Sports with Schmooie

They saying going to a sporting event is a good way to meet men. Who’s “they”? Well, the Millionaire Matchmaker for one (she should know, she’s single). So imagine my luck when I got invited to a Jewish singles softball event. I drove all the way over to the softball field only to find the field closed due to rain. Funny thing is, I suspected the morning rain would close the field down and I wanted desperately to just sleep in, but I figured no one had told me differently, so I had to go check it out for myself. Ah, well. Sorry we missed each other due to weather, Schmooie. This same group has a softball match once every month (except for during the summer) so I guess I’ll just have to try to find Schmooie playing softball next time. Besides which, I don’t even like softball and most of the Jewish men I’ve run across are just slightly more athletic than Steve Urkel, and slightly less athletic than Jerry Lewis.

…Fast forward a week later and I was on my way to an NBA game in town. My friend who came with me again brought up the fact with a knowing grin that games were a great place to meet men. Okay, Schmooie! Here I come! I waltzed into the cavernous sparkling basketball arena with my eyes peeled wide opened like a banana. There must have been something in the air that night--something that perhaps Schmooie was allergic to. You never saw a sporting event with so few available men (with the exception of the basketball mascot and basketball team itself). Schmooie if you’re a famous athlete with fancy endorsements and an unlimited supply of concession hotdogs and snacks, that’d be great. Only thing is, I didn’t run into any of the athletes and the mascot is a dude dressed from head to toe as a hairy gorilla. Alright, Schmooie, perhaps you are merely a concession salesperson? No, couldn’t be. The concession salespeople were old Mediterranean men. Well, Schmooie wasn’t at the basketball game itself, but as we took the light rail train back to our side of town, the sudden jerking forward of the train knocked me backwards into the arms of a nice Asian dude. I’ve said this in a previous post, so I must say again, Schmooie, are you Asian?

Mixing for Schmooie

I did something the other day I’ve never tried before. I went to a Jewish singles mixer--an actual Valentine’s Day affair at a restaurant/comedy club in a very classy area of town that happens to have a lot of Jews. It was free complete with happy hour prices on food and drinks all night. What did I have to lose? Plus, if the comedians were bad but the people around me were laughing, I would instantly be able to weed out who was likely Schmooie material from the pack.

When I first arrived, there was barely anyone to talk to. The stand out person to monopolize on our ears was a girl who could not stop telling everyone about the woes of the new car she had just bought. Although everyone was friendly, the lack of interesting people to talk to was saddening at first. So I went to the bathroom for awhile. I figured I’d leave early if things didn’t improve.  

Luckily, things did get a little more entertaining as more people arrived. I made some interesting conversation with a very bohemian lady. A heavy set geeky guy made the mistake of trying to call me a geek in order to make me think we had something in common. Never call me fat or geeky if you want to get anywhere with me. There was a balding older looking man who thought we had a great deal in common just because he was a pharmaceutical sales rep and I’m in the healthcare field. Nope, not going to work. Then, there was a David Schwimmer look-alike who was actually somewhat cute and interesting to talk to, but I fear our interesting talk maybe more friendly than of a romantic potential. I actually recognized two people from the very famous Jewish dating site I recently joined. Even stranger, one of those dudes had actually tried contacting me not too long ago on that famous Jewish dating site. Our online e-mails didn’t go anywhere and neither did any in person communication. The other dude had checked my profile on the famous Jewish dating site and looked a lot less creepy in person. So in a surreal way, it was like dating these online Schmooie wanna-be’s without having to go through the process of fielding them out on that famous Jewish dating site.

Based on the attention I received from these strange Schmooie wanna-be’s, my sister said she pictured me sitting in a fancy den being fed grapes by a group of hopeful men. Just when I thought how great it was to have a baby sister that hangs on my every word, she added, “or maybe it was more like throwing a piece of raw meat to into a dark room full of dingoes.”

All in all, the event was far superior to other Jewish group mixers I’ve been to. I also learned something very interesting about dating. People no longer exchange phone numbers on a scrap of paper or put someone’s number in their phone never to look at again. They exchange business cards or go right on Facebook and friend each other in the moment. The sad part is it makes communication ironically more difficult. Some privacy goes away. You can constantly read the updates on the potential date who may or may not decide to go to the next step beyond Facebook friendship. Meanwhile, the person you really didn’t want to friend but felt obligated at the moment can also pine away for you as you post your status updates. Thank you, Mr.  Zuckerberg, for complicating the search for Schmooie.  

Any Mormons Know Schmooie?

Dear Mormon Guys Going Door to Door,

You were bicycling through the neighborhood the other night looking to spread your message. Good for you. I appreciate your bright cheeriness (though I’m not sure I appreciated being stopped on my walk). You stopped me on my walk asking if I had time to learn more about finding Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I might ask in return if you two gentlemen had time to learn more about finding Schmooie. Hmm...then again, while I appreciate your religion and your kindness toward your fellow man, Schmooie is not Mormon, so maybe I’d be asking the wrong people about finding him. Yeah, if I became Mormon, you could match me to a nice man who could nickname himself “Schmooie,” but, you see, it wouldn’t be the same. No, I’m not being fussy about who Schmooie is or what he should be, I’m just telling it like it is. Now, if you please, it was nice meeting you two, but I’d like to finish my walk.

*(Note: I hope I have not insulted any of my Mormon friends out there. You guys know I'm crazy)

Build-a-bear Schmooie

A few nights ago, I went to synagogue for Friday night services. (I’m still amazed that this suburb finally got itself a synagogue and now I don’t have to schlep over to the heart of town to worship during the New Year or during the random Friday nights that I decide to go.) I hadn’t been there in almost two years seeing as I was living in Mississippi. The peeps there actually remembered me. Ah, I felt the love in the room. Not to mention the food served after services that night was impeccable: veggie soup, homemade gefilte fish (you haven’t lived till you’ve gefilted a fish, trust me it’s a labor of love); and an assortment of salads all homemade. I chatted with the rabbi and his wife and various ladies of the congregation. The men were all older as expected. Most young people don’t come for Shabbot (aka Sabbath) services unless it’s a special occasion or the Jewish New Year, just like Christians who don’t go to Sunday service unless they feel like it, the lady in their life forces them to, or unless it’s a holy time of year.

I talked to a really cool lady who’s done a lot of traveling and sounded like a former hippie. I love hippies! Yet, she smiled at me with a possible ulterior motive. She told me she wished her son had come that night, but he had had a long day doing volunteer work and she couldn’t drag him out of bed. She was worried he might become a Mama’s Boy because he seemed to be extremely shy around girls. Apparently, they went to a basket ball game and when he was offered the chance to have his photo taken with the cheerleading team, he got scared and said no. She hoped I could meet him sometime because “he needs someone like you to break him out of his shell.” He’s much younger than me, but I didn’t tell her that. I was flattered, but I also knew better. He’s not the first young’un I’ve encountered, and I’ll write about those experiences in future blog posts (I will one day be a cougar, hello Mrs. Robinson). He’s also not the first manboy I’ve been told I should be the girl to fix (future blog posts to come on that note too). Incidentally, a “manboy” is not a boy who’s too young, it’s a man who’s too immature or lame to truly be considered a man at any age.

Later that night, I finally sat through a long-winding film starring Sarah Jessica Parker called, “Failure to Launch.” Perhaps her character in that film was on to something. Maybe I should do what Sarah Jessica Parker did in the film and start my own business where I’m hired by friends, family, or coworkers to make a manboy palatable and more pleasing to other ladies. Perhaps this may be some sort of lucrative market I should be jumping into? Afterall, I’ve got a skill and I should use it. Sure, you can’t fix someone, but that’s never stopped anyone from making me try. Maybe the key to finding Schmooie is to build him myself. Schmooie may not be that different than a bear in a build-a-bear workshop!

Schmooie goes to Singapore

So it seems everyone I come across does not know Schmooie. Surprise, surprise. Lately, I've been meeting a lot of nice middle aged Jewish women, and yet none of them know Schmooie. You'd think one of them would have a friend with a son, or a nephew, or a friend who's daughter has a dog walker that is friends with an accountant who knows Schmooie. On the other hand, lately I've also been encountering a lot of nice Asian guys. Reminds me of a good friend in dental school who's Asian. We had to do a project together at an elementary school in the heart of this famous city I'm living in. Nearby, there was an authentic Hong Kong restaurant that he insisted we go to for lunch. After getting confused and nearly walk through the kitchen, we had a nice lunch as he enthusiastically chatted with the staff in Chinese. This was a working lunch, but my mom likes to tell people it was a date. Yesterday, I talked to a very nice boy from Taiwan at the new nearby Chinese restaurant. He raved about visiting Hong Kong and how he hates the cold back East. My best friend and I do have a huge interest in Asian pop and rock music. Maybe it's just my love of all food Chinese, but Schmooie, you don't happen to be Asian do you? This intrigues me now: are there Asian Jews? I'm not talking about Jewish people who are in the Army and stationed in Asia. I'm talking about an actual Asian man. Can you imagine how strange that would be? Picture Yan Kan Cook, only don't picture him doing a bris! 

Searching Online for Schmooie

Though I have my doubts that Schmooie is on a very famous Jewish dating site, I finally swallowed my pride, ripped off the bandaid, and joined that ridiculous famous Jewish dating site. See, I've been a member for many years, but never took it seriously. All I ever found on there were old dudes making advances or young dudes looking to get drunk. Now, I've decided to have a more open mind, so I paid for a subscription to that famous Jewish dating site. Three months for the price of one! I'll probably need a prescription when the subscription runs out. Alrighty then, in that vain, I share a very amusing profile by a fancy person who wrote the following in the "About Me" section of his profile:

"I like brains and balance. I like good food and seek Kosher or organic. I like travel.I like to bike, swim and don't ever touch the bathroom door knob. I want a fun girl. classy adn educated. i don't have time to teach you ettiquette. you better know your stuff. Ok, UPDATE, UPDATE...I've been looking at pictures of some ladies on here. . How can you let yourselve's go like that??? Do some push ups and hit the gym. Lay off the Bon Bons."  

You know what I like? Someone who can type properly. You know, someone who puts spaces between sentences and knows how to use capitalization, punctuation, and spelling. Seesh, I put thought into my "About Me" section and actually read it a few times before posting it. This guy is just looking to spill his spleen and see if anyone actually cares. Bon-bons? Does anyone eat bon-bons nowadays? Is this really what I'm going to be dealing with on that very famous Jewish dating site? On top of this, you can see when the person signs on and off this famous Jewish dating site. He appears to sign-in at least once an hour. Good luck with that! You're so not Schmooie!

Who's Schmooie?

I moved out West a few years back to obtain a fancy edumacation. In the process, I told all my new friends in that new place out West to find me a nice Jewish boy. I was living in a modern city, but much to my astonishment, my friends told me I was the first Jewish person they had ever known. Well, I still do live in that very modern city even though most of those friends have moved back to their respective home-states. Surely, Schmooie must be in this city somewhere?

Then a year and a half ago, I did something rather stupid. I moved to Mississippi. How the heck was I going to find Schmooie in a place where I had to explain what a “latke” was? Good grief, I actually had a customer who’s name was “Bris.” He was 3 years old. It was hard keeping a straight face when talking to his mother. Perhaps he was named after a delicious slice of brisket his mother ate when she was pregnant. No one believed me when I later tried to explain to my Southern classmates what a “bris” was in the Jewish religion. They thought perhaps that I was some sort of witch doctor. Schmooie, you probably don’t live in Mississippi, do you?

Now, I’m in the process of moving back to that very modern city out West. I need a job and I need to locate Schmooie. Sometimes it’s a frustrating fruitless process that makes me want to strangle Schmooie once I do find him. This blog details all my attempts to locate Schmooie where ever I go.

Who is Schmooie, you ask? Schmooie is the man of my dreams; that knight in shiny armor, that Prince Charming (not Prince Charles). Schmooie is Mr. Right. I’m just searching for Schmooie.