Remember ol’ Mr. Mean and Nasty John Galliano? You know, the fashion designer who was on top of the gilded world until he was caught on video gabbling about how much he loves Hitler?

Well, he’s a Chasidic Jew now.

No, not really. But to make his grand public reappearance at the Oscar de la Renta show at Fashion Week, he donned the garb of a Flatbush yeshiva student — complete with peroxided peyes.

WTF, you may wonder, as you should. As many did. However, there are some who believe Galliano is just misunderstood.

New York Post fashion editor Serena French defended Galliano, writing that he draws inspiration from the world around him. She pointed out that in 2000, the white hot designer launched a line based on the homeless people he observed having a wonderful time eating out of garbage cans and otherwise freely gallivanting around Paris.

“In his own way, he was attempting to show sympathy and a connection with the very people he has offended,” explains French, with the same logic one might use to justify the presence of little girls’ panties in the possession of a child molester.

But the most shocking defender of Galliano’s painful sartorial choices last week had to be ADL president Abe Foxman. I would have expected ol’ Foxy to snatch the hat off Galliano’s head, smack him in a face with a glove and shout “Shanda!,” but no — apparently, the Super Stylish Anti-Semite and the Man Who Is So Sensitive to Jewish Stereotypes He Lambasted Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi Character are BFFs now:

“[Galliano] has spent hours with me and with others in the European Jewish community, including rabbis and Holocaust scholars, in an effort to better understand himself and to learn from his past mistakes,” Foxman said in an ADL press release. “He is trying very hard to atone.”

Fine, Jonny. But atone by writing a check to the ADL and fasting with the rest of us at Yom Kippur. And leave the blue ascot at home, nu?

Well. It’s over.

The Torah portion was chanted, the bagels were snarfed, the chairs were raised. For the blessing of a boy becoming a man, tears were shed. For the joy of a family surrounded by loved ones, hugs and handshakes and happiness abounded.

The nachas I am shepping cannot be contained. I have much more to write and reflect on about this weekend, bookended by rain but stupendous and sunny on the days that mattered and accompanied by spring’s first blooms. I’m still decompressing, but I am so full of gratitude for everyone who came from near and far to witness our blue-haired boy on the bima. (Yes, he specifically requested a black tallis.)

The stress and confusion leading up to it all had me worried that the meaning would get lost in the last-minute menu planning and finding a minute to paint my sad smashed fingers and their bruised nailbeds. And El Yenta Man’s home improvement tear that was well worth the effort but had me in gastric distress when he suggested we retile the bathroom three days before everyone arrived (he settled for new hand towels.) Oh, and the bar mitzvah boy’s refusal to put on the black dress pants bought for the Friday night service because they were too “blousy.”

But the moment I stood with my mother, my new sister-in-law and my daughter to light the Shabbat candles, I felt deeply connected with our Jewish faith, heritage and family. I think everyone there would agree that it was a holy event, especially when the kid accidentally skipped a stair while carrying the Torah down from the bima but magically missed falling on his face. If that’s not a testament that God was on the guest list I don’t know what is.

The rest of the guests have gone home now, and the bar mitzvah boy and his sister are back at school (both with newly-pierced ears, could be a new neo-Judaic tribal tradition, nu?) and my work week is in full swing. But looking out into the pews into the faces of our community this past Shabbat, I understood more than ever before what it means to be a very lucky and blessed person.

Being a Jewish mother is the best thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t take a minute of it for granted.

Here we go into the last Shabbos before what has become known around these parts as “The Big B.M.”

Yes, total blasphemy to mix the sacred with the scatalogical, but the Yenta family has always met overwhelming circumstances with poopy humor. Sue us.

I love this painting by Yemen-born, Boca Raton-based Chaim Parchi because it really captures the colorful chaos of our home. Thank God for Shabbat, for a day of rest, for a weekly piece of the sacred in the shitty.

It’s been a difficult week preparing for the big bar mitzvah, and I find myself wound up pretty tight. There are still hospitality bags to stuff, service booklets to staple and haircuts to wrangle. RSVPs are still trickling in from invitations sent in NOVEMBER. The party menu has not been finalized. The next person who tells me to “Relax and just enjoy the process” is going to get a rotten banana in the ear.

I confess to yelling, crying, pacing, hissing, moaning, sighing and basically spazzing my way through the last few days. I also crushed my fingers in the new garage door, likely due to my unmindfulness around the “the process.” Surely I won’t be the first mother of the bar mitzvah to only have seven fingernails, right?

But today, while I was suffering over how to make a two-sided copy come out kosher-style (that would be backwards, like a prayer book) I came across this quote from the Talmud:

May you live to see your world fulfilled, may you be our link to future worlds, and may your hope encompass all the generations to be. May your heart conceive with understanding, may your mouth speak wisdom and your tongue be stirred with sounds of joy. May your gaze be straight and sure, your eyes be lit with Torah’s lamp, your face aglow with heaven’s radiance, your lips expressing words of knowledge, and your inner self alive with righteousness. And may you always rush in eagerness to hear the words of One more ancient than all time. ~ Talmud, Brachot 17A

Sums up what I have been missing as the bar mitzvah boy’s mother, and all and everything I want my dear son to know and feel with all his heart.

While I’m still rushing around this afternoon, it is with eagerness that I look forward to sundown, to break challah quietly with my dear El Yenta Man and our unbelievably beautiful children this evening before next week, when we will celebrate raucously and joyously with our beloved extended family.

I am so incredibly proud to be a Jewish mother, and every ounce of effort we’ve put into the upcoming simcha is worth it, bruised fingers and all.

Savannah Jewish Film Festival starts tonight!

Thought I’d share this piece I wrote for the day job about the festival with my dear Yo readers. Even if you can’t attend, there’s an interview with director Roberta Grossman that I’m particularly proud of. Her historic and hilarious look at Judaism’s most famous tune has inspired much dancing around the Yenta table — and with the Big Bar Mitzvah coming up, we need the practice.

Oh, you mean you don’t know about Grossman’s awesome film Hava Nagila: The Movie? Let’s rectify that shanda immediately:

Now, go read my article (but only if you feel like it):

The thing that you need to know about Jewish film festivals is that they’re not all about the Holocaust.

True, the mass murder of six million Jewish people under Hitler’s evil hand has given rise to a seemingly endless slew of acclaimed yet heartrending films: Au Revoir Les Enfants, Schindler’s List and last year’s Sarah’s Key only scratch the surface. It’s been less than a century since WWII, and while the world’s Holocaust survivors reach the end of their blessedly long lives, new stories of tragedy and bravery continue to emerge.

But the Jewish story is much bigger than the 20th-century horror of Eastern Europe, and the films it inspires reach beyond its lens. Global themes of identity, celebration and meddlesome in–laws work their way into the canon and can be pondered at the Savannah Jewish Film Festival, taking place Jan. 24–Feb. 2 at the Jewish Educational Alliance.

Read the rest here…

I like to think of myself a pretty low-maintenance gal. No Real Housewives Botox parties around here, and I’ve had the same pot of Benefit eye concealer since my long-ago days at skirt! magazine.(Though my current job is far more stimulating to the brain, I sure do miss the free swag.*sigh*.)

I do have my vanities, of course: I don’t leave the house without penciling in eyebrows since the ones God gave me, She taketh away with the flood of hormonal chaos called “after 40. ”

Also, I’ve been using eye cream since I was 12, but that’s only because my bubbie put the fear of wrinkles in me like other grandparents preach virginity. She took me aside one day and handed me a tiny jar, saying “You don’t want to be able to do this, do you?” as she pulled her eyelid between her thumb and index finger and stretched it past her nose. Scared me so bad I always keep a tube in my purse to dab on during the day.

So I do love certain products, as long as they’re not tested on animals or shilled by teenagers with fakey boobies. As long as it’s naturally-derived and doesn’t require needles, I’m cool with cushioning the aging process. I’m as gorgeous as I’m gonna get in this life, and I attribute it mostly to excellent genes, a rabid protection of my sleep cycle (which includes ear plugs,) lots of water, yoga, massive amounts of backyard kale and sexy massages courtesy of El Yenta Man. But no balloon lips or dessicated pig hormones for me.

That’s why I’m completely loving Rachelle Weisberger’s new book Biblical Beauty: Ancient Secrets and Modern Solutions — it delves back in the day to see how the matriarchs kept it real with natural materials we all have access to today.

Part One covers Outer Beauty, invoking a biblical beauty at the beginning of each chapter: Bathsheba introduces us to the secrets of bathing and body care, Judith helps us learn what weapons to combat hair problems, and 100 year-old mother Sarah teaches us about healthy aging. Full of sage Torah interpretations, historical nuggets (who knew the ancient Egyptians used dog toes and donkey hooves on their hair?), professional tips (moisturizer is most effective when applied to damp skin) and recipes to make at home.

But it’s Part Two that really gets good. Calling on the feminine leadership of Esther, Deborah and Miriam, Weisberger defines true beauty as something that comes from the inside. No Kardashian is ever gonna tell you that, yo.

An accomplished aesthetician and makeup artist from New York who specializes in helping women recover from cancer and other post-operative procedures, Weisberger — a gorgeous grandma herself — carries the theme that no amount of kohl or Brazilian butt lifts can make a lady truly lovely:

Looking beautiful is more than having a wrinkle-free complexion, perfect hair and flawless makeup. True beauty is a reflection of one’s physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. Maintaining a healthy lifestyle, being socially connected and forging a spiritual awakening can generate an inner glow that illuminates the face, outperforming any cosmetic enhancement.

Dig it. Though Biblical Beauty concentrates on the women of the Old Testament, it’s not just for Jewish mamas — after all, these are everyone’s matriarchs.

And I’m grateful that my own bubbie and mother taught me good beauty practices to use over a lifetime — who knows what kind of sea hag I’d be without those decades of eye cream?

I have so many problems with Wal-Mart I don’t know where to begin, but hawking haredi rabbi costumes complete with peyes and fur hat is pretty much at the top of list. Well, right behind how their unfair slavery labor practices. And the way anything I’ve ever had to buy there breaks immediately.

Jewish mothers get the cheapy Wal-Mart treatment, too. There’s actually two versions: The Rachel and and the Rivkah, which has polyester camels sewn onto it. So not kosher. ‘Cause you know that sh*t is made in China.

Feeling fairly famisht about this: Is it Wal-Mart’s attempt to break into the enormous but thus far invisible Orthodox Purim costume market? Or will we see hundreds of lil’ rebbes roaming the streets next Halloween? Beats zombies, I guess.

I blinked and it’s 2013!

Here’s hoping all of you had a comfy transition into the post-Mayan era. (If you’d like to read my musings on the Mayan UnApocalypse as well as my aversion to New Year’s Resolutions, I invite you to check out this and this over at the day job.)

After some deep downtime, the Yenta Family must now kick it into high gear. We’ve got a little over five weeks until the boy’s bar mitzvah, and the list of things that aren’t done is giving me an ulcer. If I didn’t have Mindy of M. Nash Events helping me keep track of the many hundreds of details, I’d have cancelled the whole thing by now and demanded that we elope the whole simcha to Vegas. (Oooh oooh! Yo Yenta’s Express Bar Mitzvah Tavern and Tabernacle! Now that’s a business idea!)

Really, Mindy’s been so amazing. I used to think event planners were for real housewives and politicians, but without her decor ideas and gentle reminders to make a song list for the DJ, we’d be sipping Manischewitz in a bald room to Pandora come Shabbos Mishpatim. (Speaking of the boy’s torah portion, remind me to remind him to write his speech already!)

She’s really helped me to stay grounded through all the menu planning and the rabbi meetings and the guest list finagling. She’s also reigned me in from insane budget decisions (guess what, son? We’re renting a white tiger for your bar mitzvah, but sorry, we drained your college fund!) I can’t help dreaming big now that there’s the fabulous new glossy drool book Mazel Magazine to live up to. (Please do not let Yenta Boy see the custom sneakers!)

I feel OK that things are coming together. I hope it’ll be a fun simcha without being too schmaltzy, that the meaning of the day will shine as bright as the boy’s fancy new suit. Every night, I read a little bit of Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin’s book, Putting God on the Guest List, to remind us why we’re doing this in the first place. Just thinking about the fact that El Yenta Man and I have raised our little boy to the point that he’s old enough and smart enough to stand on the bima and read trope (the little squiggly lines on the Torah scroll) gets me all ferklempt. I’m not even going to attempt mascara on the Big Day.

In the meantime, we still have to figure out party favors. I dunno, do you think Mindy will approve of this t-shirt from KosherHam? Me neither.

There are many things I don’t love about Christmas.

First off, those ridiculous fake antlers that people put on their cars. And that infernal Salvation Army bell ringing – whywhywhy do they keep ringing at you no matter how much money you put in there? I swear I’d drop a fifty just to be able to get from the front door of Target to my car without feeling like I was going to be mowed over by a bunch of rattle-wielding toddlers hopped up on candy canes.

And then there’s the whole frickin’ Elf on the Shelf mishegoss that is supposed to inspire good behavior in the children but as far as I can tell is just another way for martyr mothers to create messes that they then have to clean up in the morning, when it is far too early for vodka. (Obviously, I did not get here first: this Elf hater’s rant went viral last year.)

I’ve actually mellowed waaaaay down about the whole Santa season. I used to self-righteously correct every person who wished us a “Merry Christmas” in the checkout line because I felt like I had to defend my children’s sense of identity; I was also rather sensitive when well-meaning folks gave the kids presents for Christmas like they’d been somehow deprived. And then there’s the confusing fuckery of a Jewish kid sitting on Santa’s lap, and the harsh reality when that kid’s Christmas wish comes true.

I’ve responded over the years by jacking up our Chanukah celebrations: The outside of our house looks like a Jewish Las Vegas, we play dreidel every night, we invite people over to eat and drink, we revel in the joy of who we are and who we love. My point is to party everyone to exhaustion so that when Christmas rolls around, we’re still all sated and content in our latke comas.

Still, being a Jew on Christmas can get lonely, or worse, a pity party. In past year’s we’ve packed everyone up for a schizo holiday adventure, which is fun, but expensive. And a lot of driving.

So this year we chose to do nothing for Christmas. No plans, no Chinese food, no movie theater lines, nothing. No visitors, no consolatory Santa gifts, no crashing other people’s homes for a stray glass of eggnog. It was fantastic. We sat around the house, knitting and playing board games. No one showered. When it started getting dark we made steaks and acorn squash and kale, followed by a chocolate cherry pie I made only partly from scratch. The highlight of the day was watching Dr. Who on the BBC.

It was enlightening to realize that we Jews don’t have to hide from Christmas, to avoid Santa and the pretty lights and the decorated trees. Our children are gonna find it anyway, and it doesn’t make them any less Jewish to love those fun snappers or wear an oversized Santa cap. I’m cool with our familial attitude that it’s a glorious holiday that so many of our friends enjoy, and we can wish them well. And enjoy an eggnog if we’re so invited.

So when the lady at the coffeeshop this morning asked me if I’d had a Merry Christmas, I didn’t even feel like I needed to remind her that not everyone celebrates this holiday. I just smiled and said “Yes, I did. Hope you did, too.”

It’s over, another Chanukah down, nothing but memories to cherish and candle wax to pick off the shelf in front of the window.

It was a truly lovely eight nights. I know many families who weren’t able to light the candles every evening due to school obligations and the dizzying December schedule that only slows down on Dec. 24, and I’m so grateful that we were able to make and take the time. (For those who wish Chanukah would just sync up with a major holiday so we could actually have a nice insulated rest with the family, take heart, ’cause next year Chanukah starts right before Thanksgiving. Woot woot, latke-stuffed turkey? Cranberry sufganiyot? Fried pumpkin pie?)

Yenta Boy received a ukelele and entertained us by immediately learning Florence + The Machine’s “Dog Days.” Little Yenta Girl showed us she wasn’t so little anymore by shooting 17 baskets in a row in her new NBA-regulation hoop. We spent a lot of time laying on the rug in the living room making sure all our menorahs didn’t set the house on fire and laughing at the dog’s hideous gas.

The brightness of the last couple of nights was dimmed by the horrific tragedy in Newtown Friday morning, and I hugged my children even tighter this weekend. I let them have the extra piece of cake and watch another episode of whatever crap show they’re obsessed with on Netflix these days. Their presence seems even more precious, their strong health even more miraculous. I felt like I could see eternity in the candles’ light reflected in their eyes.

I am inside-out with grief for the parents who lost their children and the town whose community must stagger forward with the yoke of this awful, awful thing. I cannot get the sweet face of 6 year-old Noah Pozner — the youngest of the 20 children killed — out of my head. He was probably telling his friends what he got for Chanukah on Thursday night when Adam Lanza burst in with his guns. Jewish law requires a body be laid to rest as soon as possible. His funeral is today.

Every year I make a donation in the name of my kids’ teachers as a holiday thanks (I’m almost positive they do not want another smelly candle) and this year’s went to My Sandy Hook Family Fund. I hope it lessens the load a little, though there isn’t enough money in the world to fill the void left by these small people and their courageous teachers.

May the dark days be over, may the dark days be done.

Yoyoyo, you know the Festival of Lights is dope when L.A. gangsters get schmutzy with the latkes:

http://youtu.be/JUzo3uQ00OM

Totally saying this to my father-in-law tonight: “We gonna kibbitz, we gonna kvetch, and we damn sh*t gonna gamble.”

Check Episode 2 of “Bubala, Please,” featuring what may be the first shehecheyanu blessing to include the words “Motherf*cker”:

http://youtu.be/RiIxKMOxipA

HEEB magazine posted an interview with the schticky creators of Bubala, Please…which means Daquan and Luis are actors?! They aren’t really Jewish? I guess that explains why they thought a Chanukah Bush was, like, an actual thing. Notsomuch an excuse for its Jewish creators.

Bummer. I wanted to invite these homies over to spin some dreidel. The kids would LOVE them.