Well, it’s Rosh Hashana this week. I have one friend with whom we both say, “Happy Rosh Hasha-na-na!” It’s immature, but it’s fun. Try it, I won’t mind. But I’m not here to talk about the holiday or the mounds and mounds of delicious brisket that I believe never truly leaves your system. Oh man, I always eat so much and then suffer the pain. But it’s worth it.
No, I’m here to talk about how this High Holy Jewish Day affects my work schedule. Normally, we get Thursday off, but have to work Friday. Oh darn. But now there’s this small but growing contingent who want to get Friday off as well. Saying it would show the proper respect for the holiday and the Jewish workers. And yet the bulk of this group is not Jewish. Now of course I don’t fault them for this. I admire their enterprising minds. Their chutzpah (pronounced correctly), if you will. But I won’t stand for it. Oh no. The last thing I need or want is an extra day off from work. I can take the one day. Even go to temple and nod and fake smile at people I don’t know nor care to know. I can take the meal where relatives and friends all marvel at the amount of brisket and noodle pudding I can pack away, and then they all wonder if perhaps someone should call 9-1-1 for me. That happened once, and I refused to let them pump my stomach. Are you kidding me? After all that work I did to get that brisket in there? Nuh-uh!
But there is no way I want two days off for this holiday. It’s my holiday, but I reject it. Because here’s what my Friday will be: my wife scolding me for eating so much and for being rude to her Aunt Edna (no one is named Edna anymore which is just one of the reasons I can’t stand Aunt Edna) and then saying “Hey, as long as you’re home we can…” and no matter what follows those words it’s bad for me.
The other thing that will happen is that my barely teenaged son, whom I will completely have forgotten even existed, will storm down the stairs around noon and then yell at me, “Come on, Dad, you have to drive me to Spencer’s! Jeez!” Now first of all, who the F is Spencer? Secondly, is there even a hint of please in there? No. And thirdly, what am I, my son’s slave? His chauffeur? His bitch? Okay, we all know the answers to those questions, and I’m not proud about it.
So, yes, I would rather go to work where I can at least pretend to be a man. And though I will have single-handedly (and I guess selfishly) killed the “two days off” campaign with some brilliant, veiled whispers into our boss’s ear about how we’re WAY behind schedule, I will grumble alongside my unknowing co-workers about what a Scrooge our boss is for not letting us have Friday off. But inside, right next to the ten pounds of brisket, I will feel good. And right. Happy Rosh Hasha-na-na!