The Rabbi and the Parrots

"Nu?"

One day, Betty approaches her Rabbi after the service and says to him, "Rabbi, I have a problem.  I have two female talking parrots, but they only know how to say one thing." "What do they say?" the Rabbi asks.
"They only know how to say, 'Hello, we're prostitutes, want to have some fun?'"
"Why, that's terrible!" the Rabbi says, "but I have a solution to your problem. Bring your two female parrots over to my house tomorrow and I will put them with my two male talking parrots whom I taught to pray and read Hebrew. My parrots will teach your parrots to stop saying that terrible phrase and your female parrots will learn to praise and worship."
"Oh thank you, Rabbi," Betty says.
The next day she brings her female parrots to the Rabbi's house. His two male parrots are wearing tiny yamulkes and praying in their cage. Betty puts her two female parrots in with the male parrots and the female parrots say, "Hello, we're prostitutes, want to have some fun?"
One male parrot looks over at the other male parrot and exclaims, "Our prayers have been answered!"

Sadie was a Reuters journalist. One year, she was assigned to their Jerusalem office and her apartment overlooked the Wailing Wall. On her first morning, as she was getting ready to go to the office, she looked out her window and saw an old man praying vigorously, his head bobbing up and down rapidly. So Sadie, seeing an interesting story in the making, went down to talk to him. "How often do you come here to pray?"
"Every day," he said. "I have come here to pray on this spot every day for the last 20 years."
"You come every day to the wall? What are you praying for?"
"I pray for peace in this angry world in the morning. Then I go home, have my lunch, and come back in the afternoon. Then I pray for a world free of illness and disease."
Sadie is amazed. "How do you feel coming here every day for 20 years and praying for these things?"
The old man looks at her, sadly. "Like I'm talking to a wall."
http://www.awordinyoureye.com/jokes18thset.html

Once Upon A Garden

The SJG in her garden

Once upon a time, I used to water the garden. I used to plant the pretty flowers. I used to make the front yard pretty. I used to make the back yard pretty. With my bare hands and my unmanicured nails, I dug in the dirt. I snipped. I clipped. I dead-headed. I shoveled. I sweated plenty on behalf of the greenery, believe you me. And though I never achieved anything quite like this...

Or God forbid...

This...

I did feel at one with Mother Nature.

But then, a new phobia emerged. Silly me, I'd left a vacancy for a fresh fear to creep in and take a nice big bite of my sanity.  

After the epic untelevised battle of Sir Blakey...

Vs. the Rat...

... and the ensuing Flea/Mosquito Infestation of 2017 that prompted me to nearly scratch myself into oblivion, I thought nothing would ever be quite so awful. I was mistaken.

This summer, a new kind of invader threatened my well-being. The Asian Tiger mosquito became my personal nightmare. This lil sonofabitch brought out the worst of the worst in me, permanently transforming me into... 

... the angriest garden gnome in history.  

Tiptoe Into Yoga

Tiptoe into yoga

Into yoga, that is where I'll be
Come tiptoe into yoga with me

Oh, tiptoe up the stairway

Up the stairway with my rolled-up mat 

And tiptoe into yoga with me 

Let's pose like cats, dogs and trees

Bow our heads, oh, pretty please

And if I'm tardy in the morning and running late

Will you pardon me?
And tiptoe into yoga with me

A Look of Alarm

This morning, longtime hubby stared in the direction of the formal dining area and looked rather alarmed.
"Honey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Thanksgiving's in three weeks."
"This much, I know."
"Yet I see no evidence of the holiday unfolding in our aging palatial estate."
"Such as?"
"The ceremonial schlepping of the chairs from the garage."
"You left out 'back-breaking.' What else?"
"No obsessive-compulsive, early bird setting of the table."
"Tables. Plural."
"No Amazonian ordering of nice-looking, eco-friendly disposable napkins."
"I prefer to call them fancy fake napkins. Go on."
"No reserving of the already-brined Trader Joe's turkey."
"Turkeys. Plural. They don't let you reserve them."
"Oh, right."
"Have I taught you nothing, man of my dreams?"
"More than I can ever thank you for."
"You're welcome."

"Does this mean what I think it means?"
"What do you think it means, devoted spouse?"
"We don't have to do Thanksgiving?"
"You got that right, mister. It's not our turn."
"What say we celebrate with a little bit of Sherry?"
"At 8 a.m.?"
"It's 5 o'clock somewhere."

Looking For Some Hot Stuff

When the lovely Nadine offered to schlep down to the Pantages a few months back and pick up four tickets for "Summer: The Donna Summer Musical," Carrie, Joan and I raised our aging goddess disco hands in approval. Last night, we met up for a nice nosh and a sip of Pinot Grigio before planting our tushies in our cushy seats.

Then I opened the program, went "uh oh" and broke the news to the gals. "No intermission." A collective look of moderate panic washed over their gorgeous punims. One of us sprang up, headed up the aisle and came right back. Oh, the cruelty of it all. There wasn't enough time to hit the loo. In hindsight, a nearly two-hour musical with no intermission might've been a sign. Sometimes people leave at intermission and keep going. I'm just sayin'.

"Summer" is a crowd pleaser, a fun night out, entertaining, but as a show, so-so. There are three versions of Donna to keep track off, often on stage at the same time, a lot of "and then I did this, and then I did that" uninspired narration, and some really head-scratching, random song selections. Her dark times and troubled relationships, along with some Born Again controversies she sparked along the way, deserve exploration but appear like footnotes. Still, when the hits come, "Love To Love You Baby," "MacArthur Park," "On The Radio," "She Works Hard For The Money," "Hot Stuff" and "Last Dance," it's hard not to clap and sing along and get lost on memory lane. 

The Truth About Squirrels

Never sit next to a squirrel on a long flight.  

Never invite a squirrel to Thanksgiving.

Never invite a squirrel anywhere.

Never tell a squirrel your secrets.

Never let a squirrel drive you home. 

Never trust a squirrel.

You're welcome.

Hello, Dallas

Me and Henry Moore in Dallas 

So it was a quick hop, skip and a three hour flight to Dallas for the SJG and the longtime hubby. Why Dallas? I'll tell you why. Because that's where the wedding invitation told us to go. 

The cowboy I got hitched to a while back poses in a very studly manner at the Nasher Sculpture Center, where we scoped out the wedding locale. Turns out, Dallas is very artsy and the museums are free. What's not to love? 

The beautiful chuppah, perfect for a Jewish-Indian wedding. 

The venue: So pretty at night, what with the twinkly lights and the sculptures everywhere. Okay, just between us, it was cold, freakin' cold, as in 47ish once the sun said adios. But don't worry. We were prepared, more or less. The man of my dreams wore long underwear under his suit. If that's not hot, what is? I still have a shred of dignity left and refused to sink that low. I made do with the puffy coat and the gloves and the sensible shoes. There were heating lamps and blankets everywhere. It was fine, I tell ya. No Popsicle toes for this gal. 

For kvelling purposes, I present the first dance of the gorgeous, highly accomplished newlyweds Garrett and Nemi, who fell in love in med school, became doctors and have almost completed their residencies in Texas. How many of you can say that? Hello? Anyone?

How I feel this morning: "Tired" by Ramón Casas.