There is an old Jewish joke that goes something like this:

            Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are sitting by the country club pool, shvitzing and sunning themselves. It’s 85º and they’re fanning themselves with sheets of paper from the Daily News. When, all of a sudden, Mrs. Cohen, she starts to moan. 

            “Oy vey, what is it Mrs. Cohen?” cries Mrs. Levy. “What’s with the tears? Can I get you something? A glass iced tea? A Coke, maybe?”

            Mrs. Cohen. She starts to weep.

            “What? What is it? It’s the sun maybe? I’ll call Dr. Schwartz. He’ll be here before you can even say ‘Jackie Robinson’!”

            “Oy vey, Mrs. Levy. Tanks, but no tanks,” Mrs. Cohen replies through her tears. Did I say tears? A faucet … a river … a waterfall! Then, Mrs. Cohen, she pulls a Kleenex from between her sagging breasts, pushes herself up with her elbows, and wipes away her tears.

            “Ai-yai-yai! You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Levy. You couldn’t believe such a calamity. Such tsuris I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy!”

            “So? So what is it already?”

            “It’s my daughter-in-law.” Mrs. Cohen sighs.

            “Your daughter-in-law? I don’t believe it! How could such a thing be? That beauty? with the dark hair? and the eyes? and the white teeth? and a nose so straight you’d think she was a Protestant maybe? So? What could be so bad?”

            “I’m telling you. It’s a curse, that’s what it is. Everything my son gives her, she don’t want. He gives her pearls, she wants diamonds. Pearls ain’t good enough. He says “let’s go to Montreal” she says “Quebec.” He takes her to Rome, and she shleps him to Paris! Oy vey, Mrs. Levy. You shouldn’t know from such a heartache!” 

            And the tears are back. Like Nairobi she’s crying. Mrs. Levy gasps and spills her rum and coke all over her brand-new seersucker robe she bought from Loman’s on sale for only $6.99.

            “Oy gevalt! Thanks God, I don’t have a daughter-in-law like that! I couldn’t stand it. She should only grow like an onion, with her head in the ground and her feet in the air!”

            By this time, the sun is sinking and they’re feeling better. But Mrs. Levy … she begins to cry. Very silently … shtill … but you can see her chest, it’s going up and down and up and down. A regular steam engine.

            “Mrs. Levy!” Mrs. Cohen cries. “What is it?”

            “Oy oy oy, Mrs. Cohen, I was just thinking how bad it’s been for you. Me? I have just the opposite. My daughter, she don’t ask for too much. She ain’t spoiled like those girls that shop at Macy’s instead of Moishe’s on Pitkin Avenue. And, Gott’s a dank, my son-in-law, he’s so good he’s like a dream! My daughter wants pearls, he brings her diamonds. She says a weekend in Montreal would be great. He takes her to Quebec! She thinks Rome is romantic, he takes her to Paris.

            Mrs. Cohen, she’s not so happy. She clasps her hands and looks up to the sky and gives a geshrei so loud you could hear her in Bensonhurst! “So Gott? What did I do to deserve this? Where’s your pity? How about a little rachmones for an old lady?” And Mrs. Cohen, she falls back into her chair so hard you’d think she’ll break the seat and crash on the sidewalk, so hard her kishkas would fall out! Take my word. You ain’t never seen such a fall. You shouldn’t know from it.

            Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are laying back and shaking their heads. They both are thinking that friends like this, they come only once in a lifetime. Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are counting how many once in a lifetime friends they got!

“So,” you say, “this a joke?” Well kids, maybe there’s a lesson here. I ain’t talking. I’m only saying, be careful you marry someone who treats you good. Just like me. OK?