Mr. Romance is So Last Week

Call me a pampered spoiled girl or someone with unrealistically high expectations, but that stupid Schmooie wanna-be known as Shy Boy really irritated the crap out of me today. He honestly can’t understand why I keep a wall up to romance and to completely “falling in love.” Well, today he reminded me why it is that I keep a wall up. Indeed, just as I was about to let down my guard, he disappointed me.

Shy Boy is currently in another state visiting his parents for a week. He had been so sweet for the past few days that I was actually starting to dig him more than I did before. He had made it a mission to try to melt me. I’m a bit skeptical about romance and he was trying to find a way to reverse that feeling. The way he acted today only confirmed my skepticism. I don’t believe in the stomach churning fluff of romantic films. I firmly believe that if a dude does act romantic, he’s only doing so for one of three reasons: to impress a girl, to marry a girl, or to get in a girl’s pants. Once he’s done any one or all of those three things, the romance goes out the door and you’re left with an oaf around the house who expects you to pamper and take care of him. I mean, seriously. You watch a romantic film or maybe even an action/adventure film where the hero and heroine end up together in the end and I’m supposed to sigh and think it’s lovely? Does anyone really stop to think about what that so-called heroic character is like following the film adaptation? Sure, Prince Charming kissed Snow White and broke the spell and they moved to his castle and lived happily ever after. But then what? I’m sure Prince Charming was not so charming once Snow White got to know him. He won the girl, so why bother with the romance any further? I’m sure he left his dirty socks and undies around the house expecting her to clean up after him. I guess Cinderella after meeting her Prince Charming had the charming duty of cleaning and washing for her oaf of a prince who never volunteered to help her in such duties.

Anyway, I’ll admit the past few times I’d seen Shy Boy and the past few times on the phone while he’s away in another state, he had been succeeding in his operation melt me goal....

For one thing, the idiot bought me a particular book that I've wanted for a really long time. Of course, instead of keeping it a surprise, he told me he bought it. It was cold outside when I came to his place last week to pick up the book and have dinner with him. When I got inside and made myself comfortable, he told me my hands felt cold and cuddled me till I got warm. After dinner, he picked me up like he was carrying me over a threshold, kissed me, and carried me over to the sofa. Then, this past Friday before his trip, I was at his place again for dinner. He found a good radio station on his television and danced (terribley). Then he cuddled me on the sofa and sang to me (terribley). Finally, he left a very sweet e-mail the day of his trip saying he missed me already. Up until today, he was very cute and fun on the phone while on his family vacation. How he acted today made me angry because it was like he didn't even remember how he acted those past two Fridays. And it just confirmed my theory that romance is only a tool for guys to get a girl to like them, to marry them, or to get in their pants. Once a guy is firmly attached to a girl, he drops the sweet gushiness and just becomes a pest.

He only confirmed my theory that romance is a tool of men and not something all sweet and fuzzy.

I could not stand Shy Boy's attitude on the phone. Tomorrow his parents are throwing a Hannukah party and he's not even going to help. Instead, he wants to go to the movies, claiming that way he'll keep out of the way. Today he helped his dad at work. He had to get up extremely early. Even though his dad did all the hard work, Shy Boy came home and acted lazy and exhausted. His parents went grocery shopping at 8 pm to get some last minute items for the party. They have the energy of a person Shy Boy’s age while he’s got the energy of a person his parents’ age! Stupid Shy Boy said he'd rather just go to Costco early in the morning when he needs to get his grocery shopping done. He acts like an old man! Here's Shy Boy's dad who did all that work and driving today and still goes out at night to run an errand. His mom meanwhile is doing his laundry. What right does he have to act tired and lazy?

Why can’t he be more like his father? His dad is a vibrant, adventurous fun-loving guy. He does hilarious impressions and he’s not afraid to venture to hole in the wall places for a new experience. His father is the type of person I’m looking for in Schmooie. Stupid lazy Shy Boy is the exact opposite. He’d rather sit at home and watch a movie. He’ll be the one at the party that’s sitting quietly at the table ready and waiting to leave. And instead of trying to learn from his father, he down-plays and makes fun of his father. What if I was stupid enough to marry Shy Boy? I can just picture Shy Boy as a father with a three year old son, both sitting opened mouthed , in a daze at the television screen.

Being  Mr. Romance is not enough. I need Mr. Useful. He lacked any of his usual thoughtfulness today. So is it just a rouse? Sure people are entitled to an off day. But I don’t need and I don’t WANT a lazy shlub!!! Maybe he was just tired from having had to go to work at the unusual ungodly hour of 6am, but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this lazy insensitive side to him. This is just the first time I’ve seen so much of it in such a short span. And to think he actually wanted me to come with him on that trip. Heaven only knows how crazy I’d be going right now.

The Frenchies Have Influenced the Schmooies

(This entry will start off first being reflective and then will move on to the immature silly stuff you all know and love me for.)

I hate almost anything French, except French fries. More on that in a minute. First let me take a moment for reflection.

A great friend reminded me of how desperate, frustrated and lonely I was just eight months ago.  Upon that friend’s wise recommendation, I started this blog to give my annoyance a place to be heard outside of my own head. At that time, the career I thought I wanted was pulled out from under me. I was living in an area of the country where it was nearly impossible to date any Jewish men. My mom’s friends were placing her in a paranoid state about my love life, which then translated into her placing me into a paranoid state about my lack of love life. It all felt a bit hopeless, utterly fruitless. Something ridiculous to be concerned about and yet I couldn’t stop feeling bugged by it. Some nights, I’d find myself praying before bed to find a boyfriend already, someone in my age group to love me unconditionally, deeply, affectionately, all the things a girl hears about in movies but never actually finds in real life. So now that there’s this actual dude in front of me called Shy Boy who’s trying to do all those things, I have to go and over scrutinize him. Of course, I forgot to leave out the specifics in that prayer—how he should look, what his job should be, that I should be as equally deeply in love with him as he is with me. I’m not sure what it is about human nature, or maybe it’s that the career I’m in naturally encourages one to over think, over plan, and have a tight need for control. Shy Boy’s got all that gooshy romantic stuff in him for sure, but still he’s just not what I pictured Schmooie to be. He’s nothing like I expected and yet he’s everything a girl should want. Would someone please explain this phenomenon to me?

My mama blames herself for the fact that I feel too good for most men, that I feel I must tread carefully, and for my stealth ability at protecting my own heart. She trained me never to let a man break my heart and to always take anything a man says with a grain of salt. Of course, my mama’s also the same one who kvetches (Yiddish word meaning “complains”), “What? You wanna be in your fifties and unmarried?” Yes, maybe I do. I just want a nice boyfriend who’s not going to hurt me. I didn’t say I wanted a husband…

Alright, got that out of my system. That was the mature part of this entry. Now onto the immature silliness I’m more accustomed to and comfortable with…

As I said before, French fries are about the only thing “French” I dig. Would someone then please explain to me what’s so great about a French kiss? Shy Boy is the utmost gentleman. Chivalrous and old fashioned to a fault. On the other hand, he’s also a passionate dude. He loves to kiss and be kissed. But he never does anything inappropriate. I’m the one with the child-like immaturity. Sometimes he’ll be in the middle of a great kiss and I’ll let my mouth go limp and tell him I’m a dead fish. I do it just to annoy him. But he found a way to annoy me back. He told me the next time I pulled a so called “dead fish kiss” he would French kiss me. Sure enough, he was true to his word. And I discovered: French kisses are disgusting! Blame it on the fact that my profession involves looking at tongues on a daily basis. Then again, French kissing also involves too much thinking. I get afraid someone’s tongue is going to get bitten off. At any rate, I’m pretty sure attempting a French kiss has been on Shy Boy’s radar for some time now and he was just looking for an excuse to spring it on me. So I went home and researched “French kissing.” See, in my profession, evidence based anything is important for being a good practioner. Someone on some website recommended pretending the other person’s tongue was soft-serve ice cream. Eww! That put me off soft serve ice cream for a week. (Ooo, and now I just realized that perhaps if you too google “French kiss” this blog post might just pop up. Hi out there!) The following week, after I regained my love of soft serve ice cream, I decided if Shy Boy went in for another French kiss, I’d just follow the advice of my research. The only problem was that advice worked too well. Just when I’ve gotten used to French kissing and hoped he’d had enough of this newfound way of kissing, he tells me how much he likes doing it. Apparently, he likes how my tongue feels on his tongue. Now almost every kiss has a tongue in it! Eww! It’ll be a good thing when he decides he’s sick of being French and wants to be American again. I must make a mental note to find a way to nip this in the bud or tongue as it were.

On the Subject of Prissy Princesses

Sometimes I feel a bit angry or defeated. Even though I went to a wonderful school and had phenomenally amazing classmates, from time to time, there are a small handful of classmates who stick out in my mind. At times, I find I compare myself to that small handful of wide-eyed, pretty-faced, flimsy framed, high pitched, little flibbity girls that ended up with the career I wanted. Those same Prissy Princess Girls also ended up with gorgeous boyfriends and husbands. They have what I thought I wanted: the perfect career and the perfect man. So while I now strive to get my career where I want it to be, a Schmooie wanna-be called Shy Boy has been pursuing me. He’s cute, but not gorgeous on the outside, (not what I grew up picturing “gorgeous” to be). He is a good guy, a great guy actually, on the inside. Still, there have been times where after all these years, I feel I’m comparing myself to those Prissy Princess Girls I once knew. What’s the point in that? I have no idea. Shy Boy will coo and say the sweetest things to me, which only makes me giggle, blush, and look away. He wants to know what guy in the past hurt my self-esteem so badly. Truth is, it was no guy who did that to me. I’d never let an idiot guy hurt my opinion of myself. It was the same sex, those Prissy Princess females, which made (and make) me wonder if I’m doing something wrong.

The thing to remember is that a pretty package may have a nasty surprise. Those so called handsome guys the Prissy Princesses ended up with probably have a lot wrong with them to end up with such catty little women. But still, it infuriates me to no end that the Prissy Princesses always appear to win. Those Prissy Princesses got the career I wanted. Why shouldn’t they get the perfect Prince for their perfect Stepford lives? I guess I should keep in mind that the greatest talent of a Prissy Princess is in keeping up appearances. Those so called handsome guys might be real duds when not being told what to do by their Prissy Princesses. Shy Boy knows how to be romantic without being told. He goes out of his way to do something for me before I even ask. He knows how to touch my skin in a way that makes me happy. He’s thoughtful, considerate, and protective. He’s never demanding and he’s always sincere. He can say gooey things and mean it without wanting any “special favors” in return. On top of that, he’s a great kisser and he’s intelligent. He truly loves me and it shows in his kisses and in his actions. That should outweigh the negative things. Things such as: he’s starting to bald; he’s a bit cross eyed; he’s overly apologetic at times; he’s overly gentle to the point of infuriating; he’s very quiet unless the subject is music or movies; sometimes he acts like he’s not quite aware of the things around him when he’s walking down a street; he act and looks far more mature than his age; he has no music or artistic ability; he’s fun loving but sometimes I have to come up with the ideas first.

He’s not someone you’ll instantly look at and need to sit down. He’s not someone you’ll talk to for a few minutes and need to sit down. He’s not instantly charming physically or socially is what I mean to say. Indeed, he’s not the type of guy I ever pictured myself with.

Meanwhile, is it possible the the Stepford boyfriends and husbands of those Prissy Princesses look perfect on the outside and act perfect socially, but have no abilities at home to do the same? Shy Boy needs no coaxing or training on how to be a man towards me. I bet most of those good looking Stepford boyfriends and husbands don’t offer a foot rub or back rub out of the blue. They don’t come over and wrap their arms around their Prissy Princess while she’s doing her hair just because they treasure her. They don’t stop whatever it is that they’re doing just to gaze at their Prissy Princess. They don’t bother to call despite being exhausted from a long work day just to say hello. For all I know, they probably take their Prissy Princess for granted. And who could blame them? They were the ones idiotic enough to fall for the Prissy Princess. Perhaps, while those particular girls are busy sniveling along, seemingly getting their way in almost everything they do, it’s all an act. And you know what? Maybe I am the true Queen Bee.  

Meeting of the Mothers

This weekend, Shy Boy’s mother came to town. You see, in case that sentence didn’t make sense, Shy Boy’s mother lives several states away. Of course, I had already met her at the wedding, but I didn’t have much time to talk to her at that point because she was so busy helping her other son get married. I was pleasantly surprised by the events of this past weekend. The way Shy Boy presented it to me, I was ready for a long weekend of interrogations about my intentions with her son. I was ready for a meeting of the mothers where each sizes the other one up and draws up a dowry, in spite of the fact that he and I have only known each other for a little over three months. (The anticipation and apprehension for something being taken far too seriously than it should be would explain my anger toward Shy Boy and Jewish mothers in general in my last blog post.) In reality, Shy Boy’s mother felt bad that she hadn’t spent much time with him during the wedding weekend, and since he had some availability in his work schedule, she wanted to come see him. She had also heard great things about my family, particularly my mother, and wanted to meet her. We got together with her three times during the weekend, each day spent full of eating and shopping. The mothers instantly hit it off. I am a bit jealous of his mom. She worries about her son like any mother, but she seems to be so encouraging and just wants her son to be happy, even if his vision of happiness differs from her own. My mother is a great mother, but she’s more pessimistic and wants things her way when it comes to raising her children and how her children should live their lives. Shy Boy’s mother didn’t care that I want to go back to my beloved state out West. She wasn’t pushy. I was worried one Jewish mother might try to dominate the other, but they actually got along quite well. Both had a lot to talk about, and most of their conversations had nothing to do with Shy Boy or myself. I’m a bit odd about being too physical with Shy Boy when my mom is around. Even something as innocent as hand holding makes me nervous in front of my mother. He respected that, as he always does. This weekend, I felt more comfortable with touching him and having him kiss me goodbye in front of my mother. I still haven’t fallen for him. But I do feel more attached to him. I’m not in love with him and I’m not sure what it’s going to take to actually “fall in love.” (Besides, why should it be him out of anyone that I “fall in love with” anyway?) But I do love him. I feel much freer now that the mothers know each other and no one’s forcing us to do anything. I just enjoy Shy Boy’s company. I’m glad and hopeful that that’s good enough for now.  

The Great-on-Paper Guy

So I spent quite some time writing up a blog entry about how the wedding went, how much fun we had, that we got closer physically (nothing sexual of course because Shy Boy’s a gentleman). But I’m not gonna lie. I’ve decided not to post it. There’s a good reason behind it that has nothing to do with privacy. Since the wedding occurred two weeks ago, I’ve been to his apartment for the first time. I’ve seen him happy and I’ve seen him bored. I’ve been to NYC with him. All the while, love has grown deeper for him and kept lukewarm for me. Every time I think love might start to simmer in me, it fizzles away again. When I read a string of e-mails between one of my friends and me during the past two to three weeks, there is an interesting rise and fall in emotions. Immediately after the wedding, I was still giddy and almost felt myself falling for Shy Boy. Last week, I could go either way but I was still leaning more toward liking him. Over the past few days, I’ve gone completely neutral.  I’ve even wrote a follow-up blog post to the wedding discussing my disdain for him, but it's not worth posting. Instead, I'm writing this post now. Some days I think he’s a great guy, other days I’m perfectly happy without him. Shy Boy is The Great-on-Paper Guy. Why is he great-on-paper but not in real life? I still can’t quite figure it out myself. He’s chivalrous, a gentleman, kind, thoughtful, worships me. But he’s old fashioned, like everything is to me on the East Coast. He’s willing to come to my beloved city in the West, but I don’t think he’d like it. He looks and acts much older than his age. He’s shy, sensitive, and somewhat timid. He’s so gentle it’s irritating. I don’t want to be the one in the relationship with the balls or testosterone! How is it possible that he treats me like a lady and can protect me on the streets of New York while all the while being so shy and sensitive?  There’s something, something I can’t describe and can’t pinpoint that’s missing. And that thing that’s missing is the great wall that keeps me from falling in love with him. He tells me he’ll do whatever makes me happy. He says all he wants is to be loved and have someone love him. But deep down I know he wants a serious relationship. At the same time, I can't bring myself to tell him, to break his heart, that I don't think I'm ever going to love him. Then again, I should keep in mind we haven’t even known each other for that long. In all actuality, it’s only been three months.

In true parent-child fashion, I want to blame our pushy Jewish mothers who think we belong together just because we’re of “a certain age” and have not found someone yet, as the reason why I can’t love him. For crying out loud, we’re not that old and even if we were, we have to find our own way to be happy. Maybe I just don’t want to get married and have children. Maybe the more society forces it on me and the deeper in love he tells me he is; the more I want to run away from him. Then I get to thinking of those lonely nights in my beloved state back West. The nights I cried because I didn’t have a boyfriend. The nights I prayed for a boyfriend to no avail. Now, I find myself thinking that I can do better than him. I don’t know how, it’s probably an immature naïve thing to even be thinking of. My expectations are probably far too high. I’m looking for bigger, better, best. Maybe I love a state out West more than I could ever love him, even if he did come out there to be with me. All I know is, I like him as a boyfriend and I wish people would leave it at that, including him.

Make-out with Schmooie Wanna-Be

We tried a new place to eat. It was our 10^th outing. Shy Boy surprised me with flowers. He said he did it just because he wanted to. I was taken aback. After dinner, we went for a walk on a warm late summer evening that felt far more romantic than it normally would have the day before or the day after. Before leaving, I gave him a kiss to thank him. We broke out into several nice little kisses and a long embrace. He kept whispering “I love you.” I can’t bring myself to say those words. I’m not sure yet how I feel about him even though I do like him a lot.

The following week, we went to our old hang-out. He was going to be away that weekend and wanted to see me before he left.   After we ate, it was still early and a bit chilly outside. We walked around town. He held my hand, and acted very manly and protective when we had to cross the busy streets. We eventually found our way back to my car, which was parked in a very dark area behind the restaurant. We kissed a little and he just kept holding me. I stood there, holding onto him, listening to his heartbeat. He was obviously happy. But that nagging feeling came back to me. I didn’t love him the way he loved me. I wasn’t feeling anywhere the same emotions he felt for me. It was actually a bit infuriating because I wanted so much to feel the same way. Most importantly, he is so kind and so sweet to me that I don’t want to hurt him.

Flash-forward a few days later, and we’ve been in contact over e-mail. We’re developing more and more of a sort of teenaged romance and we both kind of like it that way, sweet and silly and peppered with innuendo. I’ve been in contact with many of my guy friends asking them for advice on the situation. Now I’m getting in over my head where I can’t just cut bait without hurting him, but oddly enough, I don’t want to cut bait either. They’ve told me that as long as he and I are in agreement on our relationship, we can just enjoy each other’s company and see how things go. It doesn’t have to lead to a great romance. We could just be filling in a void in each other’s lives and what’s so bad about that? 

Now there’s a wedding this weekend that he and I will be attending. Stay tuned for an entry on how that shindig will turn out.

Schmooie Wanna-be Meets Da Mama

After Shy Boy’s romantic e-mail about wanting to be more mushy, I decided to just go with it. Something about what he wrote did melt my heart a bit. While I stupidly didn’t tell him that I wasn’t sure I had the same feeling for him that he had for me, I did level with him that I would be returning to my beloved state out West. And he was okay with that. He wanted to pursue a long distance relationship if I was interested. Meanwhile, my mama was getting antsy to meet him. A good Jewish mother has got to be nosey. So I decided it’d be okay to invite him to my mother’s birthday party. He agreed to go. I told him what to wear and how to look. Still, he showed up in the wrong outfit. This was Shy Boy and myself’s first outing since deciding to be more romantic in public. When we got to the restaurant, he was already at the door waiting. I introduced everybody. Then my mom, my sister, and their friends followed the waiter to our table. Sensing my nervousness over this whole meeting, Shy Boy lagged behind to put an arm around me and kiss me on the head. My mom and her friends enjoyed talking to him. My sister was less thrilled. He was doing very well. He even brought presents. I was beginning to feel proud of him. My mom and sister’s friends wanted to go dancing afterward. We went to a hotel where a band was performing some really great tunes. On the way to the hotel, my mom did the driving while Shy Boy and I sat in the back. Things were going very well, and I felt a sudden interest in holding his hand. So I passed him my hand, and he took hold of it. The highlight of the evening was when my mom forced him to dance. The other highlight was holding hands on the way home and stealing some quick little kisses in the back of the car. I didn’t want it to be too obvious what we were doing. After all, my mom was only a few feet away doing the driving. Shy Boy and I have developed a very teenaged relationship, sort of secretive, all the while being very innocent and sweet. We seem to like it that way. And I just hope we can remain on the same page as the other about where our relationship should go.

Schmooie, Where Have I Been?

I’ve decided to just go ahead and talk more about the Schmooie wanna-be mentioned in the previous post. Since I’ve been spending time with the family back East, there hasn’t been much excitement going on other than hanging out with Shy Boy Schmooie. I’ve been on several outings with Shy Boy. We went to visit my old school. We’ve been to a whole bunch of restaurants. We’ve been to the movies. All those places people go to hang out. By the fifth outing, he wanted a kiss, but I wasn’t going to give one. I wasn't shy. I wasn't playing hard to get. I liked him very much, but I wasn’t as crazy about him as he was of me. He gave me a kiss on the cheek at the beginning and at the end of the outing. He had a great deal in common with me. We come very similar religious and political backgrounds. He liked all the same cultural things I dug. But something was missing. He felt too familiar, like a relative more than a potential boyfriend. But I decided to keep hanging out with him because I enjoyed his company, and he wasn’t asking for too much in return. He was new to the area and needed to get to know people. He had a difficult time making friends.

He always came with his hair gelled back, making him look much older and balder than he really was. On the sixth outing, he surprised me by showing up with no gel in his hair. He said he didn’t have time to put any on that day. It was a marked improvement. Finally, instead of looking 30 years older than what he really was, he looked like a dude his actual age. The hair looked a lot cuter and cleaner without silly gels. I felt oddly more attracted to him than I did before. Maybe it was the fact that I complimented him a lot on the new look, but for whatever reason, he was acting more manly. The thing that held (and still holds) me back was the familiarity. I couldn’t (and can’t) seem to feel as attracted to him as he is to me. We ended the date, and he wanted a kiss very badly. It was obvious. Perhaps encouraged by the compliments and his new surge of manliness, he went ahead and kissed me. He got the corner of my mouth rather than the full lip because I inadvertently moved my head as he went in.

We soon found a particular restaurant that has become our hangout spot. If we can’t think of anywhere else to go, this particular place is where we end up craving. After eating there that night, he kissed me full on the lips in the parking lot. It was a very sweet, nice little kiss. I didn’t feel sparks or fireworks though. The fact that I would soon be going back to my beloved home out West also held me back. Still, I really liked hanging around him. I found him fun to talk and the more I got to know him, the more he opened up. Soon, he invited me to a wedding of one of his close relatives. He didn’t need a date, but he wanted one, and he wanted me to be the one. After hearing about the wedding for all the weeks that I’d known Shy Boy, I was interested in being his date and I agreed to go.

After that, we didn’t see each other for about two weeks. There was a hurricane that caused a lot of commotion in town and my cell phone quit working. He would call every day during the hurricane to see how my family and I were making out, until my cell phone went kaput that is. My mom couldn’t believe his thoughtfulness and wanted to meet him desperately. Meanwhile, he and I could have conversations via e-mail that we were both too shy to have in person. He wrote me a very romantic e-mail. In it, he asked me why I had a wall up, and how would I feel if he wanted to hold my hand, kiss me, or bring me flowers for no apparent reason. I went ahead and explained that I would soon be returning to my beloved place out West. He said he wanted to try a long distance relationship if I was willing. The way he asked and how thoughtful and gentle he acted, made me want to try harder with him. Not force anything, but just let down my guard and go with the flow. It wasn’t reassuring though, until we finally both got on the same page about where I stand when it comes to living out West. He also wanted me to know that he “wasn’t sex-obsessed.” He genuinely wanted to romance a girl. He wanted affection, but not sex, especially so soon. Something about him is very trustworthy. He’s kind, doting, and completely chivalrous. What worries me is breaking his heart. I probably can’t keep him as a friend if he’s going to get too romantically attached to me and I can’t return the feelings. 

Some of you who know me through facebook know that I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with this boy? Do I just let him go? Do I give him some more time to see if I could become more interested? Do I just hang out with him and enjoy his time, because really, it doesn’t have to lead to anything? But then again, how do I get him on the same page as me when it comes to that? During the next few weeks, things began to take shape. It will take another blog entry(s) to continue this thought, so be prepared for several blog posts to make up for the lack of any lately….

The Summer of Schmooie

Does absence really make the heart grow fonder? I subscribe to the notion that it’s not absence but distance that makes the heart grow relieved. For you see, thanks to distance, there is no need to make any sort of commitment. I say that on behalf of myself and on behalf of the Schmooie wanna-be’s of my most recent past. Over a month ago, I came back East for a work-related conference. Because my family lives back East, I have decided to make an extended stay spending the summer with family. It’s been about seven years since we’ve been able to have extended family time. In the meanwhile, certain Schmooie wanna-be’s from my beloved city in the West have been in contact in some cases quite out of the blue.

The conference took place about two weeks after my encounter with Mr. Interlocking Fingers at the Botanical Garden. While at the conference, in the middle of the day, he called me. I didn’t answer seeing as I was at a meeting and afterwards was swept up in the fun of the city the conference took place in. (Since then, he has continued to send me the occasional e-mail that I ought to be better about answering, but something about him really perturbs me.) The conference was about four days long. Meanwhile, on the night before the conference ended, I got a facebook e-mail from Schmooie Delpino asking what I was doing that weekend. After our first meeting, I friended him on facebook, but aside from accepting my friend request, I hadn’t heard anything else from him for three weeks until that point. So I answered his e-mail explaining I was out of town and would like to get together with him when I get back. On the last night of the conference, Greek Boy called out of the blue. I was busy at Planet Hollywood, and hadn’t heard from him in well over a month. I thought perhaps he got the message I wasn’t that interested, after all, he wanted to get into the legal marijuana business as a career. Not the type of dude that could be Schmooie material. I thought I might as well answer the phone. I chatted with him briefly. He told me to have fun, and that was that. Until, of course he called two times a week later to tell me about a Hebrew course he was taking. 

In the meanwhile, the reason why this blog has been rather quiet lately is because I’ve been having more fun with the family then putting proper effort into finding Schmooie. Call it a summer vacation from Schmooie. Mind you, I’m still on that famous Jewish dating site, and I figure since there are more Jews on the East Coast, I should keep an eye out. Actually, I’ve been on a handful of outings lately with a shy dude from that famous online Jewish dating site. He’s my age, though something about him feels much more like my father’s age. We have a great deal in common when it comes to an insane love for culture, music, and movies from the 1950-1980s. I can mention an obscure band from 1966 and he’ll actually know what I’m talking about. Also, Shy Dude even knows a handful of Yiddish phrases, a language I grew up listening to my mom and her parents speak.  He says I’m adorable and he’s extremely eager to please. I’ve hung out with him a few times, and he has now started to kiss my cheek when he sees me. Now, before you lovely readers get your knicker in a twist, don’t get excited. I don’t want a relationship with him beyond a good friend to hang out with. The good thing is, he knows I’m not going to be in town long-term and he’s okay with just friendship. Still, he does try to throw out subtle hints that he’s a friend but he’d like more. Now, unfortunately, because his job requires a lot of research and computer time, I can’t really go into the delicious detail you all expect from me on this blog. I want to say more about his job and what he looks like, but I must refrain. I’ll let you all just use your own imaginations. Besides, it’s much more fun that way isn’t it?  

A date is only a type of fig, Schmooie

I hate, with a passion, the word “date.” Maybe it’s the fact that I’m currently visiting family back East, and it annoys the hell out of me to hear my mom use the word “date” around me. Sometimes, she’ll even use the phrase “dream date” as a joke, something her brother used to say to her to annoy her when she was searching for her own Schmooie. In any case, I hate the word “date.” Here’s my gripe: What constitutes a date? I love visiting my friends, going to their homes for BBQ’s or going out with them to restaurants. Why can I get together for drinks, dinners, movies with friends and it’s not considered a “date”? If I go shopping with a girlfriend, why is that not considered a “date”? Why does that word have to be thrown around if two single people go somewhere together? Alright then, if a date is two single people doing something together, how come that time I spent two hours chatting with a Jewish French Dude in a parking lot isn’t considered a date? Is it because we were just in a parking lot? If we had gone for coffee at the end of our parking lot excursion, would it suddenly have been considered a date?

To be honest, all the hilarious adventures I have posted about on this here blog, I do not actually consider to be “dates.” The word, to me, implies romance. I’ve felt no romance toward any of these Schmooie wanna-be’s, even if their goals have been to extend some sort of romance toward me.

I shared this gripe of mine, this hatred of the word “date,” with a friend who gave me his own interpretation. He told me a date is when two people agree to meet somewhere and do something together. So even two girlfriends just going out for an afternoon of coffee and shopping is a “date” because they have both agreed to do something together at a specific time and place. Makes sense. It’s not romantic unless you call it a “romantic date.” Again, makes sense. Except, how do you establish with the other person whether it’s a “romantic date”or not. Something like that, I suppose, is unspoken and goes without saying. The problem here, though, is that often times, the Schmooie wanna-be views the outing as a “romantic date” and I do not. The other problem is that my mom, my girlfriends, and anyone else I talk to views my outings with Schmooie wanna-be’s as “romantic dates.” Perhaps, the word “date” was invented merely so other people, the ones not directly involved, can live vicariously through the person who’s Searching for Schmooie. Would someone just calm down already and realize that a date is merely a glorified fig!

Never at 3 am, Schmooie!

Due to the slightly graphic nature of this post, viewer discretion is advised. You’ve been warned!

If you couldn’t tell by now from reading previous posts, I hate online dating. You get eager to make your profile nice only to grow a tad obsessed checking on it every day. Then, ultimately, you barely hear from anyone. Most men are too chicken to make the initial contact. They’ll click a button that says they “like” you, or a button to “flirt” with you, or a button that makes it so you get e-mailed a series of guys and have to guess which one is your “secret admirer.” Others will say in their own profiles, “if you like what you’re reading go ahead and email me.” Some will e-mail you first, most will not. Bottom line is most men are there to look and wait. So, based on the fact that most of these men would rather sit on their hands than make contact, I’m fairly certain that any man who initiates contact on that famous Jewish dating sight via instant messaging is clinically insane. Yep, just about any man who’s contacted me via instant messaging has been much older or younger or creepier than me. I rarely accept an invite to chat with any of them. The ones I have chatted with have had their own generous supply of problems. I’ve had a bloated horny religious nut, a confused due to language barrier foreigner, and a 3 am horndog. Replying to an IM at 3 am? What was I thinking? Yeah, you probably know where this story is going….

Now understand, I really didn’t want to accept his invite to chat at first. The picture of him sitting next to a baby did not sway me into thinking he was a family man. The overtired rings around his eyes should’ve told me he was a pro at late night perversity. But according to his profile, he was a lawyer and a writer, so what was he doing up at 3 am on a weeknight? Ignoring a nice quality red flag, I decided to go ahead and find out.

Sure, things started off innocently enough, not that much different than a normal instant message. The standard: what’s up/how’s the weather/ what do you do/how was your day. Then, things took a turn for the Hmm, before making a sharp left turn into the Oye, and finally zooming at full speed into the Canyon of Creepy. Lucky for you, I copied and saved our illuminating conversation. What follows is a paraphrased version. In parentheses is my commentary on the conversation, not words I actually said during the event, but things I’m thinking now.

Loser: hey there, what’s up

Me: hi, how are you? How’s the weather there in Connecticut?

Loser: umm…hot and sweaty (Should’ve been my first context clue toward trouble. Things were innocent for about five minutes as we chatted back and forth about living in our respective states. He’s in CT. I’m currently visiting family on the East coast. I asked him about writing, that’s when things took a turn for the worse.)

Loser: working in the am?

Me: No, I’m on vacation visiting family. Do you have to work?

Loser: In the am or now?

Me: Both, didn’t you say you’re writing something?

Loser: In the am, I might be doing the same thing as now

Me: Wow, you must be working on something intense

Loser: Very intense

Me: Or are you working on something just for fun?

Loser: Intense and fun I’d say (See, I made the mistake of thinking we were both talking about writing, thus missing my second context clue, when he started taking every word I used and perceived it as a physical act)

Me: So what are you working on?

Loser: I’ll give you two guesses

(Oye, what was he working on? I totally walked into that one! Luckily, at that moment I was completely oblivious to what he was suggesting. I was still running on the assumption that he was a writer/lawyer who was having trouble sleeping.)

Me: Are you writing a novel?

Loser: I am working on a book, but not right now. Right now I am working on something else.

(This is the part where I ignored the giant yellow road sign reading: “WARNING: Canyon of Creepy ahead. Turn back now!”)

Me: Do you write fiction or non-fiction?

Loser: Both

Me: Well honestly…….I am very well hung. So I was thinking in a first ever penis reduction article.

(Finally, I caught on to the stupidity. See, I knew with a stranger IM’ing me at 3 am there was a high chance he was just a dirty bastard. Still, I thought maybe he was testing me. A lot of these losers on that famous Jewish dating site claim to be sarcastic, so I thought maybe he was just going that route. In return, I started to reply with sarcasm. It was only as he continued to drag me down into the Canyon of Creepy that I finally realized he wasn’t being sarcastic. He was indeed a late night dirty bastard in search of a virtual good time. Well, he messed with the wrong gal. It so happens I studied Biology and Anatomy and Physiology for many years. Not to mention, my sister has a few old issues of “Cosmo” lying around the house. I would give him a run for his money.)

Me: hey, you could always get written up in the Journal of the American Medical Association

Loser: Yes, 8 and thick. Want to be normal for once.

Me: Do they do surgeries for that? Like how women get breast reduction surgeries?

Loser: Yes, I’ve looked into it

Me: But then again, a surgery like that might mess up other parts, wouldn’t it. Not that you’re probably able to use your parts properly now. You don’t look all that tall in your pictures. Don’t you have trouble with so much equipment to carry?

Loser: You mean peeing or cum?

(Great, the Loser just taught me a new dirty word I didn’t know before and never wanted to know. He started to talk more about the quality of his “cum,” a little too disgusting to post here and I won’t. In reply to his dirty seamen talk I pulled some Physiology on him.)

Me: Does this problem run in your family? Does your father also have an issue with hypersecretion of spermatozoa in its nutrient plasma with secretions from the prostate, seminal vesicles, and other various minor glands?

(Did I mention all my textbooks are stored on my computer? It was easy for me to pull up a medical textbook to quote from.)

Loser: Until you experience it, it’s kind of a dream. But for me it’s a nightmare.

Me: You should write a Reader’s Digest article about that. Makes girlie problems not seem so bad. Hey, I should be writing a Reader’s Digest article on this! What you’re telling me is pretty much clinically impossible. Why would a bigger dickie make you spew more seamen? Are your testicles also too large for your own body? Your penis doesn’t make seamen you know. By the way, almost all men have a penis just a little bit smaller than the size of a dollar bill. A dollar bill is 6 inches. Most men are 5 inches. Are you supposed to be turning me on?

Loser: I think I may be too much for you

Me: I think you may be too much for an elephant. Nice talking to you. Bye!

I quickly clicked the on the “x” to end our conversation. And that, gentle readers, is why you must never accept a request to chat with a stranger at 3 am. Don’t try this at home. I think I ought to make a public service announcement on the subject. *head desk*

Use Paypal to Find Schmooie

Today, I had a lunch date with a Schmooie wanna-be I’ve been in contact with via that famous Jewish dating site. He actually looked just like he did in his pictures, which made me wonder why so many people, men in particular, on these dating sites complain that the person they get is not the person in the picture. We were to meet at 12:30 pm, and from what I could gather, he seemed to be a punctual person, so when I got caught in traffic and would be five minutes late, I decide to call and let him know. When I arrived, I found him sitting in the shade hunched over Keith Richard’s autobiography. This dude, who I shall call Mr. Beardy Hat until a better nickname comes along, was six years older than me, the upper limit I’d take in age difference. His face was bearded, and he wore a flat cap (those trendy little hipster hats) just like in his profile picture. He was a huge music and classic movie buff, which was a plus since I love both those things. He worked for that famous online payment system one uses when buying something off of that famous auctioning site, am I being too blunt?

Recognizing that we’re both into old movies, he took me to a favorite café of his which was named after Jean Harlow. The restaurant had an old 1940s feel complete with pictures on the walls of classic Hollywood stars. We ordered our food and made small talk, him saying clichéd things like how he likes baseball but at the same time can go out for a night at the symphony. He talked a lot about his family and the two dogs he used to own. Somehow, we got on the topic of cell phones. He complained about how he hated when people, particularly old dates, would play on their cell phones in the middle of conversations. This coming from a man who I noticed during the course of our own lunch would take glances at his own Android phone.

Mr. Beardy Hat was a nice person, but I didn’t feel completely comfortable with him. He wasn’t a creep, but I got turned off by him when he said how much he liked “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and how much he can relate to Larry David. I truly do not understand why so many men, of all ages, I’ve been coming across on that famous Jewish dating site say what huge Larry David fans they are! He’s a crotchety, smarmy, unhappy sort of man. How is that a role model for awesomeness? Mr. Beardy Hat had mentioned the night before during our phone conversation that he has a well-kept apartment. During the course of our lunch, he also joked about feeling old. These may all seem like minor things, but with these Schmooie wanna-be’s I keep high on my guard for context clues to their future personality, the one that would emerge if I got to know them better. I’m a relaxed sort of person who wants to feel young at any age. I don’t want to be around a man long-term who’s going to complain about that sort of thing. If he’s doing it now, how the heck is it going to be years from now? Of course, he only said it once in passing, so I was probably over-analyzing. Truly, it’s the feeling like he’s Larry David thing that made me uncomfortable. In all other ways, Mr. Beardy Hat didn’t seem too bad, but I was not completely sold on him. I thought he’d make a fun friend, especially with his love for live music, but I couldn’t picture kissing him or wanting to really “date” him. Now, I know I’m probably being judgmental. It was only our first meeting and he didn’t really say or do anything to indicate that he might release his inner Larry David. Still, as a more laid back person, I didn’t want to get into a relationship with someone who might be too tightly wound.

After lunch, he asked if I had any other plans for the afternoon. I said no, so he asked if I wanted to go to the local Botanical Garden. He had a year’s membership there. Living in a town Out-West means living in a place with a stellar Botanical Garden populated with unique plants. The day was gorgeous, sunny, not too hot; breezy enough to go for a walk. I had never been to the gardens before, but always wanted to go. Perhaps he had picked up on the part in our conversation the night before that I loved gardening, so I agreed to go. He said we could take his car and that he would drop me off back at the restaurant afterward. When we got to his car, he actually held opened and closed the passenger door for me. On the short drive over to the Botanical Gardens, he put on the car stereo to play me some of his favorite bands. Then, he complained about finding the right parking spot.

We started to walk the grounds of the place and it’s magnificent plant displays. There were also animals living in the gardens, little squirrels, snakes, lizards, butterflies, and birds. I thought the little squirrels were adorable. Then, we saw our first of two snakes. A sleek, long black and white scaly snake appeared before us. I’m not scared of snakes, but they do sort of ick me out. Eww, was the first thing that came to mind. I backed away, and hid behind Mr. Beardy Hat. He sort of laughed and said he’d protect me. Grr, I wasn’t trying to be cute and girly though it appeared he took it that way, (more like getting ready to throw him to the snake actually). I wasn’t looking in his direction, still making sure the snake was well on it’s way away from me, when I felt Mr. Beardy Hat take my hand. Then he moved to interlock our fingers. I spent an hour and a half walking the Botanical Gardens loosely holding his hand with interlocked fingers. In high school, I used to hate the couples who walked, hand in hand with fingers interlocked. Made me spew back then and I wasn’t too sure how I felt about it now. It was a level of intimacy I wasn’t prepared for or interested in having with Mr. Beardy Hat. See, I wanted to take it slow. I do want a serious relationship, but I’d like to be friends first, see how it goes. I don’t want to be counting on which date is what supposed to happen, especially when he hinted about how romantic the gardens were at night, a “great place to make out” as he put it. Maybe I have an intimacy problem? Maybe the age gap is a bigger deal than I thought? Because while everything about that date should have been sweet and romantic and he really did try hard to be nice, all I kept wondering was, “if I look under your hat would it be like the mystery you encounter when flipping over an old rock in the backyard?” After we toured all the gardens, he opened and closed the car door again for me, and drove me back to my car. I would be going out of town for a month or more. He sounded disappointed that he really wanted to keep in contact and meet me again. He said he’d e-mail. We hugged, his beardy chin scratching my shoulder, and parted for the day. Now, I’m left wondering what I have to say to Mr. Beardy Hat next time because I can’t picture I’m going to get much more comfortable around him. Not really looking forward to having to give the "let's just be friends" speech. I've never had to do that speech in person before. What are your thoughts, lovely readers?  

Really, Schmooie, A Smiley Face?

What a lot of these Schmooie wanna-be’s like to do is keep a pleasant distance, but still be able to spy and pretend to admire you, by using facebook as their weapon of choice. I can count how many loser Schmooie wanna-be’s I've met in social settings who have asked me if I have a facebook page, and then friend me only to leave me pointless comments or e-mails that lead nowhere. They want to keep in contact with me for no apparent reason. No, they’re not trying to flirt or get to know me better. They just want to waste time. Now, mind you, I don’t mind these Schmooie wanna-be’s just being friends. I like having facebook hanger-on’s. But it’s irritating when you meet that person at a mixer and then they act interested in you, only to become your facebook friend and nothing more. Not sexy, just sad, just lame. It screams out: “I have fun with you can we just be invisible friends and I can stalk your every move through your status updates?”

One of those particular Schmooie wanna-be’s who shall remain nameless, but who I have posted about before on this blog, e-mailed me yesterday on facebook with the LAMEST E-MAIL I HAVE EVER RECEIVED! Yes, he deserved a trophy of some kind for his efforts. So, indeed, I find it very appropriate to share it here. He’d been e-mailing me back and forth through facebook for awhile now with pointless little updates on what he’d been up to that I didn’t really care about. At first, I thought those pointless little updates meant he wanted to talk more and get to know me more since that first time we had met in person. Figuring he was shy to take the next step, I offered on two occasions that we should do something together. He ignored that part of my e-mails, but would answer the other parts. I realized he wasn’t interested in meeting up again, so I gave up and simply responded to his pointless e-mails to be nice.

Yesterday, he e-mailed and asked what I was doing. I told him I was in a coffee shop working on something. He said he was doing the same thing as well. I told him about some of the interesting adventures I had had that day. He replied with “Wow sounds fun. :) We should work together at a coffee shop one day.” Then he ended with asking if a particular coffee shop that he goes to is close to me...Now, isn’t that special? We’ll work together at a coffee shop one day? One day…So, dude, was that your indirect angling for an invite or was that just another one of your lofty ambitions that will never happen? I knew this guy pretty well and understood it to be the latter not the former. Still, I decided to be nice and reply, knowing not to read too deeply into him, and realizing that he will never actually want to go anywhere. Since he said, we should go to a coffee shop “one day.” I said, “Sure, I’m up for that sometime.” I asked where the coffee shop was. He gave me a vague intersection. I said I knew where the place was. Then he sent back the official stupidest reply anyone could ever send a person. He simply replied with a smiley face with it’s tongue sticking out!!....*banging head against the desk*….What does that mean?! How am I supposed to respond to that?! Seeing as I was confused as to whether he was actually offering to hang out or not, I expected a reply with some sort of information, you know words, language, even if that information involved changing the subject. Instead, all I got back was a smiley face sticking it’s tongue out at me?!

Now, how would you reading this blog reply to that e-mail? I simply sent back the same thing: a smiley with it’s tongue sticking out.  I figured he wouldn’t respond back after that, and he didn’t. Well, a few hours later, he did respond by changing the subject. Ah, what a dweeb.

Schmooie Delpino (Part II)

...And then, Schmooie Delpino arrived. Well, he had actually been there the whole time, but after Lawyer Boy and I decided to try once more to mingle, I turned around to see Schmooie Delpino for the first time, sitting on a cabana bench giving me the look. It was the look you want the man you’re interested in most to throw at you, but instead it’s the look you’ll always get from non-Schmooies of the world. Oh, no. I was in trouble, and Lawyer Boy was nowhere to be found. At that moment, Lawyer Boy did return with a dude who had terrible teeth. Lawyer Boy and I knew the Dude with Terrible Teeth from another event. I had no interest in him because of his snarky sense of humor. I didn’t want to become the butt of his jokes. Lawyer Boy didn’t intentionally bring him over to me. They just happened to be walking together. I said my hellos, and turned to see Schmooie Delpino had joined our conversation.

Schmooie Delpino had two or three straggly grey hairs in an otherwise lustrous head of hair, so I assumed he was older than me. Turns out he’s younger than me, with prematureing strands of grey. Nonetheless, he did have a full head of hair, along with pasty greenish skin, a funny little twitch in his limbs, and a strange little Brooklyn sort of accent even though he was from Baltimore. In fact, he resembled a more bushy haired version of Vincent Delpino, the jittery, entertaining side kick, best friend to Doogie Howser in the Neil Patrick Harris sitcom “Doogie Howser, MD.” For those unfamiliar with the sitcom, see Vincent Delpino in all his glory here:

Schmooie Delpino noted that he and I were wearing similar necklaces. We both had on Chai necklaces, which besides the Star of David is another type of Jewish symbol. He casually leaned his arm against the wall, while he talked to me. Oye, talk about body language. The gathering was winding down, and it was still early. Schmooie Delpino wanted to go eat with me at a nearby Mediterranean restaurant. I wasn’t repulsed by him, but I wasn’t intensely interested either. Still, I was willing to go eat with him. I admired his guts to just go ahead and make a gesture. Then, he asked how old I was. I asked how old he was. He’s three years younger than me. He tried to guess my age. At first, I let him have the original guess he came out with since it sounded so good to me. Then, I just pretended to be his age. It’s not a complete lie. One of my closest friends recently thought I was the age I gave Schmooie Delpino. Ergo, if someone I know very well can think I’m that age, I shall make myself so.

I said my goodbyes to Lawyer Boy and the Dude with Terrible Teeth. Then, I wanted to leave quickly with Schmooie Delpino, lest anyone see us together. It’s not that I was embarrassed by him. It’s that I hate going to these events and seeing a guy and a girl go off together. There’s something almost naughty or seedy to me about it, and I didn’t want to be one of those people I can’t stand. 

The place only had street parking. My car was parked down the street around the corner. He offered to do the driving since he was parked much closer. I knew Schmooie Delpino was weird, but he wasn’t shady or untrustworthy, so I agreed. I was wearing heels, and mentioned the shoes made it somewhat difficult to walk properly. As we crossed the street, he held out his hand, offering to hold mine so I could run better despite the heels. I didn’t really notice the gesture since I was too busy commenting on the annoying heels. And as soon as I did, I felt a little bad that he had tried and I didn’t act nicer about it. When we got to the restaurant, he actually pulled open the chair for me. No guy has ever done that for me before. We had some similar interests, but not a ton in common. Schmooie Delpino has a reason for his twitch and lack of concentration. It’s a medical condition. I still felt a tad guilty for lying about my age, but he had a very short attention span and was already on to the next thing. He’d done a lot of traveling and had experience with going through the South. He was interested about my life in Mississippi. We discussed where our families came from, which is something many Jews enjoy doing. He was just such a strange dude with his twitches, pasty skin, short attention span, but ability to cut through it with moments of being thoughtful, polite, and almost sweet at the same time.

After we ate, he drove me back to my car. He gave me his facebook name and phone number and wasn’t sure how to end things from there. I really didn’t want to kiss him, and he wasn’t waiting for one anyway. He almost put out his hand like he wanted to invent some sort of fist knuckle hand shake. So I gave him a hug and left. He’s not Schmooie, but I’d hang out with him again, as long as he gets that it’s not romantic. Since he lives pretty far away from me, I don't think I have much to worry about. He’s sort of like the surprise you get in your cereal box, the one that you didn’t want, but still puts a smile on your face. Now, I shall go eat some cereal!

Schmooie Delpino (Part I)

Yesterday, I went to a Young Jewish Professionals gathering at a snooty cabana beach club, the same event I accidentally showed up to two weeks ago because I had gotten the date wrong.  Once again, the people running the place were complete morons and had no idea what I was talking about when I said I was there for an event. They directed me to an event in the next room with gorgeous ritzy middle aged couples who had gathered for some sort of real-estate entrepreneurship meeting. I went back over to the dopey girls running the place and explained that I didn’t think I was at the right meeting. One of them got the manager. He had a vague idea of what I was talking about, but still seemed somewhat clueless. I wasn’t sure whether I should leave, but then I finally saw someone I knew. It was Lawyer Boy, a guy who in the past was rather dull, but seeing as he comes to the same Jewish events I do, I now know him better and realize the right things to say to make him lively. We have no interest in each other, but I’ve been surprised to find out we’ve become friends. We’re both looking for the same thing, and that has bonded us. He’s looking for his female Schmooie.

Finally, someone who was in charge of the event approached us and directed us toward a small group of people. We all stood around a cabana by the pool and listened for a few minutes to a woman speak about a very important Jewish organization. Then, we were set free to mingle. As usual, there were the handful of nice looking males who had a needy fiancée clinging to their arm. These taken men had all the quality prospects I wanted: goal oriented, smiley, nice looking, interesting---but I couldn’t have them for obvious reasons! What also annoyed me about these men was the fact that they usually had no relative (brother, cousin, friend) to set me up with. On the other hand, what I loved about these unavailable men was that they often showed great interest in me much to the deep frustration of their finances. The intensely suspicious stare on those angry women is priceless, a sort of sweet revenge, as if I’m saying in my head, “in your face, you greedy hussy!.” Surprisingly, there were very few females present at this event, and instead a small handful of males. I talked to two friendly brothers who just couldn’t keep apart from each other. There was also a set of nerds, one actually engaged and the other unwilling to leave the other nerd’s side.

Lawyer Boy and I joked about what we could do to find each other somebody. At the start of the event, two girls seemed interested in him because I was talking to him. But by the middle of the event, they went on to talk to the older playboy looking dude at the far side of the cabana. Lawyer Boy and I reasoned, tongue in cheek of course, that we should go to these events and pretend to be a couple in order to actually get the opposite sex interested in each of us, be each other’s wing-man. The two of us had fun discussing the body languages of the people we watched there, as if we were invisible to everyone else noticing. We decided in the future to try to be more useful to each other in our quests for our own Schmooies….(end of part I continue onto part II for the conclusion of today's story)

Sister Joins the Search

Today, my sister learned something I’ve known now for the past few months since I joined that famous Jewish dating site. First and foremost: the man of your dreams looks and acts nothing like you picture him to be.  Secondly: she just joined a famous dating site purporting to match her on all those dimensions of personality. She may not realize it, but by the tone of her voice and the shock on her face, I know she’s going through the Five Stages of Online Dating (note to self: need more creative title for the 5 stages, suggestions welcomed below).

The First Stage is Excitement: Hey, I’ve been a member for a long time. Now, I’m a paying member! I can finally look at all the things on this dating site that have been denied a non-paying member.

The Second Stage is Curiosity: Wow, pictures! Ooo, and I can finally read the e-mails from people who are interested in me. Me? Little ole me? Oh, and I can e-mail these people too!

The Third Stage is Shock: Oh my gosh, these pictures! These people look nothing like I thought they would! What, you only e-mailed me one single word, “Hi.” What am I supposed to do with that?! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe that creep e-mailed me!

The Fourth Stage is Disappointment: Ugh, is there anyone useful on here?! What am I paying for? I keep seeing the same losers over and over again. Oh look there’s that cat loving mama’s boy…again! Hey dude in the Superman shirt, don’t you know the rules of online dating say no superhero profile pics and no pics where you cut off an ex-girlfriend. These rules apply to both men and women, you know! Could this stupid site be anymore useless!

(Note: Stage Three and Four can happen all at once. Each one together will develop more slowly or quickly depending on how addicted to profile searching you become.)

The Fifth and final stage is Acceptance: At some point, you want to give up, but decide there’s nothing else going on and you’ve gotten used to the people on the site so you might as well keep trying.

Yep, welcome, Little Sister, to the world of online dating. In order to proceed, I recommend a tremendous sense of humor laced with patience, liquor, if handy any other mild sedatives, and a willingness to submit yourself to an electronic devil that will drain your bank account in the promise of finding you your Perfect Match. It’s like facebook, only more evil. Oh, and I’m pretty sure the dude who claims to match you on all those dimensions of personality is really Satan. 

Silliness in the Shadows of Schmooie

Let’s dissect the anatomy of crazy, shall we? Now, having been an official member of that famous Jewish dating site for three months now, I’ve seen some interesting things. It’s been mostly meh. But it hasn’t been all that bad. Although I search and keep seeing the same losers cropping up, I have been “flirted” and “secret admired” by a handful of Schmooie wanna-be’s (admittedly, most were too lame and shy to just take the next step beyond simple mouse clicking even when I sent them a nice e-mail). The highlight of being a member of that famous Jewish dating site so far has been going on a lunch date and having a few subsequent cell phone chats with a very nice, nerdy little gentleman I’ll call “Sandwich Geek.” (See the post about that lunch date here)  

That being said, there are some really great (by “great” I mean “entertaining”) bottom dwellers in the world of online dating. And, of course, one recently tried to contact me. He told me he’s “the Coolest Guy on Earth!” Yeah, that’s right. Feel inferior. I’ve been contacted by “the Coolest Guy on Earth!” No, sorry, it’s not Mick Jagger, or Paul McCartney, or some other person who’s accomplished something amazing that would justify the resounding statement. So then, what qualifies this dude as “the Coolest Guy on Earth!”? I mean, he even put an exclamation mark in his name. Come on, dude, tell me! I’m dying to know! Ooo, if I end up with you, will I be anointed “the Coolest Girl on Earth!” (because I’d rather own the universe actually--who needs  the mere Earth, but I digress.) Unfortunately, he didn’t elaborate except to say, “I’m a strong supporter of…the right to own firearms!” Yes! So, where’s my cannon that I get to shoot you out of? Moreover, he tells me that he says “the right things at the wrong time or better yet, when you least expect it.” Great, I can look forward to being told off on our supposed first date. And, the cherry on top, he has “a weekness for chocolate cake and ice cream.” Yes, “weekness” was spelled that way. Perhaps he means he eats sweets on a weeklyness basis. Could there be more to love?

 What else could he possibly tell me to get my motor running? Well he’s “a very clean and organized person…my house is ‘spotless.’ and i always cook my own food.” I intentionally left the lower case letters in that quote to show his impeccable punctuation. (Incidentally, do you know how hard it is to type a lower case “i” on it’s own without autocorrect trying to fix it for you?) For some reason when he talks about his immaculate housekeeping skills and preparation of his own food, all I can picture are his survival skills living inside a bunker in his mom’s basement. Wait, is it hard to keep an underground dwelling clean? Maybe not, if the underground dwelling exists in the chasms of your mind. I wonder if this guy nearly had a nervous break-down during Y2K. I bet he’s preparing for 2012. Perhaps that is his secret reason for online dating in the first place. He’s looking for a woman who will help him rebuild society after the Apocalypse. The dear misguided delusional delight of a dude concluded with, “when it comes to my beliefs, i only believe and accept the ‘Word of God’! no commentaries!” Hey, I’ve got some commentary for you, but I’m not sure what might happen if I tell it to you. Perhaps I can shove some chocolate cake and ice cream at you while I give you my commentary: You’re too honest (and honestly insane) for your own good!

**Incidentally, this post is nothing against the Second Amendment or such. A lot of my good friends are hunters. I think this dude is the one who makes the Second Amendment look bad. I mean no offense to anyone. No, this post is against hillbillies owning computer equipment and attempting online dating. 

Yeah, Sure You Exist, Schmooie

I did something rather stupid yesterday. I schlepped (that means “dragged”) myself over to the fancy area of town for a Young Jewish Professionals Happy Hour shindig at some sort of “Mexican Beach Club.” I’m not quite sure what happened, I must have had the date wrong, because when I got there, there was no meeting and the girl running the place had no idea what I was talking about. Nevertheless, the head bartender swiped my id through his fancy gizmo, told me to come in and have a seat in case “my party,” as he put it, did show up, and then had me sign a waiver since this ritzy “Beach Club” had cabana tents and a pool out back and didn’t want to be held responsible if I got drunk and fell in the pool. He saw that it was my birthday last week and said happy birthday to me, but of course didn’t offer me a drink or anything special. I mean come one, this was the ritzy area of town, why expect anybody to be too overly generous. So I did something that would rival Carrie Bradshaw. I ate at a trendy “beach club” restaurant alone. Yeah, that’s how hip I am. I didn’t feel as stupid or out of place as I should have for thinking a meeting was happening that wasn’t. The inside of the place felt almost like sitting inside a fancy coconut, if it were even possible to sit inside a coconut. And the side of the place had no doors, just one big opening out to the cabana tents and swimming pool. It was early in the evening, so there weren’t a lot of people there. But the ones who were there were doing their best to think they were hip. The waitresses were small and skinny with tight red shirts and little white pants. They appeared to have a special little walk that they’d purposefully do to make their straight perfect little hairstyles sway and bob as they moved around the room. No one wore glasses. In fact, if I were in LA or NYC, I would probably have screamed. In fact, I have a handful of close girlfriends who would most likely have wretched if they even had to even peak their heads inside such an overly trendy place. Still, it was fun people watching and I got a tasty avocado burger out of it. Then I went shopping at the amazing mall nearby. Retail therapy for missing Schmooie and being stuck with the snobby.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the rest of this post is going to be a rant, and I don’t mean to sound depressing or negative, but a vent on my part is highly in order. Shopping didn’t really help at that moment. I felt annoyed that I get dressed up nice and nothing ever happens. If I were in a movie, in the midst of the anger stirring in my head while looking around Macy’s, I would’ve turned the corner and “boom!” bumped into Schmooie. But, it doesn’t work like that in real life. He’s not just magically there. He doesn’t just appear before you. If I wait for him, he doesn’t show up. If I search for him, he doesn’t show up. So what’s a girl to do exactly?  My friends, the happily boyfriended friends that is, say that love shows up in the oddest places and it eventually happens to everyone. Indeed, the two latest stories I’ve written end in the protagonist finding her man in an unexpected way. So what do I have to do then, jump off a barrel at Niagara Falls to make it happen! Think about how many women there are in the world and how little men there are (I so meant to say "little" there rather than "few.") Who’s to say that every one of the women like me who really wants to find someone actually ever does? Sometimes I think I should write a more realistic romance story about a girl who searches and never finds her Schmooie. For her, he just doesn’t exist. Actually, it’d be the ultimate break-up story, a great read for those who have been burned by men and want to know that they’ll be happy even if they never find someone. Except, in the end, she’d have to be the type of girl who is okay with that. I’m trying to be that girl, but deep down I’m not.

Men truly stink. There’s something wrong with that Y-chromosome. Anywho, what I need now is for you, my avid readers, to leave me a “you go girl, men are dirt” comment rather than a “it’s okay things will work out” comment. Sorry to carry on a little more negatively in this post, but hey, it’s a blog. Isn’t the point to rant just a bit? Can you blame me?  

Ooopah Shmoopah, Schmooie

Was there a full moon last night or was it the unseasonably cool weather in town that made the men at my local synagogue act unusually crazy? After services, the rabbi and his wife always served light refreshments for the congregation. Last night, light refreshments were served al fresco on the backyard patio. There was a darling British woman and her husband who come to synagogue. I keep hoping they have a British relative my age who might be available. I can’t resist a Brit, instead I got a Greek. Read on to find out what that means.

A few months back, a very nice hippie lady at synagogue had told me that she wanted me to meet her son. She said he was very shy around women and he needed to be brought out of his shell. She thought I could do it. She eagerly told me, “My son’s here tonight!” and brought me over to him. Wow, he wasn’t shy, he was hopeless. A very nice guy with no personality. How did he have such a lively mother? He kept hovering near either me or his mother. I felt sorry for him if it was shyness that held him back. I’m actually quite shy myself. I asked him questions and tried to be sociable. He ultimately followed Mama out the door for home. I’m sure there was something symbolic and Freudian in that. 

Then there was a middle aged dude who kept giving me the eye. I’d talked to him before, but he never acted “interested.” I just thought he was another nice person at synagogue. But yesterday, he went on at length about his recent gall bladder surgery and that he too had spent time living in the Deep South. He thought we had a lot in common, gave me his card, and said we should go for coffee sometime. I wonder if I know anyone I can fix him up with.

Finally, there was The Insane Greek. I had never seen him at synagogue before. In fact, I was hurrying out the door, lest the Nice Middle Aged Gall Bladder Man follow me, when I bumped into The Insane Greek, standing outside at the sidewalk. He didn’t look Greek or Jewish. He actually looked Italian. He said he was converting to Judaism. He felt he always had a Jewish soul and that his family was okay with his decision. He had some sort of failing business selling over the counter medication. Now that medical marijuana may become legal in my state and since he knew a lot of legislators, he was thinking of getting into that business. Um, okay….? So, was he going to live life like on the tv show “Weeds”? I didn’t get it. Hence, I call him “insane” even though everything else he said was rather rational. He said we ought to go to a really good Greek restaurant he knew of in the ritzy area of town. He followed the offer up with “You can meet my dad!”—Huh, how’s that again? Turned out his father’s a musician and plays Greek music at that particular restaurant once a week. Look, you are so not Schmooie, but I am willing to go on just that one date if it means we get to throw dishes and say “Oompah!”

Sunday Brunching for Schmooie

Schmooie, finding you is hard work! But you’d be very jealous if you knew what a fun weekend I had just last week. If you’ll recall, I got the attention of a Jewish French bachelor on Friday night a week ago. Then, Saturday was spent shopping (can’t resist a good sale at Steinmart). All this was followed on Sunday morning by brunch with a geeky guy who contacted me on that famous Jewish dating website. Saturday was just a breather from the Schmooie wanna-be sandwich. What I liked about the Sweet Geeky Guy on the famous Jewish dating site was that he made the initial contact with me. He went ahead and e-mailed me with a little about himself. He also e-mailed some very interesting questions such as: “what’s one thing I’d like people to know about me but am afraid to say to too many people,” and “describe what happened on the best day in your life.” I wondered if Sweet Geeky Guy was a seasoned pro at this online dating in asking such thought provoking questions. We e-mailed each other back and forth once or twice. He lives an hour and a half away, which in this cowboy state can feel like light-years away. However, this past Sunday, he had to be in town for a meeting. He asked if it was too forward to meet for brunch. I gotta admit, I loved this guy’s initiative. Everyone I’ve seen so far on that famous Jewish dating site appears to lack backbone. They don’t want to be men. They wait for the women to make the first move to contact them. I’m an old fashioned girl in a way. I want the man to step up, just saying. He wasn’t familiar with town, so I picked the meeting spot for a nice brunch.

I arrived at the place and stayed in the car. Heck, I didn’t want to be the early one. Then, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw what looked like the dude from his online picture wandering around somewhat anxiously on the patio. He was about an inch or two shorter than what he described, but that didn’t bother me much. I’m sure in his mind he was 5’8. Other than that, he looked exactly like his picture. He typed his e-mails in a really nerdy way, saying “let’s get together for coffee or somesuch.” Somesuch? Didn’t know anybody used such a word before. In person, he toned down the nerdy talk. He was much more nervous than me. Heck, what did I have to lose? I liked how hard he was trying to make a good impression. It was endearing. We have the same taste in music and grew up in similar Jewish backgrounds, which is a plus. The down side is his political views and his finicky eating behavior. He had to have a soy chai latte. He only ate half of his portabella mushroom sandwich. In a way, he was cute, but in a way, I felt like the man at the table. Still, he was a nice guy and if we didn’t live so far away from each other, I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. I can’t say that I’d ever want to kiss him, but I’d hang around him again at any rate. Schmooie, he may not be you, but you could definitely learn a thing or two from him. He may be Geeky, but he was sweet and had initiative.

Sabbath with a Twist of French

Brace yourself, this will be a long blog entry, but quite worth the reading….

Yesterday, I was supposed to go to a Shabbos (that’s Hebrew for “Sabbath”) potluck being thrown at a synagogue in a ritzy area on the North side of town. The organization in charge of the event puts together four large potlucks during the year, and tonight was to be one of them.

This particular (did I mention ritzy) synagogue was massive with several party halls. I arrived at the main gathering hall and got my name tag. There were four people I knew already from some of the other events I’d been to lately and they wanted me to sit with them. A good idea for comfort or a bad idea because it’d prevent branching out? Eh, what did I care? I was hungry and I had a veggie platter with humus that needed to be brought to the buffet table. Then, I went to the beverage table to pour myself a drink. A scrawny woman in a fancy dress was trying to open the wine she had brought. She just barely introduced herself when a guy came over and said hello to us. He had a French accent. Although he clearly made eye contact with me and continued to do so, she seized on the opportunity and took over the conversation. He was one of the few single men in the room, and I suddenly felt like a contestant on The Bachelor. (Wow, remind me never to go on that show.)

As I sat and ate, I noticed something interesting. These gatherings were a bit like a junior high school dance--all the boys wanted to sit with each other and all the girls wanted to sit with each other. For a mixer, there wasn’t much mixing going on. There were about eight people at each table. I could count six women to one or two men. Damn, it must be good to be a guy. The one thing I did notice and despised was that some of these men were already married and were dragged there by their spouses. I had to do something that I’ve never done before: check the finger before approaching the dude. Seriously, if you’re married you have absolutely no business dragging your man to these events! You greedy hussies!—Ahem…excuse me….Where was I?

There was one dude I recognized, a pathetic little figure of a man that I actually knew from the past. A librarian at school once made me go with him to his synagogue because he wanted to try to fix me up with this particular pathetic little figure of a man. I think the little figure recognized me, but I kept quiet.

The evening flew by, as it usually does at these little soirees. Soon it was time to go home. Only this time there was a twist. Frenchy the Bachelor had returned to my presence. Ha, beat that Scrawny Woman in the Fancy Dress! I learned something painful, eye contact really is very important. I’m not one to hold eye contact with boys I don’t know because I’m a bit shy (hence I used the word “painful), but it worked out well here. Turns out Frenchy the Bachelor has a father and sister who are in the same profession as me. All of his family is back in France. He’s been living in America for ten years. The synagogue was ready to close at 10 pm, but Frenchy the Bachelor kept me in the parking lot till just after midnight talking about France, being a Sephardic Jew, and why taking up the guitar is a good idea. He was tall for a Jewish man and had long wavy hair. Not an ugly man, but not staggering in the looks department either. His long hair was strange, in some sort of time warp, very 1980s with sunglasses used as a headband to hold back the hair. Is that how the Europeans are doing it nowadays? Frenchy the Bachelor was at his high point when he talked about playing the piano, his career in research, or when talking about France. He earned his low points for me when talking politics, talking about Jazz (for some reason he’s not the first dude my age who’s more into Jazz than good old fashioned rock n’ roll), and about the time he was bitten by a monkey. He’s got a PhD and does research for the major college in town, so he literally once was bitten by a monkey and nearly died (or maybe the story was embellished by him for effect). He’s not Schmooie, mainly because it sounds like he would one day like to return to live in Europe and as much as I love travel, I don’t think my family would want me that far away. But he’s definitely the type you want to brag about to people and say, “yeah, I once dated a French guy.” I will use this to my advantage when I find you Schmooie. I’ll say, “you think you’re so great, well, I’ll have you know before you there was a French man who tried to sweep me back to Paris!” He taught me some French too. So I shall end with “nice to meet you” or as he put it “Au Chaunte.”