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.