Judy Rose

Custom Writing & Writing Repair Services

Here are a few short pieces I wrote purely for my own enjoyment.

I'm sharing them just for fun...

NEWS FLASH! DOGS CAN READ

At least that’s the inescapable conclusion I came to when I opened Sunday’s newspaper.

I spend a lot of time thinking about writing, and on occasion, I’ll spot something relevant in the paper that’s worth sharing. Today’s item isn’t an article or an editorial. I found it in the coupon circular. It’s an ad for a new product called Fortune Snookies (doggie cookie snacks). Each one has something written on it, like those candy hearts you see around Valentine’s Day that say BE MINE or I LOVE YOU. Only these say things like “The bark stops here” or “I only fetch Snookies.”

I know you’re going to say that this product is aimed at the human who actually goes to the supermarket and shells out the money. But I am convinced that the manufacturer truly intends for the cookies to be read by DOGS! Because right there in the ad, in big bold print, it says: “WOW! Different fortunes in every box. Read ’em and eat ’em!” So what other conclusion can I draw?

Still, I’m left with a few questions:

1) The ad includes a coupon for $2.00 off. If they’re willing to knock $2.00 off the price, just how much do these things cost? The package is only 8.4 ounces. By my calculation, that makes the price at least $4.00 per pound. I can buy top sirloin steak on sale for $2.77 per pound. It may not have anything written on it, but we’re talking about a treat here. If I were a dog, which one would wake up my salivary glands—cookies or steak?

2) If, as I conclude above, the messages are intended for dogs, wouldn’t your pooch have to be very nearsighted to read them while his nose is in the bowl? Are these cookies going to spawn a whole new industry in doggie reading glasses? Will we be seeing doggie optometrists selling fashion eyewear for Fido? What if you’re just tossing the cookies to him one by one? Can he read them on the fly? These are some practical considerations that don’t appear to have been addressed by the manufacturer.

3) Some of the messages shown in the ad are “Life is Like a Box of Snookies” and “You Had Me at HERE BOY.” When was the last time your dog sat through Forrest Gump or Jerry McGuire?

4) Why are these things in English? It’s highly disputed whether dogs understand English at all. Wouldn’t it make more sense to print WOOF, or RUFF, or YIP on the cookies? If these messages are supposed to be amusing, how’s poor Fluffy supposed to get the joke if the cookie is written in a foreign language? It’s just not fair.

I think I have to write to the CCLU (Canine Civil Liberties Union) about this.

Hey, Spot! Come here and translate this for me.

Even I need help with writing sometimes!

 Judy Rose, 2006

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In 1995, after years of managing machinery projects, I decided to go after a more creative job. This intro provided some history and served as a sample of my writing style. However, I was presented with an offer I couldn’t refuse: managing more machinery projects. I always liked this little piece, and tucked it away in my humor portfolio.

Introduction to My Résumé

(including a few jobs you won’t find there)

I was a recent Brooklyn College graduate when I scored very high on a civil service exam. The Social Security Administration came and got me. It saved me the trouble of looking for a job, which was a good thing because I had majored in music. I went into training to become a Claims Representative and ended up working for the Administration for five years while my husband, Michael, attended graduate school at the University of Michigan.

After Michael got his degree we moved to Florida, where he taught college. I worked on campus only until I could afford to have all my molars crowned, an ordeal which, once accomplished, led directly to my resignation from the hazardous position of receptionist at the university police station. This job was not the highlight of my career, although I did develop a certain skill at convincing students to save their breath and just pay their parking fines. I am also glad to report that nobody ever jumped across the counter to strangle me, I never got shot, and I still have the teeth.

Several years later, we returned to New York, and I, badly in need of work, took a position as back-office assistant to a proctologist. Six months of that was enough, and I was happy to start a new job as a secretary in a large Japanese trading company. At least everybody had pants on. I transferred to the Los Angeles branch of the company, and remained with them until April 1995, when due to business reversals (as they say), my department was closed and all the employees were let go.

Specifics will follow, as will information about my side-career as an animal rights volunteer. I have been blessed with the chance to do some very rewarding things, and remain eternally grateful that the young tiger who made an interesting hole in my leg wasn’t particularly hungry.

Judy Rose, 1995

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And for those of you who remember the 1988 World Series triumph

of Dodger pitcher Orel “Bulldog” Hershiser...

I’m from Brooklyn. And although I’ve lived in Los Angeles for about 11 years, I still have that I’m-from-Brooklyn feeling in my heart. But I can never go back there. You see, I rooted for the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1988 World Series, and it would have been okay, except for the fact that they won.

Now, I loved the Brooklyn Dodgers. I was just a kid, and I still remember the sound of Vin Scully’s voice coming out of the radio in the kitchen while I played punchball with my friends in the driveway. And I remember that if the pitcher was doing well, my mother wouldn’t change anything. By that I mean that if she was sitting in the living room watching the game on TV, and she had her shoes off, then she wouldn’t put them back on because she didn't want to “change the luck.” So if the doorbell rang, or a neighbor called to her over the backyard fence, or a truck came crashing through the front window, someone else was going to have to take care of it because she couldn’t put her shoes on because the Dodgers were winning. It made perfect sense to all of us. But that was 1958.

In 1959, a fellow named O’Malley earned himself a place right next to Hitler in the history books. He took the Brooklyn Dodgers away from us.

Did we root for the L.A. Dodgers? We hung on for a little while. But then came the Mets. During the early years, when the Mets were a joke and there was nothing much worth rooting about, the Dodgers were all we had. (Don't even think about mentioning the G----s or the Y-----s.) But then came 1969, and the Mets were a miracle that came from nowhere to win the World Series. And it was all over for the Dodgers. They became poison.

So now we're back to 1988 and the Dodgers are in the National League playoffs against the Mets—and the Mets are a great team. And the Dodgers are a bunch of goofs. And I haven’t been paying attention for years. But there's this guy named Kirk Gibson and he hits a home run in the 12th inning of one of the playoff games, and suddenly, I’m a Dodger fan again.

So I call Brooklyn to talk to my Mom. “How ’bout that Gibson?” I say. What a mistake!

“I can’t believe you’re actually rooting for the Dodgers,” she starts. In my whole life, she has never spoken so cruelly to me, and it hurts. I won’t even tell you what she had to say about Tommy Lasorda, except that she’s been reading his lips as he sits in the dugout, and she’s not thrilled by what she perceives to be his favorite word. “And they keep spitting,” she says. It’s useless.

“I don’t really care that much, Ma,” I say. “Don’t take it so seriously.” But she does.

My brother gets on the phone. “When did your mother become a baseball monster?” I ask. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t even know these people any more.

When the playoffs were over and the Dodgers clinched the pennant, I didn’t call Brooklyn. My Mom’s words still rang in my ears. “Even if they win the pennant,” she had said, “the A’s will mop the floor with them.” Ouch!

So the Series began. A fiercely competitive young pitcher, Orel ("Bulldog") Hershiser, became a super star. I was enjoying baseball with the same excitement that my family had back in the '50s. But I didn’t call Brooklyn. Until today.

Last night, the Dodgers won the World Series, and it was so sweet because that team of goofy, injured, no-talent players was brilliant. So I dialed Brooklyn and said, “I called to get some respect for the Dodgers.”

“Bull-s**t!” my 75-year old mother says to me from 3,000 miles away.

“No,” I say. “Bull-dog!”

Judy Rose, October 1988

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