I’d kinda been waiting around for some confirmation on the rumors, but since no one’s denied them in the last few weeks, I may as well let y’all know that Natalie Portman and her thousand-footed husband, Benjamin Millepied, have named their baby Aleph.

Aleph. Not, as Life in Israel points out, Alf.

For all you Hebrew school dropouts and never-beens, “Aleph” may sound like “Alex” pronounced with a mouthful of socks. However, “Aleph” is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet (also known as the aleph-bet—isn’t that fun?)

So basically this is the same thing as naming the child “A”. Which is kind of cool, especially if Nat and Ben actually meant this as a tribute to Fonzie (“Ayyyyyy…”)

Or maybe the motive is more esoteric than that. In the mystical practice of Kabbalah, the letter Aleph also corresponds to the number 1 as well as the primordial number that contains all the rest, so perhaps the proud parents are encouraging leadership qualities in the young one.

In any case, most of you know that I am the last person to judge weirdo kid names. All I know is that a bris has NOT been confirmed. Would it be considered ironically hipster of the Portman-Millepieds to give their kid a Jewish name and not invite a mohel? Or simply confusing?

Chew that one over at the Shabbos table and get back to me. Shabbat Shalom!

Oh, Amy.

You sexy, filthy thing. You charmed us with your old-school bebop style and sailor-swearing Cockney chatter. You repulsed us with your hideous heroin-skinny limbs and helpless alcoholic pathos. You introduced us to Mr. Donny Hathaway and the term “fuckery.” You were hard-core and brittle as an old bubbe‘s bones; you made the nervous breakdowns of pop tarts like Britney and Demi Lovato look like toddler tantrums.

Most of all, you held us captive, our mouths hanging open, our toes tapping no matter how old or self-righteous, with that voice—that soulful, husky voice that reached deep down and brought heaven and hell together, funneled forth from a 90-pound songbird teetering on F*@# me stilettos.

You were never a nice Jewish girl. Too many tattoos. So much public barfing. But watching you tearfully hugging Mama Winehouse with an armful of Grammy awards, we felt the pride for one of our own. We concentrated on the music, not the shanda. That’s why “Rehab” could pop up ironically in bar mitzvah DJ rotation. No longer.

In terms of creating your own legend, you couldn’t have picked a better time to self-combust: All the great ones died at 27. Jimi, Janis, Jim, Kurt—they all killed themselves through whiskey and needles and pills and playing with guns. Whatever your special recipe for destruction was, you join the pantheon of those who couldn’t handle the fame and fortune and artistic pressure, those who possessed heart-breaking talent but no sense of self-preservation. Welcome to the club.

Though many have recently reveled in the schadenfreude of your stage stumbles and wicked hot messiness, so many of us were rooting for your salvation. To hear that sober album. To maybe watch you marry a nebbishy Jewish businessman who adored you and see the tabloids scurry over how you got fat when you had babies. To cheer when you appeared svelte and mature in 2018 to release a smokin’ comeback that knocked us out all over again.

Instead, for generations to come, your songs will resonate with and be downloaded by every disenfranchised global youth with a penchant for jazz and weed. Your addictions will serve as a morality tale. You will be the poster icon for the ultimate Bad Girl. Whatever you believed came after death—if you ever thought about it at all—you’ll achieve immortality, at least in this current cycle of human civilization. It is in our sick world, I suppose, the zenith of artistic achievement. So congratulations.

We only wish we could have heard more.

*Here’s Part One. Knock yourself out. Just don’t wake me up from my nap.

I know I must be old because Twitter gives me diarrhea.

I know all the young people in the Middle East and Europe are starting revolutions 140 characters at a time, but all the tiny tweets and mysterious followers and crippled English and manic self-promotion and those people who shout out every time they’ve completed a new suduko game (you KNOW who you are)—it’s so STRESSFUL. (Speaking of stress, Marcia Fine’s Jean Rubin knows something about it.)

Still, it’s what humans do these days, so I spit a tweet out now and again and then spend a hour reading everyone else’s tweets when I should be doing many, many other things that may produce an actual outcome, such as clean underwear for the family or, say, a book.

Some people are quite good at the Twitter, posting useful info and funny pictures (thanks, @SteveMartinToGo, for the pug in the bikini yesterday) and even finding jobs and promoting themselves into prosperity. So I get that it works, I just haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet as no one has offered me any money. Here’s to trying.

I’m not the only one who appears to be having a Twitter problem. Jerry Seinfeld—yes, that guy, who got way rich being funny about nothing—began tweeting over the weekend as @Seintime. In five short tweets managed to attract 165,000 followers—and piss off every Jewish bubbe who’s found her way online:

(Screenshot c/o MediaBistro.com.)

Another #ReasonIamAnAlterkocker: Holocaust humor, not hilarious so much. Soup Nazi notwithstanding.

@Seintime has not tweeted since. S’okay, dude. Not everyone’s humor translates, y’know?

The main #ReasonIamAnAlterkocker is though I am still three months shy of my 40th birthday, I had the unbelievable unpleasantness of experiencing a barium enema a few weeks ago. It sounds like it’d be bad, right? Drinking that yucky chalky stuff and having someone snap a photo up your bum? When I asked the nurse if I could down the stuff with a beer back, she stopped and put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Oh, HONEY. You don’t DRINK the barium.”

I will be traumatized until I die. My doctor assured me that this was a kinder, gentler alternative to having a colonoscopy—would anyone care to weigh in on that? #ScrewAging

Fortunately, the test did not reveal a tangerine-sized tumor or that I had inadvertently swallowed my son’s ball python, so my doctor had no choice to agree that it’s Twitter that’s causing my stomach issues. “Still,” she said. “You need more followers. I’ll retweet your next post, OK?”

You can follow me at @TypeItLoud.

I’m feeling kind of mopey after dropping Yenta Boy off at camp yesterday. I know I shouldn’t be. After all, a three-and-half week reprieve from a pre-adolescent smartmouth who’s obsessed with his hair contains a multitude of positives: No bickering! Half the laundry! Only having to cook for the one child who eats everything! No one stealing the good hair gel I bought at the salon out of my bathroom! A break from the hours of exasperated shrieks, dissonant chords and repetitious pounding as he picks out a new Top 40 song on the piano at 11pm!

Still, I can’t seem to shake the empty feeling. Maybe it’s because this year, instead of bravely holding back tears as we left him in the doorway of his screened-in bunk with his college-aged counselors, he gave me a half-squeeze and took off with his two camp BFFs from last year before I could admonish him to wear sunscreen. Actually, that made me kind of proud—it’s so relieving to see his independence unfurling like one of the giant rhododendron leaves that grows in our backyard.

And it’s not that I feel like he doesn’t need me anymore. The boy can barely open a can of tunafish and still needs to be reminded to look both ways while crossing the street; I’m pretty sure he’s going to require parental guidance well into his 40s. Sure, there was a certain level of neurosis on my part during the packing process (Did you pack the good sneakers? Pack the other pair, too, just in case someone puts toothpaste in them. No, you may NOT bring red Kool-Aid so you can touch up your dye job) but at least I wasn’t the mother shlepping the full-length mirror into the cabin.

Of course, there was the requisite Turning Over of the EpiPen to the nurse, just in case he gets bit by an army of ants and his histamines wig out. El Yenta Man enjoyed standing in line listening to two dozen Jewish parents list their children’s peanut allergies, bedwetting tendencies and the ramifications of skipping ADHD meds because it made him feel like maybe our family is fairly normal, after all.

I guess the boy’s absence in the house reminds me of the uncomfortable truth that our children aren’t really ours. Us mothers spend so much of our time and energy on our kids—they are literally our life’s work. Mothering places an indelible role on our identities, even when our presence isn’t needed on a daily basis. When we release them into the world (even to a place, as EYM pointed out to me, that has constant supervision, no traffic and is probably safer than being at home) there is fear that the worst can happen: Accidents, bad choices, a whole Pandora’s box of horrible possibilities.

My ragged emotions for sure are related to the sadness that a friend of mine lost her 16 year-old daughter last week. She was a smart, gorgeous, hilarious girl whose mother did that amazing motherly dance of protecting and allowing all at once. Still, there was an accident, a bad choice, an inexplicable outcome that no amount of prayer or extra sunscreen could prevent.

The family is fortunate to have an incredible support network as well as a deep spiritual foundation, yet even the most faithful among us would be hard-pressed to unblinkingly accept God’s will on this one. I have visualized feathery tendrils coming from heart to wrap around my friend 2000 miles away, a fierce mother who has made her marriage and three kids her life’s work. I have no words for her, really, other than to remind her that so much is out of our control in this life and that no matter what, she will always be a good mother. My deepest prayers to the Tropio family for calm, grace, peace and love as you move through these difficult times.

The best case scenario is that our children grow up, move out and make new babies that we get to kiss and dress up and worry about all over again. Bittersweet and mostly unfair, this mother thing. No matter how many times we tell them we love them or how many pairs of boxer briefs we write their names in or how hard we try to teach him to trim their nails so they don’t look like they’ve been eating with the other zombies, the fear never really goes away.

But faith is the salve of fear, and though my nest is half-empty, it’s also half-full. So enough hand-wringing for now: There’s a little girl clamoring at the keyboard excited to have her mommy all to herself for a few weeks who wants a pedicure. Neon pink it is, babes.

It’s summer, and most retired people are kvetching about the heat, wondering what’s for dinner or discussing barium enemas. But only one person I know manages to do all three while performing surgery under dire conditions in Africa: My indefatigable dad.

For the last four summers, “Dr. Skip” has treated legions of patients in an undersupplied, uncooperatively-staffed government hospital in Sumbawanga, Tanzania. (Even though he’s a real stickler for professional protocol, the casual moniker was first adopted in Pakistan after the 2006 earthquake both for pronunciation purposes and to keep our very Jewish surname on the down-low.)

But he’s hardly the kind of person that just swoops in, slices out an organ or two and puts on Band-Aid on people—he’s become very attached and involved with his patients. You may recall last year he expressed a tremendous frustration in his blog about the red tape and corruption that prevents people from receiving the most basic health care. After so many glad-handing meetings with local Sumbawanga officials who made empty promises, shlepping his own medical supplies from the States and fighting for support from hospital administration, there was a mutual agreement that his efforts might be best suited elsewhere.

Or in his words, “I managed to make enough waves and piss off enough people that they don’t want me back.”

That didn’t stop him from finding a place that does appreciate and desperately needs an advocate who can wield a pen as well as a scalpel. He arrived last week at a hospital run (and barely financed) by the Catholic Church, which means it’s not free to citizens but has a level of autonomy that will perhaps make it receptive to lasting improvements.

In any case, he’s spending his days providing first-class surgery to those in need and trying to do whatever good he can in a place where clean water is a high living. Leave it Dr. Skip to mix it up by throwing in a bunch of nuns.

I’ll be posting updates here, but be sure to keep up on his blog: He keeps a passionate account of stories and photos that are at once heart-rendering and fascinating—especially if you’re into goiters the size of cats.

Since I haven’t been chilling at the JEA Senior Lunch Bunch as of late, I’ve been needing an opportunity to get my fix of Savannah’s hilarious yentas.

Unforch, the mah-jong club doesn’t fit into my schedule, so I decided on the next best place to find hip, happenin’ Jewish ladies who call my (almost) 40 year-old punim a “baby face”: A Hadassah meeting.

Before yesterday, this is what I knew about
Hadassah:

1. That it’s an international organization founded in 1912 to raise money to build hospitals and schools and scientific research facilities in Israel (including the colossal Sarah Wetsman Davidson Tower that aims to serve and heal all citizens, regardless of religion or ethnicity, to be dedicated in 2012.)

2. That Academy Award-winning actress Natalie Portman is its fabulous spokeswoman. (And while we’re here, a rousing “Mazel Tov” to Natalie on the birth of her baby boy on June 14! There has been a flurry of speculation on whether she and her fiancé, Benjamin Millepied—the man of a thousand feets—will raise their child Jewishly, BUT an absolute dearth of news on the child’s name and whether a bris took place on June 22. Has Nat—*gasp*—joined the ranks of the meshuggehneh intactivists?! Kinehora!)

3. That current Hadassah president, Nancy Falchuk, should have her own monument on Mount Scopus not only for the incredible job she’s done raising funds and awareness for the cause during her term but also for giving birth to Brad Falchuk, who in turn has given birth to the greatest TV show ever introduced to humankind, Glee.

4. That my favorite strawberry-haired Savannah yenta, Beezy, hits up my father-in-law every year to buy tickets to the local fundraiser even though my mother-in-law, a longtime member, can no longer attend. (Yes, OF COURSE he writes a check, because you don’t say no to Beezy.)

I never really thought of Hadassah as a place for me, ’cause let’s face it, I’m no big donor. In fact, I only joined this year because it was a requirement of Yenta Boy’s camp application. But after checking out the breadth of the projects and the commitment to compassion and peace, I feel like I’ve joined the ranks of a group of powerful Jewish women who get sh*t DONE. For 100 years come 2012, Hadassah has been a sorority of service—not such a bad place to put a few hours and dollars towards the greater good.

(I must admit I had a bit of wardrobe crisis deciding what to wear to my first Hadassah meeting. I’d been in my dreck gardening clothes all day and wanted something cool and flowy yet festive, but I thought my traditional African lappa might be too much for Beezy. I finally grabbed a zebra-print wrap dress my mother snuck into my suitcase on my last visit to Scottsdale. Turns out my fashion intuition was spot-on: Not only was I not the only animal in the room, but I was joined by a virtual safari of a leopard vest, another zebra in jacket form and a jungle motif that included a large red parrot. You can always count on the Jewish ladies to bring the wild.)

As part of my first efforts to my new cause, I must tell you that Hadassah is running a $100 lifetime membership special to celebrate its 100 year anniversary. Such a bargain! Many ladies are even making their daughters and granddaughters lifetime members to instill the spirit of service in the generations coming up. (Of course, this may prove to be a poor strategy later down the line when all the Jewish women under 40 are already Hadassah members, but it’s certainly beefing up the membership call lists now.)

So I encourage y’all to come join for life—animal prints are not required. Just our presence for now is enough to make a difference.

And if I find a way to get my Thursday mornings free, I promise to donate all my mah-jongg winnings.

A whoop of joy for Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, who has been released from the hospital after being shot point-blank in the head last January in Tucson.

She’s talking and walking and—most importantly—smiling, but experts warn that her “rosy recovery” from skull surgery is nowhere near its end and that brain injuries like hers rarely heal completely. Sending up a Misheberach healing prayer for the best outcome possible.

The shooter, Jared Loughner, who also killed six others and wounded 13 more, has been declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. I suppose he gets a Misheberach too—if only so that justice can be meted out.

Even if the congresswoman recovers enough to tap dance, it appears unlikely that she’ll be returning to Washington anytime soon—though her loyal staff reminds us that the only “official timetable” for deciding whether she will run for re-election is May 2012, when the petitions are due.

So that’s one less Jewish Democrat in the House. And according to the interwebs, it’s soon to be two:

After all his blustering, Anthony Weiner is reportedly going to step down from his congressional seat after weeks of overblown media coverage about his weiner shots sent to a passel of women who are not his wife.

According to the link, Weiner was “undone” not by the hollering of Republican blowhards or outraged constituents about his scandalous Tweets himself in his underpants but by hypocrites in his own party who threatened to “strip him” of his committee assignments if he didn’t resign. Such a shanda.

Look, I’m not defending his douchebag behavior or saying that his pregnant wife shouldn’t sue his pants off (er, I guess they’re already off…oops). But for those of us Americans who value having an outspoken, liberal representative in Congress who isn’t afraid to throwdown when it comes to health care, National Public Radio and tax cuts, Weiner’s resignation is a loss.

Yeah, he might be dog—but he’s been a watchdog. And we need more of those than ever.

It’s Thursday, and for the past five years, that’s meant lunch with my mother-in-law.

I used to write about how we used to kibbitz with the seniors at the JEA—good times. Even as my MIL lost her ability to speak, then walk, then feed herself, we would still roll her up to our usual table and tuck in for some chicken and what was once broccoli. El Yenta Man would flirt with Beezy and the other ladies while I’d sneak into the kitchen to rummage for the Texas Pete’s. We’d take turns feeding Marcia and dabbing her chin. She’d developed a habit of leaning in her wheelchair, and one of us sat on either side of her to prop her up with a pillow. Sometimes she’d nod off before dessert.

A few months ago I came to suspect we were doing this more for ourselves than us. Marcia was well past expressing herself at this point, but one day I looked over and she just looked miserable. Maybe it was the broccoli, but I interpreted her furrowed brow and clenched fist as discomfort. El Yenta Man and I had always vowed to help her keep her dignity, and I realized that being fed in public—even among understanding, kind friends—wasn’t in keeping with that promise.

El Yenta Man used to meet me at the JEA from work, and it had also become too difficult for me to lift her in and out of the wheelchair by myself. I hate admitting that. I want to have unlimited strength and patience and good humor. Yet we all know that nothing, but nothing, in this life is unlimited. Except love. Of course.

So here’s a shoutout to my Senior Yentas—those bedazzled and hilarious women in their late 80’s and 90’s (!!) who guffaw over dirty jokes and squeeze my hand—Beezy and Anita and both Bernieces and Miz Dorothy and Lynn and especially Mickey, who likes to shriek “Gawddamit!” in a little girl’s squeal when there’s no Thousand Island. I miss y’all tons and promise to pop in sooner than later for a visit.

And a wink and an flash of my ankle to the men’s table—shrunk to no one the last time I was there: May you all rest in peace and joy.

And a deep bow of gratitude to the kind people at the JEA who set up the lovely tables and prepare the food: My partner in Texas Pete’s worship, the ebullient Marcia Silverman and her lovely daughters. Ben Bloom for revving up Bingo like nobody’s business. Adam and Lynn and all the rest of the Federation folks who keep that big, giant building churning with life. Thank you.

Now Thursday lunches are spent around my in-laws’ kitchen table. Sometimes El Yenta Man grabs takeout, sometimes we make bologna sandwiches on leftover challah from last Shabbat (yes, it’s a little stale, but we have survived dead broccoli, m’kay?) We kibbitz with Britannia, who’s been caring for Marcia on weekdays since she was still dancing in the aisles in the grocery store and singing to the moon. Britannia is part of the family now, and we sit and kvetch about our kids and our husbands while Marcia sips watered-down grape juice from a straw and looks at both us like she’s very glad she has no idea what we’re talking about. I took this photo this afternoon.

One day, maybe in a year, maybe in five, maybe even ten given Marcia’s relative good physical health and gentle stubbornness, I’ll have Thursdays free again. I would say I don’t know what I’ll do with myself but I’m pretty sure I know where I could volunteer my broccoli-steaming skills.

Sure, this could be a post about Anthony(‘s) Weiner. I must be teetering over the edge of a hugely un-hip middle age, because all I could think about yesterday during Breitbart’s sadistic unveiling and the congressman’s teary, embarrassing press conference was “Oh, his poor mother.”

Why must it be so difficult for people in committed relationships—not only high-profile politicians with ambitions—to comprehend that sending nudie photos to anyone other than your partner is NEVER a good idea? What kind of idiot DOESN’T think that they will not get caught?

Damn, even sending mildly suggestive photos to your OWN spouse warrants a level of technological stealth. I found this out yesterday when El Yenta Man thought it would be ha-larious to send his own Weiner-ish text while Yenta Boy was playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. Fortunately, I snatched the phone before he got a good look, and as far as any of you know, that was Daddy’s elbow wrapped up in an Ace bandage after a cortisone shot.

But ya know, there’s bad cheesy and good cheesy. And it’s that time of year for the good cheese: The holiday of Shavuot starts tonight, which commemorates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. It takes place exactly seven weeks after Passover, and the connection is significant because while Passover “freed us physically from bondage, the giving of the Torah on Shavu’ot redeemed us spiritually from our bondage to idolatry and immorality.”

The way to celebrate is to stay up all night discussing Jewish texts—it’s traditional to read the Book of Ruth, perhaps in part because of all the images of barley and crops and fields that remind us how summer is starting to push out all the goodies in the garden. The food component of the holiday (we are Jews, and there is ALWAYS a food component) is to mack hard on dairy dishes: Since this is the day the laws of kosher eating were passed down, the Israelites present were all, “what do you mean, we gotta do what to the cow now before we eat it? And we gotta sterilize all the knives and sh*t? Forget it, we’ve having bean and cheese burritos for dinner.”

Um, wait, that might have been me. And in case you hadn’t figured it out by now, you should in no way take me as any kind of halachic source. Better you should do some real research.

Anyway, tonight’s the night to get your blintz on! And your cheesecake. And yer fondue, ice cream sundaes and Sepharic burekas (which I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting, but one day I will and there will be a scarfdown.) No, NOT a holiday for the lactose-intolerant.

And what about the other cheese? Poor Anthony, he’s made a terrible mess of moving his, hasn’t he? Next time he decides to post some cheesecake pictures of himself, they’d better be to his wife.