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Earlier this evening, I made my twice-a-year trek to synagogue, which means - yep, you guessed it - it's the Jewish High Holy Days.  Members of the tribe, like myself, who describe themselves as "Jew Lite" tend to only go to services for Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur.  Why? Because those are the only ones which really matter.  Chanukah, from a religious perspective, is not considered a big friggin' deal...and only gets hype because it usually falls around Christmas.

As if anything can compete with the pageantry of the Big JC's bday. As if!
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To answer your question, um...NO...that's not me in front of the menorah. You can tell because my hair would never hold its style for that long

ANYWAY...

So I'm in temple, sitting in the back on a fold-out chair which promises I'll atone for my sins through my big-fat-ass, when I started to think about how I really fudged up this past year.  Like Catholics, as long as you're really sorry, you're pretty much forgiven for everything.  I know, cool right? Oh course, my people make you actually ask forgiveness from the people you've sinned against.  But being a former nice Jewish girl and a current Jewish Rockin' Mama, I'm always apologizing for something...but I thought it'd be fun to share my sins with y'all.  Because that's me. I'm a giver.
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Hey Genius, Put Down the Reading and CLEAN YOUR HOUSE!
I could be a lil' better, well, actually a lot better, with keeping our home clean.  So how do I remedy this particular small sin? Start a blog, that's what...because we all know blogging doesn't take any time at all (choke on own saliva).
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And Hey, While You're at It, Put Down the Computer/Phone Too.
Okay, I admit it. I love social media. I adore reading the blogosphere.  And I'm glad I'm back in...but I do have to make a concerted effort to put down the devices and focus on the present. Such as my kids. The husband.  Hey, is something burning? Ah crappers. There goes my kitchen. Uh-again. 

You get the idea...
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It Feels Like It'll Take Me Forever Until I Feel Really Good at My Job.

Old timers in behavioral health say that if you feel you're really good at your job the first few years after you're done with grad school, it's time to worry.  

Graduating from a psychology or social work program doesn't mean diddly once you're working in the field.  The clients I see are in crisis, often on and off for years.  I feel humbled and - many times -overwhelmed by what I encounter everyday.  I ask for guidance from my supervisors and coworkers frequently - a must in this field.  I also admit when I'm wrong and have apologized more than once to a client.

Anyway, gotta say I threw in an extra prayer tonight, hoping to get better with every moment.  
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My Relationship Status with My Snarky Self? It's Complicated.

Let me explain something to you. I grew up in South Florida, which may as well be the 6th burrough of New York, with all the Tri-State area transplants.  Steal that joke and I will shiv you in the neck.  My point is, my mother and father dished trash-talk and mainlined snark like it was nothing.  And they went for the jugular every time and laughed while they watched you bleed too.

I was not so naturally gifted - it took me years to learn the Jewish girl version of 'Fight Club' - which was an eye-roll, a hair flip, and something snarky like, "Oh Jesus, do you actually think you MATTER anywhere near here?" BAM! Eventually, I learned.  And thankfully, I don't let out my Shadow-Dark-Side-Otherwise-Known-As-Miami-Diva-Bitch unless it's absolutely necessary.

That said, she's a RIOT after a couple of drinks.  She never spews her venom at anyone we know, but she's a trip when she goes off on various pop cultural-car-crashes-of-the-moment.  She's funny and makes me pee a little in my panties.  I love her. I hate her.  And I can't let her out around my kids because I want them to actually say nice things at my funeral and cry real tears. Of sadness. Not of relief.
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I Have Issues. Really Messed Up Daddy, Not-Quite-Pole-worthy Issues.

You may have already suspected, but let me disperse any lingering ambiguity on the matter.

I've had therapy. Lots of therapy.  

In fact, I'm back in therapy again.  Seems I got into the bad habit of commencing in emotional eating to relieve moments of tremendous anxiety. Which turned out to be quite frequently over the last several years, leading me to gain about 60 pounds.  

But I'll get to that carnival ride in a minute.

This summer, I organized a beach vacation for my three longtime soul sisters and their families.  It was liquid sunshine.  It was morphine-drip-giving happiness.  Can't wait to do it again next summer...

While on said-fab-vaca, my BFF, call her Brown-Eyed Girl, told me she noticed that every time my hot hubby would try to snuggle with me, I'd be ok for a minute or two, and then squirm away. And she felt a lil' sorry for him and for me.  So did I after hearing what she had to say.  I was grateful she shared with me her observations, and I'm working on it. 

So I prayed on that one too.
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I'm in Recovery.  What's Your Name?
So for those of you who haven't gotten the bulletin, what used to be considered 'compulsively stuffing your face' or 'a complete disregard for willpower' has now been adequately coined, researched, and labeled Binge Eating Disorder, a neurobiological and psychological disorder when someone uses food as a means for self-medication.

I'm in recovery, and just by stopping the continuous cycle, I've lost 18-20 pounds.  However, being 5'3 and 200 pounds is still a problem. Not just because I'm a semi-narcissistic, vain, vain woman...but my health SUCKS. I'm pre-diabetic, high cholesterol, with a thyroid asleep at the wheel.  I am now one of those women who emits flop sweat if it's slightly above 75 degrees in a room and needs a nap almost daily (for the record, rarely get one).  I have skinny clothes so far back in my closet they might as well be in Narnia for storage.  People come to my home, see pictures of me from my 30's and tactfully say, "That was YOU?"

Yeah.

So I'm working on my stuff. I do that a lot. 
 
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    Since You Asked...

    Postmodernist Jewish maven, which means I'm critical of my own opinions, yet can't 
    stop offering them
    anyway.

    Loud and proud Gen X wife and
    mama working as a child & family behavior
    specialist
    by day and a writer/
    superhero during bathroom 
    breaks.

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    Caren A. Appel owns the copyright, distribution, and content of this blog, the name Not That You Asked, But, the posts, and the images exclusively. All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material or images without express and written permission is strictly prohibited. Contact Caren to request permission.