Yum Kippur - 2015 edition

Why is this day different from any other day? Because today, I'm going to do something I don't usually do. No, not write a post worth reading. Instead I'm going to post a three-year old post about Yom Kippur. The holiest holiday on the Jewish calendar starts this evening, and yet my feelings about it haven't changed in the last three years. Hence the repeat posting. Like someone once said, "Why do they call it a fast if it goes so slow?" I got nothing. Anyway, enjoy this well-aged, classic holiday post. And when YK is over, eat bubbie, eat.

Quick, how many Jews does it take to blog about Yom Kippur? All of 'em.

Not that the internet needed another blogpost about it, what with this fine post at Round Seventeen, and this swell one at Ad-Aged. But I thought what the hell, I'm just sitting here: I may as well write one. After all, we're not supposed to eat today, but apparently typing is still on the table (see what I did there?).

As I've posted before, I'm not really much of a practicing Jew. I don't know if it's because of four long years of Hebrew school and being bar mitzvah'd, or in spite of it. But as a result, whether I want to be or not, I'm still hard-wired to recognize the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. And because Catholics, despite what they think, have never had the market on guilt cornered, I can't help feeling like I should be more of a participant in the customs and traditions of this day. But here's the thing: for me, actually observing it would be a bit hypocritical. Somewhat akin to all the Jews who, since they're not supposed to drive today, make a proud point of walking all the way to the synagogue.

From the parking lot.

Yom Kippur is the one day we're supposed to reflect on and atone for our sins of the past year. I'm not bragging, but I think we both know it's going to take more than one day.

Besides, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not constantly thinking about my sins. Since we're supposed to be fasting on this holy day, each year Yom Kippur only serves to narrow down the sin I should be focusing on most.

Gluttony.

At least it's not a Prius

I'm sure your photographic memory of all things Rotation and Balance will remind you I've already posted in the past about getting a loaner car, and a hybrid loaner at that.

Well, it's happened again.

Apparently the air conditioning in my car decided to give up its relentless pursuit of perfection just in time for some record-breaking March heat. I took it into the dealer because, you know, it was that or run down the middle of the street tearing up twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in the air. They diagnosed it as a broken blower motor (I'll wait while you insert your own joke here).

It's going to take a couple days to get the part. So the dealer, obviously sensing my green lifestyle and unwavering commitment to saving the planet, gave me, yet again, a hybrid to tool around in while I wait for my blower motor to be swapped out.

This time it's the Lexus CT200h F Sport. And against every instinct that's good and holy, I have to say it's pretty fun.

It has two modes, eco and sport - just like my high school girlfriend. BAM!

Eco is like dragging boulders uphill against a hurricane, and goes from 0 to 60 in, well, it hasn't reached 60 yet.

Sport mode however is another story. Turn the dial over to sport, and a tachometer appears on the gauge cluster, and the lighting changes from white to red. Suddenly, it's the little hybrid engine that could. And it hauls.

The picture up top doesn't do it justice. It's actually considerably more on the bad boy side of quirky looking in real life.

What I like to do is pull my fire-engine red loaner up next to a Prius. Then, when the light changes, leave them in my environmentally friendly, high mileage, low carbon emission dust.

I take my thrills where I can find them.

The car is smaller than mine. And since I'm a, um, fuller version of my younger self, the fit is a little tighter. Still, once the leather sport seat wraps its arms around me, space considerations are forgiven. I have the nicest go-cart at the track.

I'll be glad to get my own car back Monday or Tuesday. But until then, I'll be enjoying this attention-getting red hybrid in a way I never thought possible.

From behind the wheel.

What weekend?

Here's what I think happens. Every Friday after work - when I'm lucky enough to be working - unbeknownst (five-dollar word) to me I get kidnapped and placed into a time machine set for Monday.

Then, as if there was never any weekend at all, it's just me and Monday morning.

The kidnappers are smart. They implant false memories in my head, like what happened on Dexter (someone got killed), True Blood (someone got turned) and The Newsroom (someone was walking and talking fast) when they aired on Sunday so I'll believe I've actually had a weekend.

But I haven't. I know this because they also give me memories of running around the entire weekend I didn't have doing errands, then doing chores when I'm at home. For some reason, they don't want me to have any memories of a pleasurable, leisurely weekend.

Because they know that would just make me want them more.

Even though I think I'm writing this on Sunday night, I know that can't be and it's probably actually Monday morning.

Fortunately after this coming week I'll be on vacation. Then every day will feel like Saturday.

At least that's what I'm hoping.

Yum Kippur

Quick, how many Jews does it take to blog about Yom Kippur? All of 'em.

Not that the internet needed another blogpost about it, what with this fine post at Round Seventeen, and this swell one at Ad-Aged. But I thought what the hell, I'm just sitting here: I may as well write one. After all, we're not supposed to eat today, but apparently typing is still on the table (see what I did there?).

As I've posted before, I'm not really much of a practicing Jew. I don't know if it's because of four long years of Hebrew school and being bar mitzvah'd, or in spite of it. But as a result, whether I want to be or not, I'm still hard-wired to recognize the holiest day on the Jewish calendar. And because Catholics, despite what they think, have never had the market on guilt cornered, I can't help feeling like I should be more of a participant in the customs and traditions of this day. But here's the thing: for me, actually observing it would be a bit hypocritical. Somewhat akin to all the Jews who, since they're not supposed to drive today, make a proud point of walking all the way to the synagogue.

From the parking lot.

Yom Kippur is the one day we're supposed to reflect on and atone for our sins of the past year. I'm not bragging, but I think we both know it's going to take more than one day.

Besides, there isn't a day that goes by that I'm not constantly thinking about my sins. Since we're supposed to be fasting on this holy day, each year Yom Kippur only serves to narrow down the sin I should be focusing on most.

Gluttony.

Clock in

Every clock in my house reads, acts and sounds different from the other ones.

Not unlike my high school girlfriends, some are fast, some are slow. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are easy to read, others not so much.

My friend Kelly Kliebe posted a picture of the Word Clock on his Facebook page awhile ago (although interestingly, he didn't mention what he had for breakfast, which team he was rooting for, or how I could get free tickets on Southwest).

The minute I saw it I had to have it.

For obvious reasons, it's a real writer's clock. And if I ever run into a real writer, I'll make sure and tell him about it (who of us didn't see that one coming?). Because the time is in words, there's no mistaking what time it actually is. I don't have to make an educated guess about the proximity of the hands to the numbers. There's no annoying ticking while I'm trying to sleep. And it serves a dual purpose: it also makes a great nightlight.

I ordered it from Doug Jackson at Doug's Word Clocks in Australia. I ordered it at the beginning of December, and actually forgot that I did until it arrived today.

Time gets away from me like that sometimes.

On his page you can see some of the variations in colors and materials you can order. I know it'll come as a surprise to all who know me that I chose black. Each one is custom ordered and hand-made, which makes it even more special. And more expensive.

I can see from the clock on the wall that IT IS TWENTY MINUTES PAST EIGHT.

An excellent time to wrap this up.