Jew #3
If I couldn’t have a doctor in a white coat then another white coat would simply have to do. A girl should always have a Plan B, and mine was Operation Pharmacist, Plan B.
Pharmguy presented well: college grad (A++ for a double masters in business and pharmacology), divorced (he met the over three year no angry baggage guideline), no children, no desire for children (read: no desire for more offspring to suck the life from my bones), and dead parents (A+ no explanation as to why I don’t want to mother her son’s evil spawn). You notice my “WOW” factor enthusiasm fading like cut flowers without water. I was getting tired of the dog and pony show; my bark was growing weak and my pony wanted to quietly return to the stall and get some sleep.
The process of endless primping was growing old and expensive. The routine cut, color, make up, shaving a FULL legs plus toe fuzz, manicure, pedicure, bronzer and hot rollers seemed so unfair compared to a guy’s shit, shower and shave approach to dating.
The thought of another disappointing encounter weighed heavily on my “ant can move a rubber tree plant” enthusiasm for living happily ever after. Also, my ass started to weigh heavily from too many meals out; hence Plan B was a quick business lunch in the city. It was my restructured, modern-day “dine and dash”; similar to a drive-by shooting with the potential of falling in love, sans the gang violence.
A steakhouse at the corner of Spruce and Broad was the scene of my crime. I approached the victim with caution hoping he was unarmed and not dangerous. The usual greeting commenced: the tap-tap, hug, and a “gee thanks for meeting me” grin. He complimented me over and over on my beautiful smile, my lovely eyes and my enchanting sundress. He spun endless accolades on my princess-like shoes, my golden hair glistening in the sun and he accurately identified my dainty Tiffany’s bracelet dangling from my wrist.
He spoke of his undying dedication to his mother during her life. The joy of taking her and her girlfriends to musicals, traveling to places Mother wished to see, helping her pick out clothing and then I saw the chalk outline.
It hit me like an anvil filled with fairy dust: the only thing Pharmguy wanted from me was my closet full of sundresses, my best strappy sandals, and my collection of Madonna CDs.
And I went back to work…
Friday, August 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Jew #2
I was a seasoned dater by the time Jew #2 came along. He presented himself as a Jewish mother's "Dream Gone Wild." Jewish mothers pray for two things in life: good jewelry and a doctor for a son-in-law. Jew #2 was a doctor, which could potentially yield the mother-load of good jewelry.
His divorce was four years post mortem (A+: no angry emotional divorce out bursts) no children (A+: translated to no support payments to get in my way of being Mrs. Doctor) and he was a whopping six footer. Normally we don't grow Jewish males to be 6 feet. I was the winner of the Jewish trifecta!
Even with all the great pluses on Jew #2, there was NO way I was agreeing to a "home pick-up" again, thus opting for a meet and greet at local Moroccan restaurant seemed like a perfect idea.
Once again, I glammed with gusto; after all, a divorced, six foot doctor was nothing to be taken lightly! I polished and spit shined the old chasey until I smelled, looked and present like a Jaguar with low mileage. The discounted sundress showed enough leg to pique interest without revealing my aging flappy thigh. The bristen were pushed, pulled and placed into a wonder-bra, but great caution was taken to reduce the obvious "backfat-roll" All systems were a go…
I arrived at the Moroccan restaurant filled with hopes and dreams...thoughts of white organza chuppahs danced in my head. Latke’s and luckshen and lantsman…OH MY!!. Finally, I was ready to receive my reward for being a good Jewish girl with tiny hips and a fabo nose untouched by any surgeon’s hands. Then I heard the spirits of those long gone from the tribe, vibrate from the depths of my soul to the tip of my tongue. They spoke to me as I chanted the long awaited prayer “Mrs. Jewish Doctor, table for 2?”
And then?
He seemed a bit thinner than in his photo, almost twenty pounds thinner. I knew it had to be attributed to living without my fine culinary skills or my innate ability to choose amazing dishes from the take out menu. I gazed at his forehead and teeny tiny “x” shaped sprouts began to wink at me, as if taunting my dreams of being Mrs. Doctor. I soon realized that we could fix this too! Then I noticed his uber-pronounced brow bones that cast shadows upon his deep set eyes and I could not think of a “fix it” response. Then I noticed only empty spaces where “doctor” teeth has once gleamed with pride and I could not think of a “fix it” response. It was official; I was on a date with Frankendoc.
Oye Vey, all the rabbi’s horsemen and all the rabbi’s men couldn’t put doctor together again. Why you ask, because doctor lost his medical license, lost his wife, lost his weight, lost his hair, lost his home, lost his teeth to crack cocaine. Ms. Crack beat me to the chuppah.
The Moroccan belly dancer swirled around the room, as my belly swirled around my gut. I knew the dream was over, no big rock, no scrolled ketubah, no lovely chuppah, no over priced hor’derves and no doctor to order around in my old age…..Just Frankendoc and an enough time to make it home before the ten o’clock news.
His divorce was four years post mortem (A+: no angry emotional divorce out bursts) no children (A+: translated to no support payments to get in my way of being Mrs. Doctor) and he was a whopping six footer. Normally we don't grow Jewish males to be 6 feet. I was the winner of the Jewish trifecta!
Even with all the great pluses on Jew #2, there was NO way I was agreeing to a "home pick-up" again, thus opting for a meet and greet at local Moroccan restaurant seemed like a perfect idea.
Once again, I glammed with gusto; after all, a divorced, six foot doctor was nothing to be taken lightly! I polished and spit shined the old chasey until I smelled, looked and present like a Jaguar with low mileage. The discounted sundress showed enough leg to pique interest without revealing my aging flappy thigh. The bristen were pushed, pulled and placed into a wonder-bra, but great caution was taken to reduce the obvious "backfat-roll" All systems were a go…
I arrived at the Moroccan restaurant filled with hopes and dreams...thoughts of white organza chuppahs danced in my head. Latke’s and luckshen and lantsman…OH MY!!. Finally, I was ready to receive my reward for being a good Jewish girl with tiny hips and a fabo nose untouched by any surgeon’s hands. Then I heard the spirits of those long gone from the tribe, vibrate from the depths of my soul to the tip of my tongue. They spoke to me as I chanted the long awaited prayer “Mrs. Jewish Doctor, table for 2?”
And then?
He seemed a bit thinner than in his photo, almost twenty pounds thinner. I knew it had to be attributed to living without my fine culinary skills or my innate ability to choose amazing dishes from the take out menu. I gazed at his forehead and teeny tiny “x” shaped sprouts began to wink at me, as if taunting my dreams of being Mrs. Doctor. I soon realized that we could fix this too! Then I noticed his uber-pronounced brow bones that cast shadows upon his deep set eyes and I could not think of a “fix it” response. Then I noticed only empty spaces where “doctor” teeth has once gleamed with pride and I could not think of a “fix it” response. It was official; I was on a date with Frankendoc.
Oye Vey, all the rabbi’s horsemen and all the rabbi’s men couldn’t put doctor together again. Why you ask, because doctor lost his medical license, lost his wife, lost his weight, lost his hair, lost his home, lost his teeth to crack cocaine. Ms. Crack beat me to the chuppah.
The Moroccan belly dancer swirled around the room, as my belly swirled around my gut. I knew the dream was over, no big rock, no scrolled ketubah, no lovely chuppah, no over priced hor’derves and no doctor to order around in my old age…..Just Frankendoc and an enough time to make it home before the ten o’clock news.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Jew #1
Jew #1 emailed me after six minutes of being on the world wide web. His email was funny, sweet, kind and he was highly impressed with my beauty and brains. A plus for Jew #1.
Apparently, he has never met the exotic blend of Puerto Rican and Jewish, prior to laying eyes on my well constructed profile and photo. I will now admit that Nathaniel wrote my profile and there is nothing better than having yourself written about by a gay man who adores you. His profile, I mean, my profile was savvy, snappy and sexy. A kittenish mosaic of professional, balls-to-the wall successful woman blended with bad girl gone sassy. I loved her. Then I wished I could be her.
After the appropriate seven phone calls, assorted emails and various text messaging, all of which are a huge part of the dating world today. Jew #1 fit the criteria perfectly: never married (translated into no child support or alimony payments); no kids (translated into no college tuition); mother and father both dead (translated to no meddling old Jewish lady to torment me or ask for offspring) and he was a partner in a large law firm. I was officially the winner of " Jew-Date Bingo." The only down side was he was 5'10 inches and bald with a tiny tummy.....ah, it seemed like a small price to pay...
Game on! I agreed to have Jew #1 pick me up at my house. ( I know you are groaning...total rookie error on my part)
I took precious time to prep, primp, curl, tweeze, manicure, shave, highlight, iron and coordinate a killer outfit completed only by an amazing push up bra, which women over 40 can truly appreciate. (It's kinda like picking up two old stretched out friends and lovingly placing them steel plated protective custody for the evening) I was HOT.
Ding Dong.....the white Jewish knight has arrived. I slowly walk down my interior steps knowing full well he could see me descending through the glass door. His smile is brighter than a hundred watt bulb without a lampshade. I gleefully open the front door and he steps inside my domicile.
What. The. Fuck.
There seems to be a grave issue of misrepresentation here? The white knight on the Jewish Internet has been replaced by a symmetrically round 5'4" gentleman who was profusely sweating and stammering in my entry hall.
Oye Vey........I am officially dating a hard-boiled egg with legs.........its gonna be a long night.
Apparently, he has never met the exotic blend of Puerto Rican and Jewish, prior to laying eyes on my well constructed profile and photo. I will now admit that Nathaniel wrote my profile and there is nothing better than having yourself written about by a gay man who adores you. His profile, I mean, my profile was savvy, snappy and sexy. A kittenish mosaic of professional, balls-to-the wall successful woman blended with bad girl gone sassy. I loved her. Then I wished I could be her.
After the appropriate seven phone calls, assorted emails and various text messaging, all of which are a huge part of the dating world today. Jew #1 fit the criteria perfectly: never married (translated into no child support or alimony payments); no kids (translated into no college tuition); mother and father both dead (translated to no meddling old Jewish lady to torment me or ask for offspring) and he was a partner in a large law firm. I was officially the winner of " Jew-Date Bingo." The only down side was he was 5'10 inches and bald with a tiny tummy.....ah, it seemed like a small price to pay...
Game on! I agreed to have Jew #1 pick me up at my house. ( I know you are groaning...total rookie error on my part)
I took precious time to prep, primp, curl, tweeze, manicure, shave, highlight, iron and coordinate a killer outfit completed only by an amazing push up bra, which women over 40 can truly appreciate. (It's kinda like picking up two old stretched out friends and lovingly placing them steel plated protective custody for the evening) I was HOT.
Ding Dong.....the white Jewish knight has arrived. I slowly walk down my interior steps knowing full well he could see me descending through the glass door. His smile is brighter than a hundred watt bulb without a lampshade. I gleefully open the front door and he steps inside my domicile.
What. The. Fuck.
There seems to be a grave issue of misrepresentation here? The white knight on the Jewish Internet has been replaced by a symmetrically round 5'4" gentleman who was profusely sweating and stammering in my entry hall.
Oye Vey........I am officially dating a hard-boiled egg with legs.........its gonna be a long night.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Jew.com
In an attempt to date with a modicum of dignity, I seek the wisdom of a well meaning, well loved Yenta who has been happily married for 34 years. That in itself seems to be an amazing feat to me. How in the world do you wake up next to the same person for 34 years and not suffocate them with a sweat sock? I find it difficult to commit to my cell phone carrier for more than one year at a time and these people have resigned their contract 34 times, wow!
I am rendered speechless by her profound wisdom which assures me that my "single-dom" is because I have not fished within my own tribe. I don't want to disappoint her by telling her there is no tribe of Puerto Rican Jews, located anywhere in the continental US........so I gracefully give in and troll Jew.com, with my gay partner in crime who I also employ as my administrative assistant and giggle like wicked school girls.
I was new to the online dating dawn and the only computer skill I poses is checking my email and playing scrabble online while balancing a glass of shiraz in my lap. Now I've learned that with a few clicks of a button...there are Jewish men from all parts of the country just waiting to meet a beautiful woman like me, or so I thought!
Our morning ritual was coffee, review our daily agenda and troll! We had criteria divided by looks, income and profession....ah, the days were filled with laughter, hope and endless nasty little comments on the poor souls looking for love on the Internet. You can stop laughing at this point because I now understand I was among the many, the pride less, the single seeking love.
It took quite sometime for me to comprehend pictures could be VERY old, birth dates changed, incomes propped up, divorce numbers deleted, height added to, weight subtracted from, hair plugs hidden along with expanding bellies and misplaced respect for honesty. The internet had become a place where any person can become anything; and I was a virgin. (okay, so to speak!)
Bring on Jew #1
RT
I am rendered speechless by her profound wisdom which assures me that my "single-dom" is because I have not fished within my own tribe. I don't want to disappoint her by telling her there is no tribe of Puerto Rican Jews, located anywhere in the continental US........so I gracefully give in and troll Jew.com, with my gay partner in crime who I also employ as my administrative assistant and giggle like wicked school girls.
I was new to the online dating dawn and the only computer skill I poses is checking my email and playing scrabble online while balancing a glass of shiraz in my lap. Now I've learned that with a few clicks of a button...there are Jewish men from all parts of the country just waiting to meet a beautiful woman like me, or so I thought!
Our morning ritual was coffee, review our daily agenda and troll! We had criteria divided by looks, income and profession....ah, the days were filled with laughter, hope and endless nasty little comments on the poor souls looking for love on the Internet. You can stop laughing at this point because I now understand I was among the many, the pride less, the single seeking love.
It took quite sometime for me to comprehend pictures could be VERY old, birth dates changed, incomes propped up, divorce numbers deleted, height added to, weight subtracted from, hair plugs hidden along with expanding bellies and misplaced respect for honesty. The internet had become a place where any person can become anything; and I was a virgin. (okay, so to speak!)
Bring on Jew #1
RT
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Saggy Boobs!
So I have officially hit the time in life when my boobs are sagging, my ass is sliding down the back of my legs, new purple spider veins climbing through my calves and my eyes are a bit puffy in the morning.
I have arrived at the entrance to middle age, also known as the August of my life...the thing that really sucks about August is that it is hot, clammy and usually filled with thunder storms and jelly fish at the beach and now I begin to date?
WTF..who in their right mind wants to date in their 40's, then again, who wants to date at all. A series of questions all seeking the same answers.
Are you sane or do you suck your toes and watch porn?
Are you infected? With anything that will linger long after I have changed my sheets?
How in debt are you? Code for how much child support/alimony did she get you for?
Are your kids awful? Code for how long have they been in therapy?
What do you do for a living? Code for will we live under a bridge
And the final question we all end the night with.......will he ever call again?
Let the games begin :)
RT
I have arrived at the entrance to middle age, also known as the August of my life...the thing that really sucks about August is that it is hot, clammy and usually filled with thunder storms and jelly fish at the beach and now I begin to date?
WTF..who in their right mind wants to date in their 40's, then again, who wants to date at all. A series of questions all seeking the same answers.
Are you sane or do you suck your toes and watch porn?
Are you infected? With anything that will linger long after I have changed my sheets?
How in debt are you? Code for how much child support/alimony did she get you for?
Are your kids awful? Code for how long have they been in therapy?
What do you do for a living? Code for will we live under a bridge
And the final question we all end the night with.......will he ever call again?
Let the games begin :)
RT
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