This past Saturday was shaping up to be eventful. There was a bat mitzvah service in the morning. A birthday party at one and the bat mitzvah cocktail party in the evening.
In order to get everywhere we needed to be, I called in the big guns: My Mother. Having had three daughters of her own and two step-sons, she can wrangle a squirmy baby, fold laundry, and do about 12 other things simultaneously.
We were to be at the synagogue at 9:30. It’s about 30 minutes from the house. I drag my mildly hung over ass out of bed at 8:15. Chris and I fumble around with our finest suits and shoes. My skirt is absolutely covered in cat hair? Why do they insist on crawling around in the back of the closet like that?! I brush. I lint roll. I advise Chris on his tie selection. I’m sweating like crazy. I feed Mac. I try not to smear my mascara everywhere. I wedge my feet into very pointy-toed shoes. I lint roll some more. At a few minutes after nine, I grab a brownie and some water and we race out the door.
We get to the synagogue and I am immediately greeted by a Financial Advisor I used to work with. We exchange pleasantries. I’ve never been to this synagogue before. Chris and I wander down the hall marveling at how nice it is. We enter what I would call the Christian equivalent of the Sanctuary. We sit at the waaaaaaayyyyyy back. It’s big. I don’t really recognize anyone else but there is a family seated front and center. I presume they are the family of the young lady who is celebrating her bat mitzvah.
Another nice man greets us. He asks if we are here for the bar mitzvah. I don’t correct him. I tell him yes. He suggests we move closer so we can hear better. Here he said, “Take a program. It will give you something to read.” I like this guy instantly. I’ve always found it helpful to have some reading material when church services drag on a little too long.
And that’s when I see it in black and white in the program: It is indeed a bar mitzvah.
“Wait!” I protest as the gentleman turns away. “We’re here for a bat mitzvah. Are we in the wrong place? Is there another part of the synagogue we should be in?”
Um no. The man explains so and so is having a bar mitzvah, there’s a auf ruf later on that day. . .So and so is having a bar mitzvah next weekend. . .Should we be at one of the other six or so local synagogues he rattles off?
“No” I insist. Giving him the name of the family a third time. This synagogue has a very distinct name and I wouldn’t be confused about the location of the services.
“Do you have the invitation dear?” he asks kindly.
Of course I do. At home!!!!!!
I sheepishly rise and head for the door asking the gentleman to wish the young man who is celebrating his bar mitzvah all the best.
I slink past the guy I used to work with hoping I wouldn’t have to explain my jack-assedness to him.
We emerge into the bright, fall light. Chris rips the yarmulke off his head. “Can you call your mother and have her read the invitation to us?” he asks.
She starts reading. . .The bat mitzvah is two weeks away. It’s not the 12th of Nov. It’s more like the 26th of Nov!!!!
Luckily Chris was a good sport. When we got to the car, he looks at me sympathetically and says “This is what happens to people who eat brownies for breakfast.”