Still, I needed to play it safe. One does not take chances when it comes to Jews and food. That in mind, I gave the Torah just a wee little boost with my little right knee. At that moment, a loud burst of laughter filled the sanctuary. Apparently, they found this considerate, devout and well calculated maneuver rather humorous. Bastards! I mean, I shall not blame my beloved spiritual hungry community. The tension was lifted, as I boosted that Baby another half inch, still holding on for dear life. We made it through to the end, and we got to eat.

The summary of all Jewish holidays: They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat! Happy almost Passover to my Jewish friends and those who love or like us okay.

Keeping Yiddish Alive Post-Shredded Wheat

This is a re-post from Biblical times, when our beloved Ian was my only Jewish friend in the blogosphere. It's dedicated to Yiddish, and to everyone -Jews and Gentiles alike- who is or was single for any moment in time. Please enjoy.


Second Title: Doing it with Yiddish Flair

The ladies on Sex and the City do it in every episode. Catholic school girls vow not to do it. Nice Jewish women console the relatives who set shiva[1] once they learned we’re doing it. “Not to worry, Bubbe[2], I won’t do it anymore. Not for long, anyway. I mean, I don’t want to. I’m not trying to do it. It just kind of happens. But I’m careful. And, oy[3], it’s the best. You remember, nu[4]? This it should bother you?”

So we do it. We do it because, though we won’t admit it aloud, it’s exciting and freeing. We do it because we won’t settle for kibbitzing[5]. Enough with the mishegosh[6]! We do it and keep doing it despite what they’re all saying about us. We do it because we’re fed up with the shlemiels[7], shlemazels[8], shmendricks[9], and shmegegees[10]. We do it with sanity intact. We do it with integrity. We do it with subtle confidence. We stay single!

Every so often, we think it may be time to stop doing it. This one might be the one, I tell you: the beshert[11] sent by the Almighty to redeem this life of tsores[12]. Sometimes years, sometimes seconds into the relationship, we detect, shall we say, a few minor imperfections. “Don’t fret, Bubbe, he will move out of his sister’s house when we get engaged. This I am sure of. He will try to find work too, once we have kids. He doesn’t want me to be sole provider. Such a mensch[13], I tell you.” Yet, before the next Shabbat, it explodes in a farshtinkena[14] mess. After the waterfalls of tears, the last crumb consumed of a sinfully trafe[15] chocolate cheesecake, robotically hugging the family members who returned to mourning our bleak existence: oy gevalt[16], such relief! One deep breath later, and we’re back to doing it.

Not to worry, Bubbe, we do it selectively. He’s gotta be at least one quarter Jewish. If not, does he watch Seinfeld in syndication? We should be so lucky!

We do it with stamina. We schmooze[17] for hours at all of the important gatherings: the Matzo and Latke Balls, the Kung Pao comedy night, Israel in the Park, Summer Sizzle, and the list goes on and on I tell you. We stay home on weekends but once in a while. Occasionally, there’s a more appealing option, like clipping our toenails with focus and precision. The next day, though, we get out there again with a chutzpah[18] that would send Miriam[19] kvelling[20] through the deepest of waters. This is true it is.

We do it with variety. There’s Jdate.com to find a partner within 10 miles, or there’s Jdate.com to find a partner within 525 miles. After a while, let me tell you, we increase the range to anywhere in the known universe. Then, there’s speed dating at Starbucks or fast dating at the Jewish Community Center. There’s the incomparably expensive community Yenta[21] or the free but ever intrusive Auntie Rita. Such options they are endless.

We do it safely. We stay in one spot, keep it brief, and leave. No phone call the next day, even. A casual e-mail in 5-7, perhaps. Very rudimentary and protected, you see. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Not to worry.

We do it for stress relief. Oy, no more dirty socks on the kitchen table, no more toilet seats to put back down, no more schedules to coordinate, dietary idiosyncrasies to appease. We do it on our own time, our own terms, with concern only for our own needs. This it is the best, nu?

So I say to you my tribal sisters who are doing it, those of you who perhaps have been doing it for decades, or perhaps find yourselves redoing it, or perhaps wishing to undo it: let it be time to unleash the stigma and just do it with pride! That every moment is a simcha[22] whether we’re alone or taking care of some nudnik[23], I mean loving person. That when and if we decide to abstain from doing it, that this one should be truly worth the abstinence. In the meantime, let us do it with the the perseverance and optimism of our ancestry. Let’s do it with chutzpah. L’chaiyim![24]

[1] Mourning rituals that last for 7 days (or, in this case, possibly a lifetime) following the death of a loved one.
[2] Grandma.
[3] Oy. {There really is no other word for “oy” that says “oy” like “oy”.}
[4] “Yes” or “Yes?” or “I really do mean it.”
[5] Joking around, intruding, teasing. See mishegash.
[6] Craziness, messiness. See kibbitzing.
[7] A fool.
[8] A born loser. Nothing goes right for the shemazel.
[9] A wimp.
[10] A nobody, a jerk.
[11] The love of one’s life, destiny.
[12] Misery, stress.
[13] A true gentleman.
[14] Yucky, smelly. Derived from farshtinkerner (smelly person).
[15] Food that is not kosher. Note: This particular cheesecake was made with lard.
[16] “Oh my” to the extreme.
[17] Talk it up, charm others.
[18] Nerve, fervor – in a good way.
[19] Moses’ sister, a great female leader of the Jewish people in days of very old.
[20] Beaming with pride, boasting.
[21] Matchmaker.
[22] Celebration, blessing.
[23] Annoying person, nuisance.
[24] To life!

Doing It With Yiddish Flair

The ladies on Sex and the City do it in every episode. Catholic school girls vow not to do it. Nice Jewish women console the relatives who set shiva[1] once they learned we’re doing it. “Not to worry, Bubbe[2], I won’t do it anymore. Not for long, anyway. I mean, I don’t want to. I’m not trying to do it. It just kind of happens. But I’m careful. And, oy[3], it’s the best. You remember, nu[4]? This it should bother you?”

So we do it. We do it because, though we won’t admit it aloud, it’s exciting and freeing. We do it because we won’t settle for kibbitzing[5]. Enough with the mishegosh[6]! We do it and keep doing it despite what they’re all saying about us. We do it because we’re fed up with the shlemiels[7], shlemazels[8], shmendricks[9], and shmegegees[10]. We do it with sanity intact. We do it with integrity. We do it with an outspoken confidence. We stay single!

Every so often, we think it may be time to stop doing it. This one might be the one, I tell you: the beshert[11] sent by the Almighty to redeem this life of tsores[12]. Sometimes years, sometimes hours into the relationship, we detect, shall we say, a few minor imperfections. “Don’t fret, Bubbe, he will move out of his sister’s house when we get engaged. This I am sure of. He will try to find work too, once we have kids. He doesn’t want me to be sole provider. Such a mensch[13], I tell you.” Yet, before the next Shabbat, it explodes in a farshtinkena[14] mess. After the waterfalls of tears, the last crumb consumed of an entire sinfully trafe[15] chocolate cheesecake, offering support to those family members who returned to mourning our bleak existence: oy gevalt[16], such relief! One deep breath later, and we’re back to doing it.

Not to worry, Bubbe, we do it selectively. He’s gotta be at least a quarter Jewish. If not, does he watch Seinfeld in syndication? We should be so lucky!

We do it with stamina. We schmooze[17] for hours at all of the important gatherings: the Matzo and Latke Balls, the Kung Pao comedy night, Israel in the Park, and the list goes on and on I tell you. We only stay home on weekends but once in a while, really. Very occasionally, there’s a more appealing option, like clipping our toenails with focus and precision. The next day, though, we get out there again with a chutzpah[18] that would send Miriam[19] kvelling[20] through the deepest of waters. This is true it is.

We do it with variety. There’s Jdate.com to find a partner within 10 miles, or there’s Jdate.com to find a partner within 15 miles. After a while, let me tell you, we increase the range to anywhere in the known universe. Then, there’s speed dating at Starbucks or fast dating at the Jewish Community Center. There’s the incomparably expensive local Yenta[21] or the free but ever intrusive Auntie Rita. Such options they are endless.

We do it safely. We stay in one spot, keep it brief, and leave. No phone call the next day, even. A casual e-mail in 5-7, perhaps. Very rudimentary and protected, you see. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Not to worry.

We do it for stress relief. Oy, no more dirty socks on the kitchen table, no more toilet seats to put back down, no more schedules to coordinate, dietary idiosyncrasies to appease. We do it on our own time, our own terms, with concern only for our own needs. This it is the best, nu?

So I say to you my tribal sisters who are doing it: let it be time to unleash the stigma and do it with pride! That every moment is a simcha[22] whether we’re alone or taking care of some nudnik[23], I mean loving person. That when and if we decide to abstain from doing it, that this one should be truly worth the abstinence. In the meantime, let us do it with the the perseverance and optimism of our ancestry. Lets do it with chutzpah. L’chaiyim![24]

[1] Mourning rituals that last for 7 days (or, in this case, possibly a lifetime) following the death of a loved one.
[2] Your Jewish Grandma.
[3] Oy. {There really is no other word for “oy” that says “oy” like “oy”.}
[4] Yes? Or “I really mean it.”
[5] Joking around, intruding, teasing. See mishegosh.
[6] Craziness, messiness. See kibbitzing.
[7] A fool.
[8] A born loser. Nothing goes right for the shlemazel.
[9] A wimp.
[10] A nobody, a jerk.
[11] The love of one’s life, destiny.
[12] Misery, stress.
[13] A true gentleman.
[14] Yucky, smelly. Derived from farshtinkerner (smelly person).
[15] Food that is not kosher. Note: this cheesecake it was made with pure animal fat it was.
[16] “Oh my” to the extreme.
[17] Talk it up, charm others.
[18] Nerve, fervor - in a good way.
[19] Moses’ sister, a great female leader of the Jewish people in days of very old.
[20] Beaming with pride, boasting.
[21] Matchmaker.
[22] Celebration, blessing.
[23] Annoying person, nuisance.
[24] To life!