If, as Sylvia Seaman claims, anyone can be a Jewish Grandmother because it is simply ""a state of mind,"" this book will discourage an awful lot of people. This Jewish Grandmother is neither funny nor appealing. Seaman's humor centers on the bathroom (her husband rushing ""upstairs to pee""), sweat, one-upping other grandparents, mothers-of-daughters with designs on her medical school-bound son. She tells of trying pot with one granddaughter and having her nose fixed with another; she natters about a grandson in a commune, and a son's vasectomy. Seaman herself cannot seem to decide how ""Jewish"" to be, jumping from perfect prose to Molly-Goldberg argot (""toward the psychologists, believe me, I got plenty hostility""). Her few amusing thoughts: it is impolite to tell people that you paid for granddaughter's violin lessons, ""there are other ways you can see to it they'll find out""; Grandma needs ""one well-trained spy"" per family, preferably a four-year-old. And, for a grandson's bar mitzvah, she envisions a map of Israel made of chocolate and vanilla halvah with nuts for lakes. Otherwise a strain.