It's the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana. The family Slutsky celebrates with the traditional holiday foods, brisket, apple desserts, with a side of Mommie guilt. Why should tonight be different from all other nights? Oh wait, that is the Passover saying, never mind.
The kids already know more Hebrew than I do, which is not setting the bar all that high mind you. They posed for the obligatory photo,
complete with seasonal props. I did not officially send out greeting cards this year, so this staged photo image
and message will be emailed and Facebook posted along with my best wishes here on the blog. It's better than nothing, but I'll admit the Martha Jewert in me is sorely disappointed that I was unable to execute through the US Mail this time. Next year in Jerusalem is the appropriate saying here, but I can assure you that is not gonna happen- I can't even afford to fly us all to Orlando, so I am thinking Tel Aviv is out of the realm of possibilities.
I have good intentions well in advance of the holidays. In spirit, I am still overachieving but in reality it's a fail. I can't do it all anymore, lest I wear a white straight jacket. Until Giorgio Armani makes one in a size Euro 48, I have to eliminate the filler fluff and stick to what is most important. Mailing photo cards did not make the cut. Same guilt, new year. Go figure.
In the secular world, new years have resolutions. Why wait for a new year? There is no time like now! So instead of making a long laundry list of goals and action items, I am gonna wing it. I plan to blog when I can, stay properly medicated, schedule appropriate spa treatments and drink wine, until the kids and Jeff drive me officially batshit crazy and I end up committing myself to some serious retail therapy- maybe even at full retail, G-d forbid.
Tonight, I'm just enjoying leftover brisket, dipping it in guilt and moving along. Welcome to the annual Rosh Hashana madness, or as my kids say, with proper annunciation: L'Shana Tovah Tikatevu.
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