Several of the ladies raised their hands but before I could call on any of them, Mr. Goldman said, “I’ll go,” and was up on his feet reading.

A Gal from Paramus, by Abe Goldman, he began, with a wink at his beloved.

There once was a gal from Paramus

Who was beautiful, charming, and glamorous

The first time I saw her

I had to adore her

And that’s why my heart is so amorous

Then he bowed deeply from the waist and sat down.

“Oh, Abie, that’s bee-u-ti-ful,” was Goldie’s glowing assessment of his talents.

Alas, she was alone in her praise.

“For crying out loud, Abe,” Mrs. Pechter sneered. “This isn’t a poetry class.”

“That wasn’t a poem,” he sneered right back. “It was a limerick.”

“Limerick, shmimerick. It doesn’t belong in this class. Right, Jaine?”

“Actually, Mrs. Pechter has a point. From now on, I want only memoirs. And only read when I call on you, Mr. Goldman.”

“Not only that,” Mrs. Rubin piped up, “it didn’t rhyme right.”

Mr. Goldman managed to pry his eyes off Goldie and glared at Mrs. Rubin.

“Whaddaya mean, it didn’t rhyme right?”

Mrs. Rubin wilted slightly under his glare but held her own.

“Paramus,” she said firmly, “does not rhyme with glamorous.”

“Or amorous,” Mrs. Zahler added.

“Sure it does,” said Mr. Goldman. “Paramus. Glam’rus. Am’rus.”

The others groaned.

“I’ve got two words for you,” Mrs. Pechter said. “Im Possible.”

“Okay, class,” I said, beginning to feel, as I so often do at Shalom, like a Madison Square Garden referee, “who wants to read next?”

I spent the rest of the class listening to proper essays. About trips to Hawaii; beloved relatives; and, from Mrs. Fine, The Time My Daughter-in-Law Set Fire to Her Kitchen. Don’t Ask.

But truth be told, I was only half listening. I simply couldn’t take my eyes off the lovebirds. As much as I tried not to, my eyes kept darting to Mr. Goldman, with that ridiculous mustache of his, peeling the tin foil off Hershey’s Kisses for his Glam’rus Gal from Paramus.

When I got home from Shalom, I found five messages on my answering machine from the L.A. Times, wanting to interview me for a story they were writing. I pressed the erase button and bleeped them into oblivion. No way was I talking to the press.

Then I wandered into the kitchen to get myself an apple (okay, an Eskimo Pie). I was about to open the freezer when I looked down at Prozac’s food bowl and gasped in surprise. The little angel had actually finished her Lite ’N Lively Liver Tidbits! Every last one of them!

I raced into the dining nook, where she was dozing on my computer keyboard.

“Oh, Prozac, honey,” I cooed, scooping her up in my arms, “I’m so proud of you.”