No, not really. Please to continue.
It's a variation on a quote. You'll get it in a few minutes (with any luck).
Tonight, I saw on facebook a quiz (one of the singularly stupidest things about facebook) to measure one's "Jewishness". You wind up with a score--like 81% Jewish, or 93% Jewish--based on five questions, which just doesn't even make mathematical sense. And that's not even mentioning the fact that one of the questions, regarding how many candles are on a menorah, didn't even have the right answer as one of the choices.
So I've been sitting here thinking, because you know, this is not the first time my Jewishness has been called into question. And I'm thinking that it doesn't matter one whisker if you had a bar or bat mitzvah. It doesn't make any difference if you eat chopped liver or matzoh ball soup. It's irrelevant whether you light candles on Hanukkah or fast on Yom Kippur. What matters is what makes you laugh. Oh. And songs, too.
You see, it is a little known fact that, among my extensive arsenal of lyrics and songs which by the way have little if any known usefulness is a special slot for one Allan Sherman. A whole lot of Allan Sherman (just stickin' with the sour old lady theme here). And, as you know if you know me at all, that library-of-sorts just isn't going anywhere. I'm stuck with it, ready with a mere cue.
If you don't know Allan Sherman or his songs, well, let me just say you have missed out on a valuable piece of Americana. No, knowing "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" doesn't count. That song has passed into the common parlance, into the knowledge of the masses. Everyone knows it. It doesn't count as knowing Allan Sherman. On the other hand, if you know the date on which the liverwurst was put in the case at the delicatessen store or if you know how tall the martian gal was, you're well on your way. And if you don't, there's still hope for you. You can always hire me for private tutoring. I am also available for parties.
And although I just said it didn't count, Hell0 Muddah, Hello Fadduh (yes, it's Muddah and Fadduh, not Mother and Father. Puleeze.) is really the driving force for this post tonight. Because I'm thinking about camp this summer. I'm thinking about one of Phoebe's friends who is at sleepaway camp this week, about all the kids who are at sleepaway or daycamp this week. And the song is ringing in my head--that's how it always works. They come unbidden, when an association autodials them up in my Neuro-Rolodex (oh god, I'm realizing that people might not know what a Rolodex is anymore either. No, it's not a watch.) and there I am, walking around singing, embarassing my daughter (as I have been recently informed. Yes, it has started already). I am thinking about how I had thought of trying to arrange a riding camp for Phoebe this week. I had thought about whether she should re-enroll at the day camp she attended last summer, the one with the lake and swimming lessons. I am thinking of the swim tags we have for swimming in the unheated town pools and the local reservoirs. I am thinking of summer. And I am sitting here, listening to the thunder, watching the pouring rain. We had 26 days of rain in June. And today, July 1, it was raining harder than ever. How could anyone not think of Allan Sherman?
So, with no further ado, here you go. It might not count, but it's called for.
(psssst. It's October 1st. And 5'2". Just so's you know.)