So I woke up this morning, ready to face the day, fully intending to pack my bags for the weekend in addition to completing my morning rituals of showering, shaving and the like all in the usual self-allotted time of thirty minutes.

Clearly this didn’t happen.

I hit the snooze bar for an extra ten minutes of blissful peace, dragged ass in the shower, and basically took my good ol’ time getting ready for work. As such, I managed to throw a few shirts and socks into my overnight bag before I realized that I wasn’t even dressed yet, and that I was in danger of running horribly late.

So now, I must drive back to my apartment during my lunch hour, and pack some clothes, in addition to my suits. This weekend is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and I’m going home.

On a lighter note, I thank Microsoft for adding the correct spelling of “Hashanah” to the Word dictionary, thus not making me look like an ass.

Ah, right. Back to the matter at hand. This weekend, Rosh Hashanah. Next weekend, Yom Kippur. Unfortunately, that’s two weekends wasted, and I won’t get to see football. You see, it’s not so bad when these holidays fall during the week. Then, I get to miss a day of work, and spend it in synagogue. This year, however, it’s a day spent in synagogue that could be better spent recovering from a hangover, or parked in front of the television, or better yet, in bed.

But I digress.

I’m headed home to Baltimore after work for dinner at my parents’ house. I love my parents. I have a great relationship with them. It’s not because of them that I dread this weekend.

Since my grandparents’ passed away some thirteen years ago (I was fourteen at the time), diminishing my mother’s side of the family to my mother and my aunt, we have been eating holiday meals with my uncle’s side of the family, a raving bunch of veritable lunatics.

This is a group of people that will attempt to hold four conversations at the table, each one struggling for dominant position, until the volume in the room reaches a level able to pierce eardrums. These people talk at a volume at which normal people scream. Never once have I left the dinner table without a headache.

However, it is pretty funny. You have to laugh at their ignorance. One of my uncle’s sisters talks frequently about her favorite television programs, boasting about the genius of “John Edwards’ Crossing Over,” and “Pet Psychics.” Clearly, these are not very intelligent people, yet they choose a level of discourse miles above their heads. It is then, that their ignorance shows.

When talking about race relations, inevitably someone makes a comment that they are glad that none of their children are dating one of “those people.” It’s conversations like this that make me cringe. And we, the children, hang our heads in shame and embarrassment. We’ve gotten better, over the years. Or maybe, we’ve gotten braver.

Forcing them out of their vague references, and having them list what specifically they mean by “those people” has helped the more intelligent people at the table realize that these people are fools. Thankfully, my parents do not share their opinions.

And then they try to get us back. To my mom: “What would you do if Jeffrey brought home a shicksa (Yiddish for a non-Jewish woman)? Or (gasp) a black woman?” To which my mom responds that she would be happy that I had found love, and of course, would love anyone who I was in love with. That’s how families work.

Yay Mom!

I wonder how much of that was said to protest what they said, and how much is actual sentiment. I’m probably sure it’s real, although part of me thinks my mom would love it for me to end up with a Jewish woman.

Anyway, still playing the hypothetical game, we throw it back at them asking if they had a choice, would they (not my parents, we’re back to the ignorant peeps here, folks) rather have their kids marry a white, Christian woman, or a black, Jewish woman.

Can you guess how they answered the question?

Yeah, I’m in for a fun-filled weekend.

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