Growing up in Southern California, I had a good number of Jewish friends, and so my language was peppered with Yiddish: “Oy,” I might say, “I’m feeling verklempt,” if I’d just seen a P&G commercial celebrating moms. Or, “Gosh, I’m so schvitzy,” flapping the neck of my T-shirt to keep the sweat from pooling in my cleavage; and the day I got a return letter “from” Bryan Adams, the Canadian rock star, I nearly plotzed.
When I moved to New York, the Yiddish became even more useful. Men I dated were either mensches or hot messes. In fact, a good amount of my dating life was farkakteh in one way or another, but everything could be solved by a good friend patting my shoulder and murmuring, “Oh, bubbeleh, everything will…