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Lakhn zol er mit yashtsherkes.

I promise. I didn’t make this up. And, no, this is not our version of “You’ll sleep with the fishes.”

On second thought ... maybe it is.

Confused? Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself! Allow me to explain. ...

I’ll begin with this related Yiddish proverb to help beef (kosher, of course!) up my argument:

Original Yiddish Saying

“Der vos hot nit farzucht bittereh, vaist nit voz zies iz.”

English Translation

“He who has not tasted the bitter does not understand the sweet.”

Yeah, yeah, I know, “Every culture has a version of this!” But I’m invoking it here because it serves as the perfect backdrop for the cryptic curse in question. Here’s the thing: we Jews are champion sufferers. The very crap of life serves as inspiration for the bulk of our oral tradition and the Yiddish language in general. Kvetches, curses, curmudgeon-y comments; we’ve got them all! But the great miracle of life (theoretically) rests on balance, which brings us back to this bittersweet proverb: “He who has not tasted the bitter does not understand the sweet.” We Jews have experienced the lowest lows on record, readily choking down life’s most extreme bitterness. Subsequently, our highs taste all the sweeter, and savoring this sweetness is an integral part of our not only surviving these lows but thriving in spite of them. And what better way to savor and celebrate such sweetness, such joy, than with laughter?

“But what, pray tell, does this have to do with lizards?”

Well, let me ask you this: have you ever seen a lizard laugh? No, seriously! Allow me to put on my ill-fitting science-lady hat and learn you somethin’. We’ve all heard of the reptilian brain, right? It’s the part of our human brain that doesn’t fool around (strictly business; no time for pleasantries). It’s concerned only with survival:

1. Secure a nosh
2. Make babies
3. When faced with danger, assume the karate stance or get the hell out of Dodge

There’s a school of thought that asserts only one thing can snap us out of this primitive trance, and that mysterious “thing” is—you guessed it—laughter. Or, conversely, that laughter is a unique side-effect of the act of wrenching our freedom back from the reptile within—like how your eyes are forced shut when you sneeze. I think. Or something. See, it’s a chicken-or-the-egg kind of thing, and—yeah, OK, my hat fell off a while back somewhere. Regardless, the point is, lizards don’t have a single funny bone in their scaly little bodies. Therefore, wishing that someone would “laugh with the lizards” implies that you hope they will never laugh a genuine laugh again. (Not a giggle, not a chuckle, not a tee-hee ... never go “Ha!”) Alternatively, in some cases the wish is that they will be laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.

Pretty harsh, eh? So in the end, this curse may indeed be our version of an invitation to sleep with the fishes. After all, what’s life (especially a Jewish life) without honest-to-goodness-cross-your-legs-so-you-don’t-pee-your-pants laughter?

Appropriate usage?

The second his grandson, Daniel, slouched down defeatedly in the back seat of the 1993 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, Zeyde Freidman knew something had happened at school. …

Zeyde: “Uh oh, vos iz, bubbeleh?”

The warmth of his grandfather’s voice, and the comforting smell of his Bubbe’s cooking that clung to Zeyde’s clothes, caused Daniel to tear up. …

Daniel: [between sniffles] “Oh Zeyde! I told mommy this was a dumb shirt!”

Zeyde: “Vos makht iz mir oys?? Who says so?”

Daniel: “Matthew Miller, that’s who! He’s such a bully! At recess? He and Joey and Seth and Jeremy came up to me near the slide and said I looked like a baby and that my mommy buys my clothes and that only babies let their mommies buy their clothes. But Jeremy was the worst! Every time I saw him today, he just pointed at me and laughed!”

Zeyde: “That little paskudnyak! He should laugh with lizards!”

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Keyner zet nit zayn eygenem hoyker.

I have a special fondness for this particular proverb. (Yes, I know, I’m playing favorites—you can wipe that judgmental look off your face! Just mark this tendency of mine down as yet another reason why I should probably never have children.) But why am I partial to this proverb? You’re probably surprised, considering it’s pretty much old news. Haven’t I heard? People in glass houses shouldn’t yada yada ... something about The Stones gathering moss … Well, Keith Richards does look a little downy if you ask me, but what do you expect? They’ve been touring for half a century! Anyway, that’s beside the point.

It’s not the admittedly-clichéd wisdom behind this particular proverb that charms me, it’s the way said wisdom is articulated and, by extension, what that says about us Jews.

First of all, unlike in the aforementioned “glass house” example, we Jews aren’t gettin’ all up in your business and telling you what to do. Nope. In our proverb, we’re just stating a simple fact about human nature, take it or leave it. That may seem odd coming from a people who have 613 commandments, but let me take this opportunity to explain: all those rules and regulations are not blindly imposed but willingly and thoughtfully embraced. We opt in to our faith, much like a timeshare in Boca Raton. It has been said that not only are we the Chosen People, but we are the choosing people as well. In fact, we have a rather intense policy against recruitment.

Fun Fact! Did you know that it’s customary for a Rabbi to turn an adamant potential convert away three times before the conversion process can begin?

This proverb is wonderfully Jewish in that it just lays it all out on the table for you. The rest is up to you. Throw a stone! What do we care? It’s your house! (With this said, we can therefore safely assume that this proverb was not coined by anyone’s mother-in-law.)

The second aspect of this proverb that I find especially intriguing is its choice of metaphor. There are a gazillion ways one could paint this picture, so why the hump? In anticipation of your guesses: No, Quasimodo wasn’t a Jew; and yes, the word “hump” is wonderfully effective at inciting fits of immature giggling. But I have another theory: I find it fascinating that the Jewish adaptation of this proverb asserts that the massive metaphorical goiter we all possess—and ignore, and criticize others for—is not only unsightly but also a great burden. We are saddled with our shame and must go through life schlepping the weighty load. In the end, proverb vs. proverb, I propose that the hump beats the house (glass, that is) any day. For what it lacks in bossiness it makes up for in arresting and thought-provoking truth.

Appropriate usage?

Rhoda walks in the kitchen, throws her handbag on the table, and plops down in a chair with head in hands. Abe looks up from his bowl of kasha and turns to his wife. …

Abe: “Something the matter, Ahuvi?”

Rhoda: “Oh Abe! 45 minutes I sat there listening to that woman.”

Abe: “Why do you bother with that yuchna??”

Rhoda: “Abe, I like the book club! Ida’s in it! What choice do I have?”

Abe: “Alright, Rho, out with it. What did the ‘Great Luminary’ have to say today?”

Rhoda: “Oh Abe, she was in rare form! There she was, perched on her armless chair, wearing that shmata of a moo moo, and in between bites of Marcy’s chocolate babka, she has the audacity to tell me that I look as though I’ve ‘put on a few pounds!’ You know I haven’t seen her since we got back from our cruise? Well, she went on to lecture me about how maybe I’m ‘not cut out to go on cruises, because one needs a great deal of self-control around all that food’ and that I should ‘look into one of those “health retreats” instead!’ You know what that means! She wants to send me to a fat farm!?!? It was so embarrassing! How can she say such things when she—ugh!”

Abe: “Oh Ahuvi, you know the old saying! No one sees the hump on his own back. Which is especially impressive in this case because Ida wears hers in the front!”

Rhoda: [laughter] “Oh Abe! You’re too much!!”

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Der dakh brent un er (zi) hot in zinen di multer.

There’s no mistaking the aim of this allegation: call out a fool who, like the gentleman (or lady) starring in this saying, doesn’t have their head in the game, so to speak. This expression’s meaning is undeniably clear thanks to a device of which we Jews are famously fond: exaggeration. After all, why say anything if you’re not going to beat someone over the head with it? Subtlety is overrated … and that’s an understatement!

We Jews artfully employ the most absurd embellishments to ensure:

1. We’re not wasting our breath.
2. A whole lot is said with very few words.

Still, a proclivity for such overstatements may seem superfluous—and my assertion about my culture’s inclination toward inflation unfounded—coming from a people who never appear to be at a loss for words; who in some peoples’ opinions carry a reputation for delivering quantity over quality where communication is concerned. But the truth is—with the possible exception of one’s proverbial Uncle Sal and the odd nudnik who ruins it for the rest of us—I assure you that we Jews, armed with our ability to amplify our oratory, are more than capable of keeping our comments concise.

Case in point, this unimaginable utterance:

The roof is on fire and she’s thinking about a canoe.

With less than a dozen words, a preposterous picture is painted and a piquant point is proclaimed; no elaboration needed! (Anyone still confused may need to get their head back in the game themselves.) But as silly as this scenario may seem, it would be a mistake to dismiss this expression (or any of our other overstatements) as arbitrary absurdity. Great significance lies within its seemingly-haphazard hyperbole. The roof is on fire and she’s thinking about … a canoe?! I assure you such a circumstance is not just universally untoward, the very thought of it is especially asinine when the subject is a Jew. Why? Well, 2 reasons. ...

Reason 1: “Don’t worry, be happy”? Worry makes us happy!

Our Jewish aptitude for aggrandizing may very well fuel the following fundamental forte: worry. We Jews are notorious neurotics, accomplished agonizers, famed fretters, well-worn wizards of worst-case-scenarios … OK, you get the point. Well, with such a renowned reputation for nerve-racking rumination, how truly inconceivable is the scenario employed by this expression? A Jew so rapt by reverie that he or she would turn a blind eye to their blazing abode?! Please! It’s far more likely that we’d find ourselves in a canoe coasting on the calmest of waters through scenic surroundings, worrying about (among other things) our house being on fire. (And that’s saying a lot! A Jew in canoe?! Hah! But more on that later. ...) Enjoy this glimpse inside this hypothetical Jew’s thoughts on such a truly hypothetical expedition:

“Did I triple-check the stove or just double-check? What about the toaster? Did I unplug it? I remember unplugging something but that may have been the coffee maker—wait! Did I have coffee this morning? … No, I don’t think I did! Great. Now I’m going to have a headache this afternoon—I do feel a slight pressure starting behind my eyes (mind you, the sun’s glare off this lake isn’t helping things). Wait, isn’t eye pressure an early warning sign of stroke? Where’s my phone? ... I need to google this. … Oh, but what if the phone gets wet? I have nothing to dry it on! If only I thought to bring an extra towel or napkins or a couple sheets of … oh no! I left the paper towel roll on the counter … what if Mittens jumps up, knocks it over, and it rolls near the toaster—or, worse, the stove!? That’s it! I’ve got to get out of this canoe! Wait—shhh!—are those sirens in the distance!?! … ”

Or maybe that would just be my inner dialogue? Regardless, we seasoned skeptics spend our lives constantly anticipating utter disaster (realistic or ridiculous), so we’re perpetually primed to spot even the slightest stirrings (real or irrational) of impending peril. So consequently the thought of us remaining ignorant of an outright inferno is as far-fetched as a French farmer forgoing le fromage in favor of a frankfurter with a side of flan! (Or maybe yours truly constructing a sentence without the use of alliteration. [Hey, look! I did it!])

And so it follows logically that our tendency toward anxiety-fueled prudent practices renders the potentiality of a roof fire perfectly preposterous; and any momentary distraction therefore irrelevant. Don’t you think we’d prepare for such a possibility? (And by “prepare” I of course mean “over-prepare.”) If the high-pitched harmony of the smoke detectors (and back-up smoke detectors) fails to tease us from our trance, surely the elaborate sprinkler system we insisted on installing (despite the Fire Marshal’s urging that such precautions were overkill would hamper Hades’ handiwork long enough for the firefighters to arrive—especially considering the fact that we made a point to purchase a property that abutted the fire station.

Reason: A brief intermission from reasons

Now before we move on, I would be remiss if I did not address the (very- and fittingly-rotund) elephant in the room: there is only one thing in this scenario that could possibly offset our observational skills—our Achilles heel, our Kryptonite, if you will—and that is food. Yes, if the author of this proverb had opted for a knish rather than a canoe, we’d be having a very different conversation. I mean, whose mind wouldn’t wander to the thought of a savory s’more at the first whiff of burning wood? That classic, comforting combination of chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker melding together over a campfire; the hurried act of attacking the sweet sandwich before its gooey contents completely escape the confines of the crunchy crackers. … Oh! And have you tried swapping regular marshmallows for sugar-coated Peeps? You must—what? Oh, I’m sorry. Where was I? Oh yes. ... my point is, this proverb did choose a canoe, and unless that canoe is constructed of kugel and covered in chocolate, the author made a wise and intentional choice to help prove the proverb’s point. Which brings me to my second reason. …

Reason 2: Sometimes a canoe is just a canoe. This isn’t one of those times!

Why the canoe? The answer to this question is critical because it proves that the details of this expression were actually very carefully thought out and chosen for a purpose. There’s a reason the author didn’t use a bagel, or a book, or even Bergdorf’s Bargain Basement to serve as distraction, and that reasoning is:

1. Any other option might make the scenario plausible, thereby eroding its efficacy.
2. One cannot pass up the opportunity to push the exaggeration envelope to make extra certain the proverb’s point won’t possibly be missed. (Perhaps our tendency to double-check appliances is somehow related to our doubling up on absurdity when trying to make a point. You know, just in case. One can never be too careful!)

Based on this straight forward logic, the canoe is the consummate choice and its effectiveness can be attributed to two factors; one universal, the other Semitic-specific:

Universal Factor: Oil and water? No, fire and water!

First of all, if your roof actually was on fire, ask yourself what some productive and relevant thoughts might be. Perhaps one or more of the following:

1. “Call 911.”
2. “Find the fire extinguishers.”
3. “I need large and powerful hoses through which copious amounts of water could be delivered upon my smoldering ceiling.”
4. “How soon until the handsome goys in dashing uniform come running (in slow motion) to my rescue?” (OK, so this last one, while not entirely helpful, is unquestionably relevant.)

If any or all of those would come to your mind, Mazel Tov! You’re neither insane nor a fool. Now, ask yourself what perilous problem, if not a roof fire, is likely to logically inspire thoughts of a canoe? Exactly! A flood! (OK, not if you’re Noah facing the task of saving all of G-d’s creatures, but a canoe would totally work for one’s everyday flood needs.)

And wouldn’t you agree that, in the disaster department, no two tragedies are more diametrically opposed than a fire and a flood? So when faced with the former, thoughts of a canoe would arguably be the most absurd anyone could have.

See? Brilliant choice! But if this first reason isn’t enough to convince you of the canoe’s credentials, there’s my second, more targeted theory.

Semitic-Specific Factor: It wasn’t Lewisberg and Clarkstein …

I propose the “Canoe Premise” proves powerfully potent because, for most of us Jews, any time (roof fire or not) spent pondering a pirogue (or any other paraphernalia of proportionate perversion) strikes us as particularly pointless. Let me explain. …

This expression plays off yet another widely-known Jewish stereotype: our aversion to outdoor activities of all kinds. Now, in the spirit of total accuracy, I must point out that while not the most renowned wildlife warriors around, we do enjoy a stroll beneath a branchy canopy as much as the next person! That being said (for the record), there does remain one activity in particular that ruins the bell curve and, by extension, our lackluster reputation for rustic relish: camping. For Jews, there’s a huge difference between “outdoors activities” and camping.

Fun Fact! A great respect and admiration for, and even enjoyment of nature is at the very heart of Judaism. Fartootst? Take the case of my own father. He was quite closely connected to the natural world and spent every possible moment he could outside. For example:

1. His weekends (and some weeknights) were filled with skiing and hockey throughout the winter; and tennis, rollerblading, biking, and more as soon as the mercury broke freezing.
2. As soon as the snow would melt enough for him to free the patio furniture from its icy anchor, Daddy was outside enjoying both breakfast and dinner in the fresh air. (The rest of us, not unlike spectators at a zoo with him the fascinatingly-alien specimen, observed this behavior from the safety and warmth of the indoors, often through still-frosty windows.)
3. Even aside from eating, his downtime was spent outside: with an extension cord running through the cracked-open backdoor (allowing flies unfettered access to our abode) across the entire length of the deck (presenting an ever-present hazard to life and limb) to power his boombox, Daddy spent afternoons reading dozens of newspapers in his weathered hammock (very relaxing notwithstanding the odd rogue page needing to be chased across the lawn).
4. Every evening after dinner, rain or shine, with greater reliability than the Post Office, my father would drag my thin-blooded mother out for their evening walk up Mont Royal.

But! As much time as he spent outdoors, come sundown it was back inside to civilization. There was no way in hell he’d have voluntarily popped a squat in the woods or spent a night in a tent. Many Jews draw the same distinct line in the lumpy, unforgiving earth. It’s no coincidence that Sukkot is among our least … über popular holidays, and, even when it is celebrated, the ritual for the most part only involves eating in the sukkat—and, keep in mind, even then the sukkat is erected in one’s own backyard, conveniently close to all the creature comforts—few actually sleep in it. Hey, like many of us tend to reason: 40 years in the desert is enough, thank you.

Yes, every stereotype has its exceptions (although I’m willing to bet your Jewish friend who “loves to hike” always sticks to day trips), but this expression succeeds at being incredibly inclusive … for its time. (Keep in mind it was coined long before the invention of Nascar and power tools, and the rise of the puzzlingly-popular practice of camping—trying to pick just one perfect example from a current, comprehensive list of antithetical Jewish lifestyle practices would not be so simple!)

Wait! you may be saying. Canoes and camping aren’t exactly synonymous! Yes, I’m quite aware, but don’t think for a moment I’m relying on such an ambivalent association to keep my argument afloat. (Ha ha!) You’ll notice from the above, otherwise extensive list of my father’s outdoor activities that all water sports are conspicuously absent. The reason is, like many Jews, my father preferred to keep both feet planted firmly on dry land. (It may come as news to you that the same, seemingly-inherited preference in addition to proneness to motion sickness keeps yours truly ashore as well.) You can’t really blame us considering:

1. We come from an area of the world where water is extremely scarce.
2. The Bible is proof that water was almost exclusively associated with death and danger.

How then could we possibly know from boating?! As a perfect example of what I mean, let’s examine Moses’ parting of the Red Sea. Don’t you think it would’ve been a heck of a lot easier to conjure a cavalcade of kayaks and just coast across the current? Sure, Moses may have had a flare for the dramatic, but I’d put my money on the fact that our dear prophet (whose own traumatic childhood incident afloat Adam’s ale surely shouldn’t require mentioning) chose to take the dry road because he knew that as much as we as a people like to avoid extra exertion, when given the choice we would much rather walk. And even when we are left no other option but to take to the tide, our last choice of vessel would be a rickety canoe! Pretty much the only circumstance in which we feel comfortable setting sail is aboard a cruise ship (the bigger the better). This doesn’t say much for our nautical knack since an ocean liner is basically a floating city equipped with every conceivable amenity, whose goal is to have its passengers forget that they’re on a boat. (I don’t think I need to point out the notorious 24-hour buffets. Could offers of free food bribe us to brave the briny boundlessness in a canoe? That would have to be one hell of a spread!)

In conclusion: a proverb as perfect as the Golden Ratio

With all that said, I hope I’ve not only successfully sold you on the conscientious creation of this expression, but also, true to form, went completely overboard with my overstatements. Just to be safe.

Let us once again take a moment to marvel at what a truly intricate insult is this remark: “The roof is on fire and he’s thinking about a canoe.” In this one pithy phrase, not only is its subject called out for being divergently and dangerously distracted, he’s censured even further with the implication that he’s so dim-witted and/or impractical that he’s become completely preoccupied by the most trivial of minutiae. It doesn’t get much better than that!

Appropriate usage?

Stan is having brunch with his son, Joel. Joel’s wife, Marcia, is expecting their first child and her due date is fast approaching. …

Joel: “Dad, I swear, this pregnancy thing is weird! Marcia woke me up in the middle of the night last week so I could move a bureau!“

Stan: “No, no, no! What’s weird, my son, is pregnant women! As you know, your mother’s completely meshugga, but when she was pregnant with you, she really went off the deep end! Putting ketchup on everything and telling me I had to buy all new socks! The worst was when she went into labor. I was running around, tripping over everything like a shikker, and after I finally get the car all packed, I go back into the house to get her and do know where I find her? She’s in the bathroom clipping her toenails, huffing and puffing and everything! The roof is on fire and she’s thinking about a canoe! What did I tell you? Meshugga.”

Joel: “At least she didn’t make you stop for Jujyfruits on the way to the hospital!“

Stan: “Huh? Vos retstu eppis!? Who’s crazy now?“

Joel: [smiles to himself] “Forget it, Dad.“

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Deriber geyen di gendz borves un di katshkes in royte shikhelekh.

You’re on the proverbial edge of your proverbial seat, aren’t you? “How the heck is she going to explain this one?!” you ask yourself. Well, sit back, relax, and prepare to be disappointed. OK, disappointed may be a little strong, but I’ll tell you upfront, you’re out of luck if you’re hoping for an action-packed explanation the likes of:

Well! This expression can be traced all the way back to Mount Sinai. You see, Moses’ bursitis was acting up that morning so he decided to send his trusty goose-proxy to present the Ten Commandments in his place. (Few people know this but, the Burning Bush? That was actually glimpsed by Gary the goose on his way home from his gaggle’s weekly poker game. Although he later relayed the incident to our man Mo’, that kind of hearsay would never stand up these days!) After Gary prepared the tablets, Moses’ right-hand goose glanced out the window just in time to see the last strands of his sandals being gobbled up by the gluttonous neighborhood goat. Gary alerted Moses immediately, but, since the 7/11 Decree dates back to Biblical times (Genesis 3:7-11: Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves. Then the Lord G-d said unto them, “Keepeth going, from this day forth; no shoes, no shirt, no service.”) and there was no time to fit Gary for new shoes (he wore a 13 and had arch issues), Moses was forced to send J. Edgar (a local duck with a thing for crimson pumps) to the mount instead.

The very point of this expression is that it has no point. In fact, just in case there does exist a context in which this phrase could possibly be relevant, we Jews keep the following pinch hitter in our back pocket:

Original Yiddish Saying

“Deriber geyen katshkes borves un gendz on pludern.”

English Translation

“Therefore ducks go barefoot and geese without trousers.”

Both of these irrational interjections can be used in one of two ways:

1. As a nonsensical interpretation of something that is painfully obvious and doesn’t need interpretation at all.
2. As a sarcastic response to an illogical statement.

Come to think of it, the above shamefully-sacrilegious scene featuring Moses-and-his-Anatidae-attendants serves as the perfect setup for this second scenario! An irreverent invention that inane—one invoking our paramount prophet and a couple of anthropomorphized avians—is simply ripe for this sarcastic saying.

Appropriate usage?

Helen is on the phone with her cousin Merna in Arizona. For what feels like the 50th time, Helen is going over the contents of her suitcase in anticipation of visiting Merna and her husband this coming August. ...

Helen: “So Mern, I’ve got my Harlequin romances, my puzzles, the photos from my cruise, my good brassiere ... what else? Oh, that article on calcium I wanted you to read, my exercise clothes. ... Oh now, Mern, you’re sure I’m not going to need my winter coat? I don’t know why you won’t let me bring it just in case.”

Merna: “You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s Arizona in August! Therefore the geese go barefoot and the ducks in little red shoes!”

Helen: “Alright, alright! I’m just asking!”

Naronim on kropeveh vaksen on regen.

As mentioned in another blog article, the Yiddish language recognizes the subtle differences between the many kinds of fools that manifest themselves in human form with a comprehensive list of diagnostic categories. These labels are peppered throughout our arsenal of Yiddish proverbs, expressions, and insults. But sometimes, as with this particular proverb, we’ve needed to make a broader, more inclusive statement about all fools, no matter their idiosyncrasies. In such a case, we employ the term “Nar”, or its plural, “Naronim.”

The sweeping generalization made in this proverb acts as half warning, half resigned-statement. Weeds and fools are both unrelentingly, eerily resilient species that, yard after yard, generation after generation, respectively, remain a fact of life with which we must deal.

This expression always reminds me of my mother. (Why, then, did I not choose to immortalize her in this card’s illustration? Well, because to accurately capture my mother, the caricature would need to embody “freakishly-youthful beauty”—a quality that does not make for good visual comedy.) My mum, also an artist (although a far more mature one than yours truly), effortlessly weaves her creativity into everything she does; and gardening is no exception. Beyond artistic passions, Mum’s gift for gardening is also born of her innate maternal, nurturing quality. I think the latter connection exists for a lot of women—and some men.

Although my mother has always gardened on some scale, I have noticed a possible correlation between the age at which one’s children leave home, and a quickly-developing, sometimes-obsessive gardening habit. (That or a horse habit.) This Croc-wearing, trowel-toting, “I’d Rather Be Gardening”-bumper-sticker-boasting, premenopausal movement is especially present here in Vermont.

With all this said, given my artistic background, my geographic location, my loyalty to Subaru, and the fact that my interests have always, despite my age, aligned me most closely with the average quinquagenarian, one would think I’d be a card-carrying member of the Great Gardening Guild. (I’m even, unlike my husband, delightfully undaunted by dirt!)

Well, no such luck.

My thumb, as it turns out, is as black as the very soil I’ve failed to tame. Maybe it has to do with my sometimes-manic impatience or my lack of inherent maternal instinct (the idea of having children still makes my throat start to close). Whatever it is, it is. I was greatly disappointed to discover that I didn’t take to gardening the way others swore I would. (Similar to the condescending assurance parents give us progeny-free adults: You’ll see! Once you have kids an inherent drive takes over, and you won’t be able to imagine ever having been weary of this facet of life! I’ve always been appalled by this, what I perceive to be the ultimate gamble. After all, stunted tiger lilies and dust-collecting gardening paraphernalia are one thing, but bailing on parenting postpartum seems a little much. Even to me.)

I read an article once that shed great light on the gardening phenomenon that, as a neurotic Jew, got me very intrigued. To me, it explains the frenzied and seemingly intoxicating collective-awakening that befalls gardeners every spring. (I recommend that you stay the hell out of their way and don’t expect a lot of eye contact until at least mid-June.) Apparently, scientists have discovered a kind of bacteria that exists in soil that “may affect the brain in a similar way to antidepressants.” While fascinating—and a lovely thought, really—I’d be curious to know how many Jews were included in this study. All I know is that this Ashkenazi’s issues are a little more advanced than even the most medicinal-manure can mitigate. Alas, after all the natural approaches I have tried (I’m always a fan of nature before pharma), I am resigned to the fact that my ongoing quest for balance rests on mainlining SSRIs and getting my tuchus to the shrink on a weekly basis. And so it goes. ...

Now where was I?! Ah, yes! Fools, weeds, and Mum’s green thumb! The genius of this adage is that its metaphor can be interpreted in more than one way: Not only does it call out a kinship between fools and weeds, but this proverb’s paralleling prompts us to ponder if perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here about how we should approach the weeds and fools of life. Hear me out! As any avid gardener will tell you, beyond backaches, bug bites, and the blinding burn of sweat-streaked sunscreen in their eyes, the ongoing war they wage against weeds is by far the most frustrating facet of gardening. At this point, I must once again invoke my mother here because the extreme nature of her heady hatred toward her nemesis, the weed, serves as the ultimate case study. ...

Without fail, every time my Mum pulls into our driveway there is a longer-than-expected lapse of time between the sound of her car door shutting and our doorbell ringing. The woman cannot walk by a weed without angrily prying it from its self-appointed post. Each time, newly-appalled by their audacity at implanting themselves where they clearly did not belong, she chastises the renegade roots at full volume. (Given what I’ve told you about my proclivity for horticulture, or lack thereof, you can imagine this takes quite a while.)

My mother’s ongoing battle with the brazen bottom-feeders of botany illustrates the aforementioned second-half of this proverb’s potential: there’s a lesson to be learned from Mum’s fervent but infuriatingly futile efforts; a lesson in how to manage the less-than-desirable-yet-inescapable facts of life, be them weeds, fools, or the countless other ageless annoyances.

As I see it, we’ve got three options:

1. Ignore the weeds. Let them choke out our horticultural efforts and overtake our plots.
2. Mount our trusty steeds (or in this case our Craftsman mowers) and wage war. Spend big bucks on every Weed-No-More and Death-to-Dandelions product out there. Waste late nights trolling Internet forums for insider tips: Lay shower curtains and carpet scraps. Douse our lawns in bleach, and soak our yards with WD-40 (all real search results, I swear) until our grounds become patchy wastelands; the only result being that the weeds are treated to a little more legroom, and we start receiving threatening letters from the Condo Board. Neither seems all that appealing now does it? Well, luckily, there’s a third option. ...
3. Buddhists and avid watchers of the OWN Network alike promote the concept of “acceptance,” the idea of non-striving, non-judgmental awareness.

So what in G-d’s name does this have to do with weeds or fools, you ask? Well, I propose that this proverb (yes, remember the proverb?), though silly on the surface, is actually hinting at something quite profound: we need to know that weeds and fools exist, and will always exist. We shouldn’t ignore them, but we shouldn’t rage against them either. Instead, it’s best to remain aware of them and act accordingly:

• We can accept their presence, surrender the desire to rid ourselves of these nuisances at all costs, and live life in spite of them.
• We can work around ‘em.
• And maybe, just maybe, we can work with them and learn to appreciate them as a part of life.

Not buying it? Well, ask your kids (or, if you’re like me, your inner child) if you don’t believe me. To a five-year-old, fools are tops! Life would be so boring without them. I know I certainly couldn’t imagine childhood without the foolish antics of Wile E. Coyote, the cats Sylvester and Tom, or the ultimate animated fool, Mr. Homer Simpson (not only a fool, but a kal ve-khoymer as well!).

And what about the fools’ botanical brethren? Surely even an innocent child would be hard-pressed to find any value in the wretched weed. Right? Not so fast! Despite my anxious aversion to all things great and small, even I couldn’t make sense of my mother’s deep-seated (or -seeded?) disdain for weeds. Many a childhood summer, while my goyish peers displayed stunning feats of hand-eye coordination, I would sit for hours, my chubby legs crossed, my eyes squinting into the summer sun, making crowns and necklaces out of those magical, ever-present, downright-dandy yellow “flowers.”

What can I say? Even weeds have their place. Look to the children, people. …

Just keep them the hell away from me.

Appropriate usage?

While strolling side-by-side on a pair of treadmills, Gloria is venting to her best friend Joy about her good-for-nothing-headache-of-a-son Aaron; a practice that seems as old as their almost-40-year friendship…

Gloria: “I tell you, Joy, it’s the same story with that kid! He’s 52-years-old and we’re still waiting for him to grow up! No wonder Danny’s finished with him—he thinks I’m crazy to keep taking Aaron’s calls, but, Joy, you know this, as a mother, I just can’t—Oy, I suffer for that one! Really I do!”

Joy: “You don’t have to tell me, Glo, I’ve watched you and suffered along with you! Your Danny doesn’t want to hear about his Luftmensch of a son, so guess who has to! It’s not another one of those pyramid schemes is it? I love you, Glo, but I’m running out of closet space and my grandkids are getting wise to my regifting efforts at Chanukah ... really, there are only so many craft projects a seven-year-old can do with aluminum foil and back issues of Motocross Monthly!”

Gloria: “Tell me about it! Danny and I are still eating through the aftermath of Aaron’s foray into VegeVital! Oh, Joy … where did I go wrong?”

Joy: “Glo, don’t you dare! Look at Alan! You raised him under the same roof and he’s a true mensch … and a podiatrist yet! Aaron is not your fault. How many times do I have to tell you? Fools and weeds grow without rain.”

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A shlamazel falt oifen ruken un tseklapt zikh dem noz.

Fun Fact! Typically we see shlamazel translated as fool because it’s the closest thing the English language has to offer. Yiddish is heavy into negative terminology, and, not surprisingly, it offers a healthy array of vocabulary for the many, many specific kinds of fools. (Very specific.) Shlamazel refers to the unlucky fool. A more appropriate translation might be loser but that probably seems a tad mean, even for us.

Now just wait a minute. Before all you diehard physicists out there dismiss this perfectly good adage on principle, let me explain. As you may have gathered, if we Jews are intent on making a statement, we’re sure as hell not going to let trivial details such as the “laws” of physics and “logic” impede our mission! The Yiddish language boasts a multitude of richly hyperbolic claims about fools. Think of it this way: they’re kind of like our version of “Yo Mama” jokes. Exaggeration is key!

And sure, our proverbs about fools may seem foolishly impossible, but can you honestly say you’ve never met a fool who was just downright impossibly foolish? Huh? See what I did there?

Hello?! Wait a minute ... you’re not even listening, are you?!! Oh, I see—I lost you at shlamazel, didn’t I? Trying to place it are you? No, it wasn’t the Yiddish word that was comically and embarrassingly mispronounced by the shiksa-of-all-shiksas and Newsweek’s own “Queen of Rage,” Michele Bachmann. (That was chutzpah.) It dates a little further back. Let me help you out; say it with me:

”One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!
Schlemiel! Shlamazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!”
[Aaaand, cue the music!]

Satisfied? Now for those of you for whom all that ditty did was trigger a memory of that bit in Wayne’s World that you never understood, it’s time that you Google it. I’m not saying the song will make any more sense (all it amounts to is a reference to two subtly different varieties of fool* and an entrepreneurial rabbit stew), but at the very least you’ll discover, as everyone should, that Penny Marshall hung out in front of the camera for quite a while before she joined her brother, Gary, behind it.

I live to educate, don’t mention it.

Appropriate usage?

Over Mahjong, the ladies discuss the weekly goings-on. Ethel, the resident yenta, her finger on the pulse as usual, speaks first…

Ethel: “Nu? Did you hear?”

Sharon: “About what, Ethel? Spit it out, already! We know you’re dying to tell!”

Ethel: “Feh! You love it! Well, Marty Jacobs had quite the week!”

Sarah: “Now what happened??”

Rina: [tsk] “That poor shlamazel. ... ”

Ethel: “He was in the exercise room the other day; you know how he loves that Stairmaster!”

Sharon: “Oy! Does he ever! I’ve never seen a man so content on climbing nowhere!”

Sarah: “Personally, I think it’s odd that he uses a ladies’ machine. I’m only saying. ... Didn’t that Suzanne Sommers invent it? If I were Diana Jacobs, I’d be mortified that my husband exercises on a ladies’ machine! What a shonda!“

Rina: “Oh, Sarah! Join the 21st century, will you? And that Suzanne did the Thigh Mister, you dummy! And that was ages ago! Didn’t do me a lot of good. I was on that thing day and night after Jakey was born. I think Stan uses it as a tie rack now—”

Sharon: “Anyway! What happened to Marty Jacobs?! No wonder we can’t play a full game! We can’t even finish a fakakta story!”

Ethel: “Well! The number four Stairmaster, by the ficus? Well, it’s been out of order since Merna Hellerman thought she was Tonya Harding or somebody and took it up to level 10 and burned the motor out. Well, of all people, Marty Jacobs goes waltzing up to the thing and, one-two-three, the next thing you know his back is out and he’s got a shiner like in the movies!!!”

In Chorus: [gasp] “They couldn’t put a sign!?!?!”

Ethel: “That’s the thing! That young one, Ramone, who’s in charge of the towels? Doles them out like they’re gold. He put a sign and everything, very official, but as it turns out, the Goldberg’s son was down from Manhattan this weekend—the mensch, Jeffery, the Financial Analyst, not the other one, anyway, the one with the wife who swears she hasn’t had work done? Anyway, his kids are running around wild and apparently they ran out of coloring books and decided to move on to David’s sign! It’s probably hanging on the Goldbergs’ Frigidaire as we speak!”

[Laughter all around]

Rina: “Oh, Ethel! You’re terrible!!“

Sharon: “Wait a minute, back to Marty—he fell on his tuchus but wound up with a black eye?! How on Earth did he do that??!”

Ethel: “Oh, typical Marty. When he fell backwards, so did his fancy Discman he’s always showing off—the one he ordered from the internet on the epay? Anyway, that clunker came crashing down and got him right in the eye! Diane’s having a conniption because her niece’s wedding is this coming weekend and she’s afraid he’s going to ruin the pictures. She’s trying to convince him to wear some of her powder! ‘What a shlamazel’ is right!“

Rina: [screaming laughter] “Oh my G-d!!!! Girls! It’s just like that saying my father always used to love! How does it go? A fool falls on his back and bruises his nose!”

[Roaring laughter all around]

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