She's Here!

My lovely future daughter-in-law

On the day of Rosh Hashanah eve, the fiancee visa got stamped in Paris with the sweetest of words: Approved. On the day of Yom Kippur eve, the fiancee herself, scheduled to arrive on Wednesday, but delayed because the fiancee visa hadn't arrived yet -- God forbid they should hand it to you upon approval, but no, they must prolong the agony and mail it to you -- arrived at Tom Bradley International. Under normal cinematic circumstances, she'd be greeted by her future hubby with flowers and a marching band. But normal doesn't apply here. The eldest had every intention of making the pilgrimage to LAX, if it hadn't been for the long-planned bachelor weekend in Palm Springs. "Don't worry, sweetheart, Mother is here," I said. So, hubby and I made the trek on his behalf, crossing mountains, streams and freeways. More or less on time, we stood at the ramp, viewing the vast array of arrivees, our heads turning, our necks craning, as though watching a tennis match. "That's her!" "That's not her!" "Oh wait, I think that's... no, it's not." At last, she appeared, a vision of extreme gorgeousness. There were hugs and I-can't-believe-you're-heres. And then, the cross-town journey to her new apartment, carefully selected by her future groomy, somewhat furnished by, who else? Her future in-laws.  And now, a pre-or-post atonement giggle for you, courtesy of my brother John:

Yiddish For Dogs

Sir Blakey! When I said, "Zits!" I didn't mean sit on the sofa. 

There's nothing the SJG likes more than when a nice person I've met online through another nice person I know shares a nice story with a Jewish bent.

Spiderman, a Jewish superhero, 

bends over to speak Yiddish to a doggy.

And that's what happened when a lovely gal named Merilyn Moss sent me this wonderful piece from the New York Times about teaching dogs to Zits! in Yiddish. I now share it with you because I'm a giver. Plus, I'm very busy putting my Atonement List together and could only take so much time out of my Pre-Atoning Schedule to produce a blog worthy of your attention.

"Sir Blakey! Drey zikh iber! (Roll over!)"

Hugh Hefner & The Red Couch

As the world mourns the passing of the ultimate suave and debonair swinger, Mr. Hugh Hefner, it's important to somehow make a personal connection, don't you think? If I didn't find a way into this story, what's the point of my existence? Why am I here on this earth other than to kvetch, enable various loved ones, both canine and human, and make kugel? You see my dilemma. So, do I have a way into the story of Hugh's legacy, or not? Well, duh. Anyone who grew up in a little town called Westwood knew where the Playboy Mansion was located: just around the corner from Holmby Park, a favorite childhood hang. In fact, any tour bus, anyone with a set of wheels, could drive by the gated Mansion and openly gawk.

But could just anyone go inside? If you were me, the answer is, yes. But how did I do it? How did I get my invite to the Playboy Mansion, not once, but twice? I'm so glad you asked. In 1983, back when I was a freelancer for magazines and newspapers, a publicist asked if I wanted to meet the people behind a book called "The Red Couch," and interview them at the Playboy Mansion. I mulled it over for exactly two seconds, and said, "Hell, yes," and got the L.A. Times on board. That's just how the SJG rolled back in the '80s.

So I went to the Mansion, which looked exactly like I'd expected, with the dark paneling and everything, and interviewed Kevin Clarke and Horst Wackerbarth, the photographers who schlepped the same red couch all over America, placed it in unlikely locales and turned into an unconventional coffee table book. By phone, I interviewed William Least Heat Moon, who wrote the captions. At one point, Hugh Hefner, in his signature smoking jacket and silk PJs, walked by the den and said hello. The whole experience was pretty surreal. That night, in a cute dress I'd bought for the occasion, I returned to the Playboy Mansion with hubby as my plus one, for a swanky cocktail party, where the photos from the book, and the red couch itself, were on display, along with the Bunnies and the celebrities and Hugh Hefner in the same smoking jacket and the infamous Grotto in the backyard. We walked around sipping cocktails, acting cool, pretending we belonged. I was 25 and thought I'd arrived. 

Did I ever go back to the mansion and hang out with the iconic Hugh, may he rest in peace next to Marilyn Monroe? 

No. But sometimes, you don't want to overstay your welcome. 

SJG To Lead Walking Tour of Sherman Oaks

Hang on to your yarmulkes, nice people, here comes some exciting news. Not to be upstaged by Sarah Jessica Parker's Airbnb's shoe tour of the Big Apple, the Short Jewish gal will lead a special tour of her beloved Sherman Oaks this Friday. "Sole of the City with SJG" is a Sherman Oaks walking tour offered through Oy! BNB, which allows budget-conscious travelers to book cheap activities with other local schleppers. The SJG, who blogs about this, that and whatever, is taking four lucky folks on what is described on the Oy! BNB listing as "an unforgettable, comfortable shoe-shopping experience," starting at Orthotically Yours in the Sherman Oaks Westfield Mall and ending whenever the SJG's patience runs out.

SJG Ugly Orthotics

"I'll help you find the perfect pair of shoes with arch support from my own SJG Ugly Orthotics Collection. Doing errands will never hurt your tootsies again." 

The four blessed people who pay $25.99 each for the opportunity to hang with the SJG will also get to enjoy some chocolate ruggelach and coffee with her at Gelson's, her personal homeland, receive a lesson in kugel making at the blogger's palatial estate, and help her search for errant fleas that continue to make her life a living hell.

(Shout out to the one and only Cathy Hamilton.) 

Mazel Tov, It's A Table!

"Whatcha doin', honey?" I ask the eldest, in my folksy, Sherman Oaksian way.
"Not much. Just impregnating the marble table."
"Oh, honey, I'm so proud of you."
"I knew you would be."
"Kina hora, in nine months, the table will have a baby table. Finally, I'll be a grandmother."

"The original penetrating sealer."  

Such a miracle, this product! 

A Gal's Gotta Do What A Gal's Gotta Do

In these times of hair-raising uncertainty,

Political stupidity,

And global insanity,

Sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do,

And eat an abundance of French Fries,

Like nobody's watching. 

The Sofa Situation

We were really walking on eggshells yesterday with the sofa situation. What sofa situation? I'm so glad you asked. I simply adore your inquisitive nature. I bet you were always raising your hand in school, asking, "Why? Why? Why?" Whereas the SJG was always praying, "Please don't call on me. Please don't call on me." But back to the sofa. Excuse me. The sofa situation. Here's a little back story, as we sporadically employed Hollywood-types say, mainly in terms of, "Too much @#$%'n back story! Cut to the chase for @#$%'s sake, before you lose the audience!" So I'll give you just a hint of the back story here. Deal? There's some apartment hopping going on with the sons. The eldest has moved into his new place. In the middle of moving mattresses down narrow alleys, someone said, I believe it was me, "Oh dear God, we swore on a stack of Old Testaments to never help with the move last time he moved!" All hubby could do at that moment was grunt in agreement. In this way, we are the Ultimate Enablers. You're welcome, kids. So, the eldest son moved a few blocks away from his brother, who will remain in the apartment they shared, awaiting his girlfriend, currently in Finland.

What's with the sons and the international beauties? Beats me, but isn't it wonderful? He'll now cohabitate with his lovely Finnish girlfriend in his brother's former room, and his former room will become an office so that his lovely Finnish girlfriend can study for the Bar Exam. She'll be a Finnish attorney practicing in Los Angeles. What's not to love about that? But first she must study, study, study, and studying requires a nice sofa bed for naps and occasional guests from her homeland. To find the sofa bed, we schlepped the youngest to a giant store and he picked out the least ugly of the bunch -- all sofa beds are ugly, there, I said it. He went for the queen sofa, and why not? What could possibly wrong? This:

"Doesn't look good, Ma."

On tippy toes, the sofa bed couldn't fit through the bedroom doorway. Even with the pushing and the shoving and the patient delivery men angling this way and that way, it was a no-go. The sofa situation was one problem I hadn't anticipated, and I go through life anticipating problems that are highly unlikely. This one, a first world problem, to be sure, never occurred to me. With deep regrets and no promises to keep in touch, the sofa bed went back to whence it came, some lonely factory near the airport, and the office-to-be remains sofa bed-free just so I can have another problem to solve. 

The Rule of Three

They say good things come in threes. Why do they say that? Is it because there's some kind of magical fairytale thinking that got ingrained in us as kiddies? The SJG says oui, oui, oui all the way home. Look at the evidence. A genie grants three wishes. Two blind mice aren't enough. The story requires three. And then there's Goldie and her three bears. (To you, she's Goldilocks, to me, she's a wandering Jewish gal with unmanageable hair and O.C.D.) She compulsively tries things three times till she's satisfied. "This isn't right, that isn't right, okay fine, this is just right."

Much like Goldie, it takes me three tries to find a comfortable seat in temple where no one bothers me too much. Does this mean I schlep family members along with me on my biblical search? Prepare to sob: I'm alone on this journey of redemption. You want reasons? Here are three: 1. Hubby doesn't want to go. 2. My sons don't want to go. 3. Photo I.D. is now required at the front door. I can't pass temple hubby off as real hubby anymore. Does it get any sadder than that?

Yesterday, my initial pick felt pretty good. I'd just settled into my first seat of the service for the long High Holiday haul, when a nice friend I see once a year at temple waved me over to join her. My instincts told me, "stay put." I ignored my instincts, got up and moved, climbing over people so I could sit with my friend and her people. I settled into my second seat of the service for the long High Holiday haul. I even had an empty seat beside me. Nirvana. Until a portly fatherly fella appeared, belonging to the people to the right of me. He sat down and between the manspreading and the wide elbows, I got scrunched out of my comfort zone. I looked at my friend. "I gotta move." "No, don't move." She sidled to the left, offering to share part of her chair. I refer you to Goldie. In life, I need a seat that's just right, not an invitation to back issues. "I'm moving." "Don't." "I love you, shana tova, shalom and adios."

I got up and went searching for yet another seat. It was a challenge. I saw two empties and whispered to a nice man, "Are you saving these seats?" "No." "I'm sitting down." "Good. Sit. Welcome." I settled into my third and final seat of the service for the long High Holiday haul. As an extra bonus, the Torah passed by three times -- unheard of!-- and I got to touch it with my prayer book three times. That's got to be some kind of triple blessing right there. 

That Is So Deep

Now that I'm a teacher-type, and I use the term loosely, I'm expected to come up with borderline pithy, writerly wisdom. My hostages... I mean students I hold captive for two hours every Tuesday, turn to me for advice and if I don't produce something worthy, well, they start to riot and throw Pepperidge Farm at me. My God, this is a feisty group. They want knowledge, and they want it now. What they don't want to hear, as I'm learning, are the exploits of a sporadically-employed TV writer. Although, they did enjoy the story of how I nearly nursed a room full of male executives. But at some point, I must stop vamping and get down to business. A Milano hurled at my head via a disgruntled senior citizen isn't the goal.  The goal is to help them find humor in situations that aren't necessarily funny. Yesterday they demanded I get more specific. Suddenly, I went all spiritual on them. This happens to me around the Jewish holidays. I just go rabbinical. "Well," I said, pacing back in forth, "we must find the lightness in the darkness." "Huh?" "You heard me. Get out your GPS, and find the lightness in the darkness." "That is so deep." "I know, right?" "What if you don't have a GPS?" "We all have an internal compass." "I think mine's broken." "I know a place where you can get it fixed, cheap."

"As I was saying, where there is darkness, we must find lightness." "Yeah, but -- " "But nothing, mister." "I'm not sure I follow." "Follow this: Both the lightness and the darkness are great teachers. Let them guide you. Have courage, nice people." "So what you're saying is --?" "What I'm saying is, give yourself permission to find the joy amidst the heavy-osity. As Erma Bombeck once said -- " "Again with Erma Bombeck?" "Can't you quote anyone else?" "As Erma B. once said, 'If you can laugh at it, you can live with it.' " "Okay, thanks for clearing that up, Teach." "You are so welcome. Shana tova!" "Shana what?" "Never mind."

A Gal From Florida

Reclining ever so casually on the sofa, Sir Blakey by her side, is the lovely Kelly, who used to live in Los Angeles, but then moved back to Florida, because, and I misquote, "It had been a while since I'd experienced a hurricane." Well, she got her hurricane, her lengthy power shortage and her cracked windshield, courtesy of falling trees, but her condo is still standing, so that's good. The SJG had hoped to make her visit stress-free, and so far, we're off to an excellent start. Last night, we had a brief yet meaningful power outage, and a quick yet jolty earthquake, just to remind Kelly that Mother Nature is a gal with a very sick sense of humor.

And The Emmy Goes To...

... 'The SJG of Sherman Oaks for Best Early Bird Kugel."

"Wowza, this is so surreal. I mean, so unexpected. I have so many people to thank. I'd like to start with the Goddess of Kugel, who made me what I am today. I'd like to thank my agent, may he rest in peace. I'd like to thank the community at large, for accepting an uncomplicated, unadorned, palate-pleasing noodle dish that everyone can enjoy, with the exception of the Lactose Intolerant. Most of all, I'd like to thank my adoring family for this amazing, yet well-deserved award, even though some of them will tell you I pretty much gave them no choice. It was either the gold statuette or disinheritance. Clearly, they made the right choice, although, just between us, I thought I heard someone at the table make a reference to the slightly burnt edge, which, I assure you, was the fault of the oven, and the fact that my timing might be a little off on account of all the Benadryl."

My Emmy-Watching Pre-Game Strategy

1.  Try to locate most glittery outfit in closet.
2.  Try to locate sky-high stilettos.
3.  Remind self I'm not going to the Emmys.
4.  Remind self I'm not even watching the Emmys in real time.
5.  Remind self I'm going to early Rosh Hashanah dinner, instead.
6.  Try not to weep during early Rosh Hashanah dinner.
7.  Try not to ponder up-and-downsville of TV career.
8.  Curse Goddess of TV.
9.  Hug TV.
10. I love TV this much.

Not That I Judge

I know, I know, Rosh Hashanah doesn't start till Wednesday night. You think I don't know that? I've got a calendar. In this way, and so many others, I'm old school. I don't need a reminder that pops up on my OyPhone to tell me the Jewish New Year is upon us. Why not? I'll tell you why not. Because all I have to do is step foot in my personal homeland of Gelson's, on the corner of Van Nuys & Nova Scotia, and I know the holiday is imminent, thanks to all the decorative signs that say: "Pre-Order your Rosh Hashanah Meal Here!" Just between us, pre-ordering your Rosh Hashanah meal does strike the SJG as lazy, not that I judge. And yet, I applaud anyone willing to announce at the table with all the relatives jammed side by side, "Hey, gang, you like the brisket? Guess what? I didn't make it, ha, ha. Last year, some of you gave mine a 10 on the Dry Meter, so this year, you can blame a stranger if it doesn't meet with your high standards. L'chaim!" Later today, I'll be visiting the afore-mentioned grocery shrine to purchase the secret ingredients for the kugel I'll be bringing to my mother-in-law's Early Bird Rosh Hashanah on Sunday. One member of our tiny, but stylish clan refuses to attend the Early Bird dinner on principal. "Doesn't she know the Emmys are on?!" "I feel your pain," I said to the unidentified relative. "Is it tacky if I stop by for a to-go plate?" "Yes, it's very tacky, but that never stopped you before." I ask you this, my friends: Are there worse shandas in life than having to watch the Emmys after the fact, when the Internet has spoiled the fun and revealed all the losers? Let me think about that. Nothing comes to mind at the moment, but I'm sure something equally heinous will come to me.

Boxed In

Sir Blakey guards the bounty of boxes in the living room. You may ask yourself, well, how did they get here? Are they the work of Ruthie The Re-Gifter, who re-boxes ancient wedding gifts and tries to pass them off as new?

Could be. Interesting idea. I like the way you think. But no, Ruthie The Re-Gifter wouldn't dare get near the estate, not after she tried to re-gift a broken, prehistoric Cuisinart from the '70s to commemorate the SJG's 37th wedding anniversary just a few weeks back. I'll give you one more guess.

Are the boxes the result of a crazed, middle-of-the-night online spending spree, committed by a certain short Jewish future mother-in-law too excited to sleep? 

All I can say is, you're getting closer. Oh, excuse me, I just got the signal from Oona the Orderly that my daily flea bath awaits. I might as well solve this riddle so you can get on with your busy life. The boxes are a combo of early wedding gifts for the eldest and his gorgeous French bride-to-be, who, God willing, will get her fiancee Visa stamped on Rosh Hashanah and arrive in time for the party we're throwing in their honor, otherwise, oy vey, don't even go there. I mean, are you trying to make me cry? Stop that. So, wedding gifts and Amazon purchases of an iffy TV console and other cheap furniture hubby promises to assemble on their behalf, by actually reading the instructions and keeping the screaming to a minimum.  

Tantrum At The Deli Counter

"MANAGER! MANAGER! I NEED A MANAGER!"

It's not often that I get to witness a full-on tantrum in public. For something as epic as yesterday's meltdown, I must channel the Infamous Travel Town Incident of 1991, when the eldest, then three, refused to leave a birthday party and screamed all the way to the car. My eardrums never recovered.

The gal who threw the fit in Gelson's had the opposite urge. She wanted to leave, because, as she announced at the top of her lungs, "I'M A VERY BUSY PERSON." She continued to geshrei at top volume, "THAT WOMAN TOOK MY PLACE!"

The zen-like manager approached with caution, as the tantrum-thrower picked up momentum. "THEY CALLED HER NUMBER, AND SHE WASN'T AT THE COUNTER, SO IT WAS MY TURN AND THEN -- "

Oh, you get the idea. The high-strung gal just completely lost her sh*t. The manager calmed her down with coupons, an elephant tranquilizer, a free trip to Disneyland and a complimentary bottle of Vodka.  The poor place-stealer cowering in the corner got bupkis, unless you count the unanimous sympathy of everyone in the market.

All I could do was watch and marvel and memorize, so I could reenact the entire episode for first hubby the second he returned from the On-Air Promo Factory. His review of my performance, I'm proud to say, was glowing. "Riveting! Electrifying! You really captured the essence of an unhinged deli counter customer. It's as though you can relate to her." "Yes, fine, thank you," I said in gratitude, "but was it Oscar-worthy?" "It was definitely YouTube-worthy." I'll take it.

Still Learning After All These Years

So what have I been up to lately? I'm so glad you asked. A little bit of teaching -- myself and others. Turns out, there's a learning curve when it comes to teaching. As a lifelong student, you think you know what to do -- you've been watching others do it for centuries -- until you give it a shot. Within seconds you realize you don't know what the bleep you're doing, but, as my dance teacher loves to say, it's okay to "just fake it." In the role of volunteer writing teacher to a great group of senior citizens, I've been winging it, offering up advice, anecdotes, and of course, wonderful cookies. I can't remember my teachers ever bringing cookies to class. Imagine if I'd been able to munch on Tollhouse while learning algebra. I'd be a Math Goddess right now. I'm happy to report the cookies have been well-received. Although yesterday I did get a request for a healthy veggie plate. "I'm on it," I said. "Plus," a retired camera operator chimed in, "How about some of that kegel you keep yakking about?" "It's called kugel. No gold star for you. Go to the corner and get me some coffee." Yes, I'm learning so much. Like how to make sure everyone gets enough "me" time in class. I thought filling up two hours would be a struggle. But we tend to go past the two-hour mark and then get physically removed by management. "That's enough, you writers. Please leave. And next week, teacher gal, how about you bring us cookies, too? What are we, chopped liver?"  "What's your position on veggies?" "We're partial to jicama. And a little hummus wouldn't hurt." "Hummus, huh? Plain or garlic?" "How about both?" "You got it." Hmm. Sounds like I'm trying to please everyone on the premises. I'm perfect for this part. I've been preparing for it my entire life. Starting next week, I'll bring cookies, veggies, assorted hummus, a buzzer, a scoreboard, a mediator, an A-list director to yell, "Cut!" and an attorney.

Will It Go Round In Circles?

Spin, little doggy, spin

Spin to your heart's content

Spin like a wooden dreidel 

Spin, spin, spin

Spin before you go potty

Spin before your beddy-bye
Spin before the sun comes up 

Spin, spin, spin 

Spin till you get too dizzy

Spin till you get too silly

Spin till they call you crazy

Spin, spin, spin 

Spin like a whirling dervish 

Spin like a fidget spinner

Spin like Neptune and Saturn

Spin, spin, spin 

Spin, little doggy, spin

Spin to your heart's content

Spin like a wooden dreidel 

Spin, spin, spin

That's Personal

Forget match.com. Forget all the dating "apps" that cut to the chase. Bring back romance. Go old school.  Go personal. You heard me. Get busy. Here are a few samples, courtesy of the Israeli Press:

Worried about in-law meddling? I'm an orphan! Write.

Nice Jewish guy, 38. No skeletons. No baggage. No personality.

Are you the girl I spoke with at the kiddush after shul last week? You excused yourself to get more horseradish for your gefilte fish, but you never returned. How can I contact you again? (I was the one with the brisket stain on my tie).

Jewish businessman, 49, manufactures Sabbath candles, Chanukah candles, havdallah candles, Yahrzeit candles. Seeks non-smoker.

80-year-old bubby, no assets, seeks handsome, virile Jewish male, under 35. Object matrimony. I can dream, can’t I?

I am a sensitive Jewish prince whom you can open your heart to. Share your innermost thoughts and deepest secrets. Confide in me. I’ll understand your insecurities. No fatties, please.

Jewish male, 34, very successful, smart, independent, self-made. Looking for girl whose father will hire me.

Single Jewish woman, 29, into zumba, mountain climbing, skiing, track and field. Has slight limp.

Orthodox woman with get, seeks man who got get, or can get get. Get it? I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.

Divorced Jewish man, seeks partner to attend shul with, light Shabbos candles, celebrate holidays, build Sukkah together, attend brisses, bar mitzvahs. Religion not important.

A Bad Hair Night

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale of a surprise party on a yacht. A three-hour tour of the Marina.  A gathering of friends to celebrate the Magnificent Maddy. There was champagne. There was dancing. There was an important revelation about the SJG on a yacht. Some people look wonderful with the wind blowing in their hair. Some people look marvelous on a yacht. And then, there's me.

In terms of grooming, I had a bad hair night. The kind of bad hair night that should never be captured, photographically. Hubby, of course, looked dashing. "I want to learn to sail," he said at some point in the evening. "Be my guest," I said. "I will stay ashore." Here I paused for effect. "The sea is not my friend." So ends my tale of a surprise party on a yacht. If you decide to throw me a surprise party when I turn 60, please hold it in a hair salon. Thank you.

SJG Debuts Edible Shoes!

Always on the go? Always in need of a nosh? Well, don't despair, nice people. The SJG Edible Shoe Line is here. If you're anything like me, and for that, you have my condolences, you're hungry 24/7, but trying to exercise a semblance of self-control. Good luck with that! So, rather than run into the nearest 7/11 and buy the first salty snack that greets you at eye level, why not bend down and take a nibble of your tasty, nutritious footwear? The SJG Sandwich Slip-On is the perfect solution for your fressing needs. You can eat the whole thing and not worry about bare-footin' as you schlep around. Your culinary reward? A fashion-forward, foot-friendly flip flop.

Or maybe, as you run from here to there, people-pleasing, doing things for others, ignoring your own needs, as usual, what you crave is a sugar rush, a little sweet something-something to keep you going. Well, the SJG Candy Clodhopper has your name on it. Reach down, swipe a tootsie pop off the top, and keep going, 'cuz someone wants something. Right now!

Oh, I see, the sandwich, the hard candies, just aren't enough. I get where you're coming from. You need a slice of comfort. Who doesn't during these dark times? I present the SJG Cherry Cobbler. It's fresh and appropriately flakey. Just like you!

A health nut, are you? A glutton-free kinda gal? No problema. I designed the SJG Banana Booties with you in mind. I did, too! Biodegradable! Full of potassium! Politically-correct! Grown at the SJG Plantation in Pasadena (the agricultural section). Best of all, I personally manufactured my entire line of Sleek, Sole-Soothing Slingbacks to provide an optimal fit and compliment your active lifestyle. So, listen. Whether you're a CEO seeking stylish casual clogs, or an outdoorsy type hankering for durably delicious desert boots, SJG Edible Shoes will indulge your appetite and make everyone you know so freaking jealous, they'll just have to take a bite of your Hazelnut High-Tops. They will! You wait and see. As always, SJG Edible Shoes happily offers Free Shipping, Free Exchanges and 100 percent Price Match Guarantee.

For You, Some Wedding Humor

The night before their wedding, Alf and Bette were sharing confidences. 
Alf said,  “You must know something before we get married. I am a fanatic golfer. I eat, sleep and drink golf. Golf is my whole life. After we are married, I’ll try for some balance but I doubt whether I’ll succeed. Just understand - you’re marrying a golf addict.” 
“I can live with that,” said Bette, “now I’ll tell you my secret  - I’m a hooker.” 
“A hooker?” Alf repeated. “I can live with that. Next time, keep your head down and your left arm straight, then swing through the ball....”

Four young novice nuns were about to take their vows. Dressed in their white gowns, they came into the chapel where the Mother Superior was waiting to perform the ceremony to marry them to Jesus. Just as the ceremony was about to begin, four Chassidic Jews with yarmulkes, long sideburns and long beards, carrying siddurs, came in and sat in the front row. 
The Mother Superior said to them, "I am honored that you would want to share this experience with us, but do you mind if I ask you why you came?" 
One of the four Jews replied, "We're from the groom's side."

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