So I got a call from the camp last week. It sounded like this:

“Hello this is Shani from camp it’s not an emergency.”

Like that, all in one breath, before the neurotic Jewish parent on the other end can plotz.

Ok, now that we’ve established that I don’t need to shriek or pee in my pants, what I can I do for you?

It seems that after a week at camp, Little Yenta Girl, who as a first-timer was supposed to only stay for 10 days, wanted to extend her stay for the rest of the session with her older brother. Apparently, she really likes camp, which I know from the one piece of correspondence we have received from her, decorated as it is with exclamation points and hearts.

“She’s very happy and she wanted me to ask you if she could stay,” said the nice college student.”All the counselors love her. She’s a real leader.”

I gulped. My baby girl doesn’t want to COME HOME?

“Also, the only other girl who was supposed to go home is staying. But no pressure,” added Shani.

I told her to call back that evening. Then I went and cried for an hour. Then I ate half a tub of salted caramel ice cream. Then El Yenta Man came home and I cried some more.

“She doesn’t *sob* even miss us AT *sniff sniff* ALL,” I moaned. “She likes a cabin full of total strangers better than us. We are BAD parents.”

El Yenta Man patted my head, avoiding the snotfall of my face. “Actually, I think it means we’re pretty good parents.”

I blubbered. “How? How can you such a thing?”

“Because we’ve raised her to be independent and to get along with other people, and look, she is,” pointed out my sagacious husband, gently peeling my fingers away from the tub of ice cream. “Also, she doesn’t want to miss out on all the adventure. Sounds just like her mama.”

I considered this. LYG has always followed her brother into the fray, even though she’s four years younger. She’s a jubilant—and tough—little cookie.

When she was 3, she would strip down to her underwear, tie Chachi bandanas around her knees and chase his friends around the house with a wooden sword. At eight-and-a-half, I guess our Warrior Princess is ready for the whole time in the woods.

“I guess that means two more weeks of quiet,” I whispered. “I really, really miss them.”

EYM hugged me. “Of course you do. Me, not so much. They’ll be home soon enough and making us crazy.”

The phone rang.

“HithisisShanifromcampit’snotanemergency”

After figuring out that we could apply for a partial scholarship for the balance (hello, staying twice as long costs twice as much. Thank you, One Happy Camper!) I gave our blessings. I prepared a little care package with some extra socks and extra stationary and a lot of kisses tucked in a letter detailing every cute thing the dog has done since she’s been gone.

I was still feeling a little mopey until I came home from work to find EYM in nothing but his boxer briefs and Chachi bandanas, waiting to chase me around the house with his wooden sword. On with the adventure!

Over at the day job, I wrote about Savannah’s burgeoning business relationship with Israel in this week’s Civil Society Column.

I tried, probably to my detriment, to keep it apolitical, even though Israel’s always a touchy topic. Look, I only have 800 words. I thought it best to keep it light.

No matter, someone found issue with it. Yesterday I received the following email. In the name of decency and other people’s litigious tendencies, I didn’t include the sender’s name:

Mrs. Lebos,

I just sat down to eat lunch and opened the Connect to thumb through as I nibble on my sandwich. I began reading your article about the mayor visiting Israel.

I stopped at the 6th paragraph.

I know it is all the rage to treat Israel as some special place that can do no wrong and is super awesome. But your statement about it being the Middle East’s only democracy and most thriving economy are not accurate.

Turkey, the nation from which the boat and citizens on board came to attempt humanitarian relief to Gaza and were beat down by some cute IDF guys came, is the largest Middle Eastern democracy both in population and size. Established in 1923 verses Israel’s 1948. The economy is ranked 15th in the world, raking in over one trillion a year compared to Israel’s 50th place ranking and their $240ish billion.

Coupled with Turkey’s proactive international relations and better progress in granting autonomy for their Kurdish population (verses how Israel treats the Palestinians), your statement is either a slight to the 74 million Turks or pure ignorance.

Which is it?

Huh. Do I hate Turkish people or am I just stupid? Gee. What a choice. I sent this back:

Mr. XXX,

Your hostility, as well as your presumptive and sexist “Mrs.,” almost prevented me from answering your email, but your accusations of ignorance are worth examining:

While Turkey is certainly a democracy, because of its unique geographic position it is not necessarily included in the Middle East region that includes Syria, Iran, Iraq and other Arab countries as well as Israel. It’s an associate member of the EU; perhaps you lump it with its neighbors because it’s a (secular) Muslim country.

Economics certainly are subjective; numbers can be presented in plenty of ways. Israel’s GDP per capita is over $31K, while Turkey’s is $12.3K, indicating a higher quality of life for Israel’s citizens.

Accounts of the tragic flotilla incident are incredibly varied. The UN report released last year cited fault on both sides: the Turks were found to have an “organized and violent resistance” against whom IDF soldiers defended themselves; the soldiers were accused of using unnecessary force.

And today’s New York Times has much to say about Turkey’s humanitarian stance:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/20/opinion/turkeys-human-rights-hypocrisy.html

Delighted to write a story when the mayor visits Turkey.

Enjoy the rest of your lunch.

I won’t pain you with his reply, but if emails could sputter, his would.

In the meantime, what say you, readers? Was I correct in my assertion that Israel’s is the Middle East’s only democracy and its most thriving economy? Or do I need to examine some latent hostility towards the Turkish? Or—and I’m willing to accept this—am I actually kind of a dummy?

Look, Chick-fil-A’s feelings about gayfolk have never been a secret.

The corporation has been giving gobs of money to anti-LGBT groups for years, and has been accused of asking nosy questions in their hiring practices.

But Chick-Fil-A’s PR department blew up last week after CEO Dan Cathy gave his little “guilty as charged” shuck-and-jive when asked about his company’s views on gay marriage, and now EVERYONE’s pissed, including Miss Piggy.

The Yenta family has enacted our own personal boycott for many years, partly on the basis of tolerance for all as well as the fact that two stale pieces of white bread and fried piece of cardboard are really not worth eating.

We’re delighted to be joined by so many friends, including the Boston Michael Mennino who released a letter yesterday telling bigoted ol’ Cathy and his franchisees to take their business where the sun don’t shine. Then there’s my main man, mayor Rahm Emanuel, supporting Chicago alderman Joe Moreno on his attempt to block new franchises from popping up in the city.

Wait a minute. It’s one thing for consumers to choose not to eat at Chick-Fil-A because we don’t agree with the company’s sad and hypocritical views (or, just because the food is gross.) But it’s a whole different animal to prevent them from doing business in the first place. What happens when someone wants to open a Super Gay Jewish Unicorn Emporium in Chicago or Boston or Savannah? Are city leaders allowed to block that, too?

I never thought I’d agree with an asshole like Michelle Malkin, but perhaps it’s best to leave the boycotts to the people.

In the meantime, eat more kale.

(By the way, Chick-Fil-A tried to sue the maker of this t-shirt. Douches.)

Shhh. S’very very very quiet in the Yenta house right now.

No bickering. No interrupting. No one using my bathroom mirror to style his purple hair and no one kvetching about how walking the dog is an unreasonable chore.

I expected this vacuum of sound after we dropped both children at sleepaway camp yesterday.The build-up to that moment — frantic weeks of packing and stamping their underpants with their names and debating whether they actually needed two toothbrushes or could get away with one — was only devoid of beatings because it contained the promise of ten whole days of silence.

Looking forward to this block of peace, I handled the complete neurotic chaos of several sets of Jewish parents helping their 8 year-old daughters unpack in a 20’x20′ cabin quite well, although I may have had to get all Mama Grizzly at a dad who tried to muscle in on all the shelving. (Dude, there are THREE shelves alloted per person so get your freakin’ Hannah Montana towels OUTTA my kid’s territory before I show claws, k’?)

Knowing I would have hours upon hours of calm in the next week and half, it didn’t even bother me that El Yenta Man ordered the treyf-iest item on the menu while at dinner with the kosher-keeping parents of Yenta Boy’s friends the night before camp. (EYM chastised himself, afraid that he might have embarrassed our son, who turned out to have also ordered the bangers and mash. The other parents just shrugged and ate their shrimp cocktail.)

After we met everyone’s counselors and gave a last family squeezy sandwich hug, we tried not to sprint with glee to the car. I’ll miss my monkeys, especially my baby girl, but seeing as she was already engrossed in a game of Go Fish with her bunkmate I think she’s going to be plenty occupied. I’m pretty sure we left skid marks when we left.

So the shmo who wrote the blog post “Sleepaway Camp is a Dumb Idea – Unless You Hate Your Kids” can suck it: I love my kids, I loved camp – especially Jewish camp – and I’m so happy my kids get to make friends with people from all over the world and learn songs and enjoy a little time where making massive amounts of noise is encouraged. And yes, Helicopter Blogger Dad, it never hurt anyone’s marriage to have a little break from the kids.

Except it turns out a quiet house might be more nerve-wracking than a full one.

“This is weird,” whispered El Yenta Man last night while we were eating a dinner of champagne and cut-up cucumber and potstickers from Trader Joe’s. (See that? No main course. PARENTS ON THE LOOSE.)

“Totally,” I whispered back, distracted by sort of background thumping and squalling with occasional snippets of 80s music. “Do you hear that, though?”

EYM cocked his head. “That’s the dog breathing.”

“No, not that…What is that noise?!” I jumped up and checked the fan. Nothing. TV? Off. The AC? Its usual low hum.

That’s when I realized: Oh my gawd. I can actually hear myself think.

And I’m not sure I like it.

Gawd, why won’t sociopathic meglomaniacs just stay dead? Eight years after PLO powergrabber Yasser Arafat finally vacated the planet, his widow wants his decomposed remains exhumed. Just what the world needs: Terrorist zombies.

Reuters reports that after “surprisingly” high levels of radioactive polonium-210 were found on Arafat’s clothing, Suha Arafat is lobbying the French courts for another autopsy. The French doctors who treated him while he was in a coma never did file an official cause of death, and accusations swirled that he’d somehow been quietly been murdered.

The list of possible suspects is very, very long: The Israelis, with whom he gleefully baited with peace treaties that he then refused to sign, of course; us Americans, for whom his disingenuous nonsense and bald-faced lies caused myriad diplomatic kerfuffles; his own Palestinian brethren who starved, died and otherwise suffered under the greedy facism he flouted as beneficent reign. Not to mention a long line of mistreated servants, mistresses, bastard children and other discontented folks who didn’t agree that blowing up buses and schools was the best strategy for brokering a better life.

So fine, dig up the keffiyeh-head’s decomposed remains. Really, is anyone going to be surprised that this hateful piece of shit was poisoned?

I’ve got 70 on the brain, for sure.

Over at the day job, I wrote about the 70th anniversary of Johnnie Ganem’s, Savannah’s oldest liquor store, which doesn’t have a Jewish connection other than it’s a story about a really strong, close family, and that certainly applies here.

I attended their incredible bash last night on the corner of Habersham and Gaston, one of those wonderfully tipsy and shvitzy (oy, it was outdoors) Savannah events where oldtimers and new guardians and wacky liberals and uptight conservatives come together to clink glasses in the name of community and business and good cheer. It was marvelously catered by five or six kitchens, including brisket experts New South Kosher—Chef Matt Cohen informed me that they now have Shabbos meals to go. (There you go, the Jewish connection. That was only like, two degrees of separation, right?)

I’ve also been obsessing about the 70s because of the local filming of the CBGB movie, set in early years of the New York punk scene, but you’ll have to wait ’til next week for my nerd musings about that to come out.

There have been a couple of milestone birthdays in Yentaland recently: My dear old dad turned the big Seven-O last month, an especially meaningful occasion since we didn’t know if he’d be around for it after his near-death experience last fall. He’s back to his old fart self, as you can see, and we’re all meeting up for a family reunion in New York next week to celebrate (though I’m pretty sure my mom is not interested in a tour of the old punk clubs.) We’re sure happy to have him around for a while longer, baruch hashem.

This past Wednesday, my mother-in-law also turned 70. I remember flying in from California for her 60th birthday party, a tony sit-down dinner at the Chatham Club, attended by loads of friends. Barely recovered from her breast cancer treatments, she had just been diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, and she made jokes about her “memory situation” when we toasted her. We danced together and after a glass and half of wine, she was fuzzy around the edges, smiling and whispering to me several times, “I’m so glad y’all came.”

A decade makes a world of difference in this disease. The last vestiges of her memory have disappeared, along with her ability to speak, feed herself or even get out of her wheelchair. As she was declining but still able, we had some fun together, eating at the senior lunch on Thursdays and waving our jazz hands to the oldies’ station. Now, if I get down next to her and look in her eyes and sing “I love you love you love you,” a quizzical look might pass over her face, as if my voice activates some forgotten neural pathway. I miss dancing with her the most.

Physically, she is still with us. She lifts her head when my son plays the her baby grand piano; sometimes, she cries. My brother-in-law can still make her giggle, but I haven’t mastered that secret skill.

We brought her a cake and flowers from our backyarden for her birthday. With her caregiver’s OK, she sucked down some watered-down white wine in her sippy cup. That might be why she’s smiling.

When we sang “Happy Birthday,” I winced when someone added “and many more…” How many more years will this lovely person have to live in a failing body without a functioning brain? A human being who makes it through seven decades is certainly worthy of celebration. But is long life always a blessing?

Not up to me to decide. All we can do, I guess, is keep toasting to life with all its heartbreaking injustices, grateful near misses and glorious joy: L’Chaim, L’Chaim, L’Chaim.

Good Shabbos and a blessed weekend to all.

Well, lookee here. Actor David Arquette has finally become a man.

While filming his “Mile High” travel show in Israel, the perennial Scream actor donned some tefillin (the tattoos on his inner arm probably gave the rabbi a small heart attack) and finally had the bar mitzvah his meshuggeh parents forgot to plan for him.

The rabbi who oversaw the blessed event told the Boston Herald that 40 year-old Arquette “was ashamed by his lack of Jewish knowledge. Born on a commune in Virginia, he had little to do with Judaism. His maternal grandmother was a refugee of the Nazi Holocaust of World War II, but his own mother turned away from religion.”

So, welcome back, Dovvie. Don’t spend all the simcha cash in one place.

Speaking of bar mitzvahs, I’m a bit consumed with planning one of my own. While some mothers are brave enough to turn away from the extreme pressure to throw an event requiring about as much insanity as a wedding, I have no such latitude. We’ve got a bigtush Southern family to host, and there will be no eloping (is there a bar mitzvah equivalent?) to Jerusalem for a simple, low-key affair.

So far we’ve got a date, a venue and a Torah portion. Check off three items on a to-do list of thousands.

Lookee here! It’s a lovely story about Savannah in The Miami Herald courtesy of Ms. Amy F.J. Stone.

Naturally, the Lilith magazine co-founder found the feminist bent:

Savannah’s women rescued its history

 A man, Gen. James Oglethorpe, founded the city of Savannah and the colony of Georgia in 1733. Before he’d even gotten off the ship with the first settlers, he’d laid out the street grid and squares for one of America’s first planned cities. But if it hadn’t been for the ladies, Savannah wouldn’t be what it is today…

S’funny, I had a Purim hallucination about meeting the fabulous Ms. Stone a few months back and sharing some of my homemade pear brandy. We traipsed up and down Bull Street (aka “the spine of Savannah”) and talked about Girl Scouts and feminism and Jewishness and her travels in China.

I guess her article, published as part of the Travel Arts Syndicate (sounds like the best mafia EVER), means that it wasn’t just a confused brandy flashback.

Via Engadget.com: The Jewish Watch from Jewish software.com may appear as just another ugly ten-dollar timekeeper that looks like something Napoleon Dynamite should be wearing, but this one has a Jewish brain.
A “sophisticated microchip” reminds wearers when to recite the Sh’ma, what time to light the candles on Shabbat, the Torah portion of the week and various other mitzvot and is available in Hebrew or English. You can also program anniversaries, birthdays and yartzeits.
An organized Jewish life for $89.95? That’s a bargain.

Quarterback great and longtime Brandeis coach Benny Friedman has finally gotten past due props from The Pro Football Hall of Fame when he was inducted alongside modern pigskin giants Dan Marino and Steve Young last week.
Former 49er Bill Walsh spoke to Friedman, who died in 1982, as if he were actually there for his induction ceremony, calling him “the catalyst that started the forward pass in professional football.”
Friedman’s former teammates worked long and hard to get the Canton, Ohio organization to recognize his legacy. Bill McKenna, 72, who played with Friedman at Brandeis, said before the celebration weekend that ‘It’s long overdue and Benny deserves it. We’re all men, but I expect there will be a lot of tears.”