Before anyone get offended, let me say right off that the only ass here is me.
A co-worker came into work after her lunch hour today with a gray spot on her forehead, and even after someone else asked her what she’s giving up for Lent I still thought I was doing her a favor when I said “Sweetie, you have a little shmutz on your face.”
Could I be any more of a shmendrick? And I really have no excuse because it’s not the first time I’ve made that mistake. In high school, a classmate rode me up and down because I spit into a Kleenex and told her to wipe her head off in biology class. A pastor’s daughter, she gave me a short, tight-lipped education on the origins of Ash Wednesday and its significance: The smudged cross is received as an act of repentance to God observed forty days counting down to Easter, when a big bunny comes and licks it off.
Oh my heavens – did I just write that? I am the world’s biggest shmendrick! I’m so sorry, but that girl was just so mean and self-righteous even after I apologized and offered to let her copy my pig dissection notes!
Fortunately, my coworker was hilariously self-deprecating and cool about my faux pas and promised to not to make fun of me anymore for skipping the bbq sandwich in the cafeteria. I mean, it’s not like rubbing a little dirt on one’s head is that weird – especially considering some of our more observant brothers and sisters do swing live chickens every year.
How has this gem of a book eluded me until now? It was released in 2002 and I ogled over it for so long at a friend’s house last week that she let me take it home. Sisters Jennifer and Victoria Traig, who created the fabulousness that is 
You, me and Abe Foxman can exhale now that Pope Benedict XVI has rethought