the procrastinating girl

Say Cheese

I am a pretty level-headed gal.  Far more inclined toward science than religion.  A believer more in the realistic than the fantastical.  Sure, a burning bush at one point did something to help my people, but consider if you will the temperature of the Middle East desert in the blazing sun.  But to answer Jim McKay's question from 1980 (was it Jim McKay?), over time I have come to realize that I do believe in miracles.  At least small ones.  My latest proof came yesterday morning.  I actually remembered that it was Picture Day at Zoe's school.  And on a Monday!  She was dropped off in a lovely dress and evenly-distributed pigtails.  The only thing missing was payment for her class photographs.  It was due last week.  Moses I am not.

A Fish Story

What do you get when you cross a procrastinator with a really expensive specialty food store?  No, this isn't the opening to some incredibly mediocre stand-up routine.  It was my life at about 11:45am.  I had just walked out of my doctor appointment and onto the streets of Manhattan's most insanely ritzy neighborhood.  Naturally, I wasn't looking for couture or original artwork.  I needed fish.  But this was Madison Avenue.  Fish will cost you.  Big.  And I didn't have the time to shop around.  Why?  Because this was my only window to buy all the food I needed to host our breaking of the fast at the end of Yom Kippur.  So I walked into E*A*T, arguably the most overpriced high-end food store anywhere, and ordered the most modest amount of whitefish I could without wasting counterperson's time.  But, apparently, they have a whitefish minimum.  As I was struggling with whether or not to green-light the purchase, a woman in Jackie O dark glasses, yes, worn indoors, and a dark navy suit ordered enough smoked salmon to feed our school district.  I finally nodded yes to the tiny plastic container of whitefish that cost the same as putting my family's butts in movie seats.  Plus popcorn.  And yes to the $20-plus chocolate babka.  And told myself, it's fine.  This is New York.  Nothing can compare to the food here.  Of course after fasting all day for Yom Kippur, cardboard would be delicious.  Sigh.

Heavy Trash

So this week is a biggie for the Jews.  Last week we had Rosh Hashanah, and next Thursday we will mark Yom Kippur, our holiest day on the calendar.  For the few days in between, life is normal.  No funky dietary restrictions.  No unforeseen mandatory trips to synagogue.  When you do attend services on the holidays themselves, you have to show tickets.  Ours are especially thorough, listing the date, time and location for the duration of the 'High Holy Day period'.  It's like JazzFest.  And our tickets are necessary.  They are checked by board members before you and your potentially knife-wielding family are allowed to enter the sanctuary.  So my job post-Rosh and pre-Yom was to put these tickets, each bearing our individual names, in a safe place until the holidays had finished.  Yes, it's something a monkey could do.  Well, this monkey came home after Rosh Hashanah and threw them right into the garbage.  In my head, the holiday was over!  After Madonna exits the stage, you throw out the tickets, no?  So now I have until Wednesday night to make good with the temple office and somehow get my family back into our house of worship.  Or we are shut out from the Day of Atonement.  Or did I subconsciously want to be shut out in the first place?  That's a whole different story...

Happy Happy New New Year Year!

No, you're not seeing double.  I just got finished celebrating the New Year.  Yes, in October.  If you're Jewish as I am, you get the pleasure of ringing in this holiday twice.  Once with the drunken masses in Times Square, and then again like today for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  We eat apples and honey and hear the blowing of the ram's horn or shofar (always a crowd pleaser).  But what about the seedy underbelly of turning the page yet again?  Do I need a second set of resolutions too?  Oy.  If so, as of 3:56pm, they would look something like this:

- Return fascinating books to all friends who mistakenly thought I could read.

- Send in paperwork for two $70 rebates for new, unnecessary Blackberry phones.

- Keep steady flow of food in fridge beyond an old apple, mustard and weirdly-shaped ball of foil.

- Do summer/fall closet clothes swap before it's time to wear bathing suits again.

- Dispose of empty dishwasher detergent bottles under sink.

The Om Front

I have to admit there's a big part of me that wishes I could be one of those supercrunchy women who grows their own herbs and bakes their own bread. The other part thinks Justin Timberlake is a musical genius. And anyway my real regret is yoga. Over a year ago at a silent auction for my daughters' school, I won, for a very small sum, a half-hour private yoga lesson. I left that night with a black tank top bearing the instructor's insignia and instructions to call to set up my one-on-one tutorial. Well, the tank top gets a lot of action. It hits the treadmill regularly and today got screamed at by Herman the badass kickboxing teacher. But I never called about my lesson. Actually, I never even bothered getting the number of the yoga instructor. Over time it slowly moved to the bottom of the list (under doorknobs?) and was forgotten. Then, just this morning, at my biofeedback appointment where I am supposed to meditate my chronic migraines away, my doctor 'strongly recommended' I pursue the practice of yoga. Think I will make the call now?

Hanukkah Comes Early, I Mean, Late

Well, this is a big week for the Jewish holidays. We have Yom Hazikaron coming tomorrow and Yom Ha'atzmaut right behind it on Thursday. You heard me. As the excitement rages, it's only natural that my mind drifts to that real family crowd pleaser, Hanukkah. With the forecast regularly reaching the 70's and the May flies making me rethink buying property with wetlands, the festival of lights feels like a faint memory. Fortunately, I still have a gift from my mother, a check as yet uncashed, sitting in my wallet as a pleasant reminder of those winter days we shared together. Of course it is still money. And Bedford Village Chase even has a drive-thru window. I swear Mom, I'll do it today. Or maybe by Lag B'Omer.

Look, I have a blog

Ok, so it's not the parting of the Red Sea... But since my blog is based on this life-long personality flaw, it's kind of a miracle that I exercised my limited follow-through skills to get it up and running. So here it is, or rather, will be, a chronicle of what I don't do... for no good reason other than my own inertia. I'm hoping maybe the public humiliation will force me into a new, more organized state of being. People say blogging is powerful. Can it undo 36 years of saving everything until the very last minute? We shall see...