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!