Uncle Slappy on my Hothouse.

I got a call last night, as you may or may not expect, from Uncle Slappy. I haven't seen the old man in a while, he stayed away from our family reunion in New Jersey two weekends ago, and I have to say I missed the old man more than usual.

The truth is, barely a week goes by where I don't talk to he and Aunt Sylvie, and hardly a month passes that I don't see them. But this hiatus was a long one. I haven't seen Slappy and Sylvie since my older daughter, Sarah, defended her PhD. back in June.

"Boychick, you're dead maybe," he began with a bit more than his usual sarcasm.

"I'm sorry we haven't seen you lately, Uncle Slappy. But now that our apartment is 95% finished our guest room is up and running."

"For the Joosh holidays we're coming up," he mangled. "They're early this year."

Uncle Slappy was the one who formulated the astute thesis that the Jewish Holidays are always either early or late.

"Yes," I replied mechanically, "they're right after Labor Day. With any luck our Hot House at work will be over by then."

About 60 of us, for the next two weeks, are being sequestered off campus to think about one of our major brands. I enjoy the challenge and pressure, though not necessarily the sequestering.

"I realize," the old man began, "that advertising is prostitution. But a whore house at work? No good will come of that."

"Well to be frank," I answered, "It is a little more intimate than usual. Maybe too intimate."

"Listen, take my advice. And I was in the service. When you're in whore house."

I gave him the respect of not interrupting his Jack-Benny-esq timing."

"When you're in a whore house, keep one eye on the blondes and the other on the exit."

With that, he hung up the blower.

I began to count the days to Rosh ha Shanah.