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.”