Shit faced and Schmooed

Whilst shopping late last evening at the grocery store, I felt a bit like a city girl traveling through an old cowboy town. The reason for that? I was perusing the fine periodical department when a dude came up the aisle. My gut told me to get away from that guy, he’s a creep. I moved my carriage out of his way, and finishing with my magazine, headed onto the dairy department. Creepy Magazine Aisle dude suddenly appeared in the same aisle, all smiles. He said, “you are incredibly gorgeous.” (Yep, I know, see that’s my goal. I make myself “incredibly gorgeous” for drunkards.) I mumbled, made no eye contact and tried to move on to the bakery department. Only he then proceeded to ask me what I was doing after this. After this? What am I doing after food shopping? *palm to forehead slap* Most nights it was easy to forget there was a tavern in the same shopping center as the grocery store. But tonight, this adventure was reminiscent of a girl in an old Western movie encountering some idgit who’s just stepped out of a saloon. I actually handled it quite well, Schmooie, and I didn’t even need you. I told him I had to go take care of my husband and pointed to some guy walking toward me. Schmooie, thanks a lot. I blame you for the drunken men coming on to me. Seems drunkards have no problem with approaching me, so why do you, fool?

Secret Security Schmooie

Dear Cute Security Guard who works at the place I am typing this from,

You’ve had your eye on me for awhile, thank you for finally chatting me up tonight and walking me to my car. Although you are Roman Catholic and it would never work out, you made my weekend. It wasn’t a bad weekend, but it wasn’t great either. See, I went to this Jewish Young Professionals party for a Jewish holiday called Purim, and a bunch of people were crowded together in the room. You might expect a lot of elbowing to be a conversation starter, but with so many stupid girls who decided to bring their boyfriends (or show off?) if made it difficult for us vivacious single women in the room to rule out who could be our own potential Schmooie candidates. I got so annoyed and tired of these types of parties, these “mixers,” not to mention frustrated, that I went to the car and threw on the Charlie Sheen t-shirt my friend dared me to buy but never expected me to actually wear to the party. It was the highlight of the event, a real conversation starter. I’ve decided the next time I go to such a thing, I may just intentionally give these show off girls a piece of their own medicine and really flirt up their loser boyfriends.

Oh, and by the way, Mr. Cute Security Guard, you should’ve seen the next day, my Sunday morning. I went to a Jewish softball game. Turns out it’s not such a hot way to meet young Jewish males. Most of the males were older gentlemen who didn’t want to grow up. Someone had convinced me to get out of my nice warm bed early on a cloudy, cold, last day of winter Sunday morning, and schlep 33 miles to a stupid ballpark. This same someone, I’m sure, couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel like playing softball and why I might have been acting passive aggressive. See, I discovered then and there that I hate softball. I did, however, enjoy watching the adult kickball competition going on in the next field, but that’s another non-Schmooie related story.

So, Mr. Cute Security Guard, I am glad that you finally chatted me up tonight. You made me realize that it was just an off weekend, and that maybe there is still potential for a guy named Schmooie to find me, like me, and chat me up as eagerly as you did. Have a nice night, and until next time, Mr. Cute Security Guard. Now really, get back to work, dude.  

Schmooie the Bean

If Mr. Bean was Schmooie, it'd probably look a bit like this (although, I think this girl might be a tad too hard on ole Bean. I mean, come on, it's Mr. Bean! He's awesome!)

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!