Well, lookee here, it’s halfway through January and I just cleaned the menorahs.

I count this is as healthy, as I tend to be rather OCD about undone chores (El Yenta Man calls it “naggy freak syndrome.”) So far in 2012, I have been experimenting with defying my natural neuroses in order to live a more relaxed, enjoyable life. So if you happen to stop by, please know that it is this honorable attempt at self-improvement and not laziness as to why there is a pile of dirty towels threatening to sprout mushrooms in the hallway.

But I’ve got another source of hyperventilation for a Jewish mother: Since winter break, Yenta Boy has found himself completely without any extracurricular activities.

Soccer season ended in November, and Wednesday Hebrew group lessons disbanded before Chanukah as the pre-bar mitzvah kids study their Torah portions with private tutors. We’re even between piano teachers at the moment, which is somewhat shocking since the kid was practically on his way to the “X Factor” this time last year.

Of course, this is unacceptable. As every Jewish mother knows, a child cannot possibly succeed in life without weekly formal training in a sport, multiple instruments, a foreign language and possibly chess. As I understand it, large amounts of unstructured time after school cause brain rot and may possibly lead to fast-food jobs and meth problems.

Since I became a mother, I have been quite zealous in the educational enrichment department. Starting with phenomenally expensive KinderMusik classes where toddlers gleaned the basics of musical theory by bashing each other over the head with frog-shaped tambourines, and moving on to gymnastics lessons, composed of toddlers bashing into each other on room-sized trampolines, my children were enriched to the gills during the all-important 0-5 developmental stage.

Team sports and music and dance lessons came once they hit school, along with mid-week Hebrew for the big one. At one point last year, both of them had an activity every single day, resulting in a logistical conundrum that had me driving all over town and having nightmares about forgetting someone at ballet. In a weak moment, I was tempted to post a dorky “Mom’s taxi” stickers on the back of the Absurdivan.

Make no mistake, I’m no Tiger Mother. Each kid asked, nay, begged, to participate in everything that piqued their interest (such as the year my little yiddishe sweetheart was swept away by the Riverdance) Thanks to the Bubbie Scholarship Fund, they were able, and I, wanting them to follow their idiosyncratic hearts, chauffeured.

Now that they’re eight and almost 12, and I’m a working-outside-the-house mama again, we’ve lost momentum. Gone are the fanatic hopes that we have birthed genius prodigies or and Olympic ice skater. Little Yenta Girl takes violin on her brother’s hand-me-down fiddle on Thursdays, only because lessons are in the band room right after school. She’s also a Girl Scout because the leaders are rockin’ post-feminist moms friends of mine who let her tag along to their house after school. Slso, we’re in it for the cookies.

The boy, for now, has yawning chasms of afternoons to do his sixth grade homework, fold towels at his dad’s gym or plunk around on the piano when he feels like it instead of throwing artistic tantrums over the evil syncopation of “Maple Leaf Rag.”

Even though there’s been far less stress in the house since we’re not rushing all over town and being subjected to the same Handel arpeggios for hours, it’s hard for me to let him have this downtime. I’m worried that he’s falling behind, or worse, that this ridiculously articulate and talented ‘tween will end up selling 8-balls out the back door of Taco Bell.

And yet like the stinky pile of towels in the hallway, maybe this free time is the lesson in itself. Yesterday, we walked dog aimlessly for an hour, pointing out strange-shaped leaves and chatting about whether humans will make it Mars in his lifetime. After we shook the mud from our shoes, I noticed his foot is almost as big as mine. Later, after he’d putted around on Facebook and read a couple of chapters of the new Christopher Paolini novel, he wandered over to the piano and began sightreading “Stand By Me,” which I’d placed there hoping he would do exactly that.

Of course, the minute I suggested he add the left hand, he fled for the bathroom to fix his hair. For an hour.

Still, I’m going to ignore the neurosis and relax, because I know it will end soon: Middle school track season starts in March, as does his nose-to-parchment bar mitzvah training. And if anyone knows a Savannah piano teacher who can inspire a kid to love Chopin as much as he does Lady Gaga, let me know.

As promised, the women of the beleaguered Jerusalem suburb responded to the issue of gender segregation by gettin’ all footloose on Friday to Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”:

Of course, a bunch of Orthodox women dancing together isn’t exactly provocative, as many bloggers have already pointed out (including 972’s Roee Ruttenberg , who called the effusive performance “antagonistic and counterproductive.” Dude needs to relax–tefillin too tight, bro?)

Still, it made a statement heard ’round the world that not all observant Jews are psychos who expectorate on little girls or make women sit at the back of the bus. But a protest that included a penis would have been much more effective.

*sigh.* Why does life always seems to be one drag queen short of a revolution?

So, this may be soooo 2011, but maybe some of you haven’t heard about the ultra-Orthodox a-holes the Jerusalem suburb of Beit Shemesh who spit on an eight year-old girl last week…for going to school.

Oh, and they also called her a whore.

Seriously, look at her. It’s not like this poor child was dressed in those horrid pink velour kiddie sweatpants with “Juicy” emblazoned across the tushie. Her mother covers her hair and wears long skirts; only a freakin’ burka could be more “modest.” Perhaps that explains the riotous reverb from mainstream Israelis, who are sick of being bullied by extremist peyes-sporting sociopaths. These are the same sociopaths used Nazi costumes to draw attention to their victimization of being subjected to seeing a woman’s actual hair on the way to the grocery store.

See, in Judaism, much like in any other religions, there’s observant, where you have certain people who follow the laws and keep women separate in synagogue and do their best to emulate God. In my experience, observant Jews are good peeps who do their thing and don’t try to make you feel bad about being a heathen who dances around drunk in a bikini on New Year’s Day eating bacon. (Who did this? What? Shut up.)

Then there’s batsh*t fundamentalist, where no matter what religious background you think you identify with, you have crossed into the psycho cesspool where the Taliban wacks and the child-porn selling Christians all pray to the same phallic Deity of Misogynistic Pigginess. Anyone who spits on a child (or stones a woman, or harrasses anyone who doesn’t comply with their particular brand of religious crazy) is in the wrong. Few things are really that simple.

As if Israel doesn’t have enough problems, it now appears that it’s headed for a culture war between the fundamentalists and um, the sane people.

But the true ruach of creative independence remains alive and well: A group of ladies who live where the riots broke out have organized the ultimate protest: A pre-Shabbos booty-shaking flash mob. Add in some singing, and those creepy haredi men might dissolve into the spittle-covered pavement. I’ll post it here when it goes live.

Good luck, and bring those umbrellas, Beit Shemesh ladies!

Oh, you know, just one more end-of-the-year list to add to the bloggysphere. While Yentaland did not involve any freed Israeli soldiers or major disasters, there were a few milestones worth noting.

Here are the top stories of 2011 in my own head:

1. I Got A Job

After almost two years of bouncing around Savannah’s job market like a loud, Jewish, lopsided basketball, I lobbed into a position at Connect, the alternative news and arts weekly. As Community Editor and writer of The (Civil) Society Column, I have managed to endear and repel many readers already and look forward to a raucous 2012 of championing Savannah’s underdogs and pissing people off.

2. Dad’s Aneurysm

Oy, did Dr. Skip give us a scare at the end of August. When I wrote this next to his hospital bed, I thought we’d be lucky just have him pottering around the house again. Who knew he’d be driving, teaching and kvetching five months later like nothing ever happened?

3. I Turned 40

Yup, I’m officially an alterkocker. On Kol Nidre. I still want to party like I’m 20, but my hip feels 80.

4. Strong Gym Opens

El Yenta Man launched his own business this year on Bull Street, offering personal training, rehab and group fitness services, and I’ve barely seen him since! He’s glad to be his own boss and serving his clients in a clean, well-lighted space. His motto is “Life Takes Strength”—I also like to remind him that it also takes laundry.

5. I Am Going To Have A Sister-in-Law

Bro da Doc finally popped the question to his longtime lady friend this summer. In Paris. Under the Eiffel Tower. What can I say, when he goes, he goes big! He almost gave my mother an ulcer waiting to find a partner until his late 30s. The Yenta Family is so thrilled to have this lovely lady as part of the mishpocha.

6. Won Best Blogger…Again!

Thanks so much, y’all for voting me as Connect‘s Blogger of the Year for the second time! This was way before I worked there, btw. Would you do me the honor of helping me make it a trifecta come spring?

7. GG Crossed the Veil

El Yenta Man’s grandmother, Florence Lebos, known as “GG” to her nine great-grandchildren exhaled her last breath in the presence of her entire family. She was 98. May we all live as long and lucky.

8. Debbie Friedman and Amy Winehouse Sing With the Angels

These passing of these two muses held a personal grief for me. I only met Debbie once, but like her music, the warmth of her hand as she squeezed mine in greeting had a lasting effect on my soul; she was modern Judaism’s greatest liturgical influence. And, poor Amy. A voice like a celestial goddess, the habits of a teenage crack mom. May she rest in peace.

9. The Bell Tolled For No One

I checked an item of my bucket list this year when I climbed to the top of the (off-limits) bell tower in my synagogue. I found out that I am made of stronger stuff than I thought, and also that there’s no actual bell up there.

10. Yenta Faces Off With Westboro Baptist Church

It got real, yo, when the WBC brought it’s hate-filled tour to Savannah—those people are so freakin’ crazy they don’t know what end is up! It was an honor to stand on the square with all the other Jews, queers and freaks as we drowned them out singing about love.

11. The End of Thursdays With Marcia

I spent almost every single Thursday lunch kibbitzing at the Senior Lunch at the JEA for five years. EYM and I would escort my mother-in-law when she was merely confused; eventually, we had to push her in her wheelchair and feed her. Finally, this spring, we decided it was best to keep her at home. She’s still with us, giving out a smile once in a while.

It’s been a blessing to look over those posts as we prepare for the last Shabbat of the year and our little shayna maidela’s eighth birthday. Here’s to a adventurous, prosperous, healthy and lovely 2012 to all!

As far as I’m concerned, punk rock and Chanukah make a fantastic combination—must be the hammering drum beats.

Thank you to my favorite rabblerouser Sierra Salin for introducing me to the The Shlomones, with their wicked take on “Time Warp.” Guess they coulda called themselves “Schlocky Hora”? Heheh.

So, yes, let’s light the candles one more time tonight, yo! I’m planning to splatter the entire kitchen in canola oil for one last foray into the world of fried—after this, I don’t want to see another donut until the 25th of next Kislev.

Speaking of the other 25th, how did you spend yours? The Yenta family started with a camping trip at a small hippie retreat in the forest, where we were very surprised to find several other Jews seeking refuge. We always roll with our own candlikas, but we weren’t the only ones lighting a menorah and Shabbos candles in the woods—some delightful students of Jewish meditation from Asheville, NC brought a bicycle chanukiah and killer guitar skills. Friday evening in the common room was like Grateful Dead Jewriffic summer camp with rounds of “Hinei Ma Tov” and hora dancing on the worn Oriental rugs. Just goes to show communion can happen anywhere.

The next day we scooted south for an epic day in the Magic Kingdom, thinking all the goyim would stay home for Christmas—wrong. Turns out it’s the busiest day of the year at Disneyworld, doh. However, with El Yenta Man’s strategizing we managed to beat the lines—by arriving at dawn. Hardcore, nu? Not that Mickey Mouse could be compared to Johnny Rotten, but in spite of getting older and nerdier, there’s still a little punk rock rollin’ around these old bones.

Here’s Hip Hop Hoodios’ “Ocho Kandelikas” to inject a little Ladino flair into yours—

A bright last night of this Festival of Lights to all!

Help…I’m trapped in a house full of spinning dreidels and an almost eight-year old who won’t stop singing “Domo Arigato Mister Roboto”…it’s a fave on Rock Band at her friends’ house and she brought it home like a germ.

I am not kvetching. The first Monday morning of winter break is hell on working moms, and I am grateful my kidlets had a fun, fudge-filled home to chill in today. (St. Claire Mars, you are an angel!) But El Yenta Man now has the virus, standing over me fronting his white man robot moves and chanting “I’m Kilroy…Kilroy…”

I was going to post the STYX video so would have a little taste of Yentariffic pre-Chanukah chaos, but I value your readership too much. Let my restraint serve as my gift to you, dahlinks.

I need control…we all need control…sorry, I can’t get it out of my overtaxed keppe.

(Savannah-specific segue: Did anyone attend the STYX show at the Civic Center last week? Anyone? Yeah, I’m guessing there’s not a whole lotta crossover between yentas and legendary 80s bands. But if you do happen to rock out to “Renegade” and bliss out to “Lady,” then my colleague Bill Deyoung’s interview in this week’s Connect is a must-read.)

Actually, as far as holiday madness goes, we’re a circus rather than an asylum. The menorahs are lined up in the window, the extra bottle of canola oil secured in the pantry, the presents bought (but not wrapped. I did remember paper this year, though on a few nights we will be utilizing the eco-friendly but hideously ugly cloth bags I sewed them last year in a fit of frugal craftiness.)

The kids had very reasonable requests for Chanukah (yes, I spell it with the glottal “Chhhhh” and one “k” because I just do; you can spell it however you like) this year; no actual robots, rodents, reptiles or motorized vehicles, which is a real relief.

Perhaps it’s because I read them “A Horse for Hanukkah,” Myriam Halberstam’s cautionary tale of a gift gone wild. I got a review copy, and maybe the message of “be careful what you wish for” got under their little keppes:

Hannah gets the pet she’s always wanted for the first night of Chanukah, a Yiddish-neighing mare named Golda. This would be fabulous for Jewish farmers, but Hannah’s family lives in an apartment with only one bathroom. Hilarity ensues as Golda trashes the living room, scarfs all the latkes and sets her own tail on fire with the menorah. Makes our house look like the picture of wholesome Jewish American living.

Though the book is targeted at kids younger than mine, everyone here still thinks poop is hilarious, so Golda’s stanky little gift in Hannah’s bedroom on night five found an appreciative audience. Nancy Cote’s richly colored illustrations are sweet; there are lots of little lessons embedded in the story and a cute little twist at the end. A nice addition to the holiday library for the six-and-under set. Get it here.

There’s even a takeaway for the grown-ups: Even if you’re mired in the stress of the season, at least there’s not horsehockey next to your bed.

Chappy almost-Chanukah. And just because I love y’all, here’s some Styx after all, ’cause these are the best of times, friends:

OK, so the Menorah of the Week is not actually a menorah. But it still involves a flame and Jewish symbology and thus makes a fabulous gift for the Festival of Lights, nu?

A clever crafting of hand-wrought steel, shadow and light, the Tree of Life candleholder was created by sustainable designers Joost Elffers and Diana Sierra (click on that link and read about Diana’s incredible efforts to help Ugandan women; now that’s tikkun olam, yo.)

I think it’s brilliant because it depicts the Tree of Life as it really is: A confusing tangle of branches with poky thorns that, when illuminated through faith, reveals the presence of something greater.

Also, the handpuppet potential is fantastic.

It’s on sale today at Fab.com.

Apologies that things in Yenta world have not slowed down enough this week for any written navelgazing as work, laundry, Chanukah preparations and dealing with a hideous flea infestation on the pug’s tushy have really been cramping my style.

There have also been some life passages worth noting, at least to me:

We mourned the passing of El Yenta Man’s 98 year-old grandmother, Florence Lebos, who passed in Raleigh, NC last Tuesday evening with her two children and five of her six grandchildren present as she exhaled her last breath. The funeral was held last Friday in Tampa, FL, where she spent most of her life. Oleha HaShalom—May she rest in peace.

I adored Florence. Though I only met when she was in her 80s, to me she seemed an example of true Southern gentility. She never raised her voice but let her strong opinions known with a distinctive drawl and a smile. She gave me an exquisite strand of pearls at my wedding. When she moved to Springmoor, the assisted living community, after her husband, Fred, passed (I never met him), she jumped right into the activities and edited the community’s newsletter when lots of seniors would have holed up in the rooms with CNN.

She engaged her nine great-children with hilarious hand games of “meeleh-mazeleh” and checks at every single birthday. She read everything I ever wrote at skirt! magazine and loved to talk about her earliest memory: Watching the ticker tape parade after the end of WWI—that was 1919, y’all! Florence was a woman who saw so much change in her life—she one told me her secret to longevity was to “roll with the punches.” She also loved her whiskey sours.

Here in Savannah, we sat mini-shivah (just one day instead of the full seven; Florence wasn’t religious in the least and would’ve been mad if everyone had missed that much work over her.) I am so grateful to the many members of the Jewish community who came by to comfort my father-in-law—it meant so much to him that people took the time out for Rabbi Crystal’s inspiring memorial service and those who stayed just to sit and eat.

And oy, did people bring food! Stuffed cabbage and cold cuts, fruit trays and cheese plates, Bundt cakes and brownies and a certain amazing pistachio pound cake baked by Lucille Smith that made me forget why we were all there in the first place. And also another big thank you to Lucille for providing the old-school super ginormous coffee percolator, because trying to serve everyone a cuppa from the French press would have been a disaster.

It’s a testament to my own blessed life that I have never dealt with a family shivah (my own bubbe was less religious than Florence), so I was extremely farmisht in my role as ersatz matriarch of this branch of the family now. I deeply appreciate Catherine Fagin and the rest of the elder women who guided me through the process, helping with coats and gently reminding me to make a list of which guests brought what so I could write thank you notes later.

Florence’s death is sad, especially for my father-in-law who relied so much on her advice and acuity as my mother-in-law drew into her dementia fog. But bless him, even he can see that to live so long and lucky, then pass quickly and without pain, is the best anyone of us could hope for ourselves and each other. It was EYM’s and my first shivah together, but it won’t be our last, though I don’t know if one ever gets the hang of escorting our loved ones out the door into God’s hands.

The past few weeks also bring good news this side of the curtain: My father has sprung back extremely well from his brain aneurysm in August—he’s already back teaching at the medical college this week! He insists he’s going back to Tanzania this summer, but he promises he’s taking one step at a time.

We shlepped to Scottsdale for the scarfing of the turkey a couple of weeks ago, and observed with our own eyes that he really is back to his old self after the trauma and month-long coma. Oops, I didn’t mean to say “old”; how about “back to his cantankerous yet easy-to-smile self?” All I know is he’s back kicking tush on the Scrabble board. Here he is with Mom in his photo studio—pretty good lookin’ people, nu?

And lastly, the Savannah mayoral election run-off was last Tuesday, and I am sorry to report this city does not have a new Jewish mayor. What can I say, this ain’t Chicago. However, Facebook rumors already abound that Jeff Felser might take a shot at the County Commissioner seat next year. Keep moving forward, Jeff—we’re still behind you!

A peaceful and lovely Shabbos and weekend to all ~

Look, I’m no intellectual giant. I have to check every “virus alert” on Snopes.com. I follow shiny things into sewers. I bob my head to the terrible pop music I’m subjected to while driving Hebrew school carpool.

And as you know, I think most Jewish holiday parodies are hilarious.

Chanukah’s coming ’round the calendar again, and we never stopped singing the Maccabeats’ “Candlelight” from last year. I’ve always thought of it as a fun ditty by some nice Yeshiva boys that I could share with the kids (unlike last week’s funny-but-pervy “I’m Jewish and I Know It.”)

Then I read Amy Klein’s article in this week’s Forward blasting the whole notion of Jewish parodies and those durned singing rabbinical students:

My antipathy toward The Maccabeats — those sheyne yinglekh, as my grandmother would have said, using the Yiddish term for “sweet boys” — isn’t personal. The college students were responsible for a fine production: The tunes they chose to rewrite are catchy, the lyrics are proficient and their voices are melodic. But they’ve spawned an entire line of religious YouTube videos I find an embarrassment — no, a shonda! — for the Jewish people.

Oh no, she di’int! Amy, mameleh, what, you don’t like singing about dreidels and latkes?

By the end of the article, however, I thought she had a very interesting perspective. As a former religious Jew, Klein takes offense at the ultra-Orthodox life being lauded in the mainstream media when these are “the very same people who don’t want to see public advertisements featuring immodest women, won’t tolerate pictures of Hillary Clinton in their newspapers and won’t even ride the bus sitting next to a woman.”

To her, Jewish parodies elicit a reactive anger to what appears to be a real hypocrisy about the value of women in religious life.

From the “Rosh Hashanah Rock Anthem” to The Maccabeats’ upcoming offering — whatever it will be — it’s all fun and games until you become frum. Then let’s see how “cute” their conservative values really are.

Me, I don’t have so much invested. Though I respect the observant people I know, I am more likely to serve miso soup at a Buddhist monastery in this lifetime than I am to become so religious that I won’t want El Yenta Man sitting next to me making kissy sounds in my ear at Shabbat services.

I can see how Ms. Klein might feel irked by the glossy picture these religious “parodies” present; I also think the frum are as entitled as anyone else to switch up the lyrics to annoying pop songs and make silly videos.

However, I think we can all agree on one thing: That THIS is the worst, most hideous and offensive Jewish holiday parody in this world AND the world to come: