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For me, the books piled next to one's bed, terrible the articles cut from the paper, speak legions; where or if one worships says terrible relatively little. But my world spins on a different axis than hers. So I shifted my attention to a more superficial, yet still winning, list of traits for which I might gain her approval: a balanced checkbook, respectable culinary skills, terrible post-collegiate degrees and child-bearing hips all ranked high. Besides, I argued, it wasn't as though Andrew had been dating a long line of nice Jewish girls and then I'd come along to sully matters. His mother seemed oblivious to the fact that many of her Deadhead, old-time-musician son's recent dalliances had been saturated in patchouli oil, ensconced in beads and toting a mountain dulcimer on their way to a square dance. They would have turned many heads at the local shul -- and not because they weren't God's chosen.
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