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If you grew up Jewish, perhaps:

The only good advice that your mother ever gave you was: “Go. You might meet somebody.”

You grew up thinking it was normal for someone to shout “Are you OK?” through the bathroom door when you were in there longer than three minutes.

Your family dog responded to commands in Yiddish.

You experienced the phenomenon of 50 people fitting into a 10-foot-wide dining room, hitting each other with plastic plates trying to get to a deli tray.

You had at least one female relative who penciled on eyebrows that were always asymmetrical.

You were as tall as your grandmother by age 7.

You were as tall as your grandfather by age 7 1/2.

You never knew anyone whose last name didn’t end in “berg,” “baum,” “man,” “stein” or “witz.”

You were surprised to discover that wine doesn’t always taste like cranberry sauce.

You can look at gefilte fish and not turn green.

You buy two big bags of hot bagels on every trip to New York City and ship them home via FedEx

Please try to concentrate

Izzy is in his easy chair reading the latest issue of j. when his wife Hetty returns home. She goes straight into the family room and says to him, “Izzy?”

As usual there is no reply from Izzy, or any other form of recognition that his wife has returned.

“Izzy, are you listening to me?” she asks loudly.

Izzy mumbles something incoherent and continues reading the j.

“Izzy, put that paper down for once and listen to me,” she says. “I have to tell you something.”

Izzy lowers the j. a few inches, but still does not look directly at Hetty.

“Izzy,” she says, “I went to see Dr. Levy this afternoon.”

“So how is he?” asks Izzy.

© david minkoff