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Jewish Journal

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Singles

Dating by Committee

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My guy Scott and I talked every night — until last night. He flew to San Francisco to hear a friend’s band play and I never heard from him. I left a message, he left me hanging. I know. He calls me, he calls me not, is nothing new. But it’s new to me. I’m too cute to be blown off. No seriously — way too cute.

And yet, I haven’t heard from him. I’ve been dating for more than a decade. I should know what this means, but I don’t. I’m Jewish. What do I know from a silent night? So I do what any woman in my sitch would do: I pick up the phone and call — don’t say him. Please, that’d be too logical. I call my girlfriends — ‘cuz women date by committee. When faced with a new crush, a dating dilemma or a relationship 911, we dial our friends and ask for advice.

“I’m gonna be honest, you’re in trouble,” said Amanda, who’s currently juggling two men. “It’s not good. It’s gotta be another girl.”

Scott and I have been linked for awhile. He’s a great guy, an honest guy; he’d never make a behind-my-back pass at another woman. So it’s gotta be — “you,” said Ann, who often goes three dates and out. “You’re probably pressuring him, he wants some space.”

Space? He spent the night in Northern California. That’s unofficially another state.

“If he can’t handle calling you, he can’t handle dating you,” pipes in newlywed Rachel. “What happens if you two get married and have kids? Your son is sick at school, and since Scott’s closer, you call and ask him to pick Morty up. But Scott doesn’t call you back and sick little Morty’s left waiting all alone on the playground. In the rain. Is that what you want?”

I know I don’t want to name my son Morty.

Men don’t do this. Men don’t overanalyze their relationships with their buddies. They don’t compare and contrast their girl’s behavior with that of their friend’s ex. They don’t do a play-by-play analysis of their last date. They don’t discuss. But girls always move in packs. We shop together, workout together, hit the ladies room together — in fact, we do everything in groups, except the one thing men wish we did in groups.

When it comes to relationships, girls are all about group think. We poll all our friends; we share all the evidence. We dissect voicemails men leave on friends’ phones. We decode text messages guys send to friends’ cells. We decipher e-mails that our friends forward in their entirety. My girls and I break down what a guy says, why he says it and why he didn’t say more. We analyze and scrutinize and interpret and debate. We’re like the great talmudic sages poring over a single phrase of the Torah. But hotter.

“Don’t worry. He’s just having fun with his friends. He’ll call when he gets back,” my college friend Kim said. “It’s not a big deal.” She’s right. She has to be right, because I so want her to be right.

See, women don’t really call friends for advice, we call for backup. In times of crisis and indecision, we call friend after friend after friend until we find one who agrees with us, someone who tells us what we’ve already told ourselves, someone who tells us what we want to hear.

It’s like the french fry phenomenon. When girls grab lunch we’re faced with the “Sophie’s Choice” of fruit or fries with that. We all want fries, we all get fruit. But if one girl admits she’s considering fries, there’s a frenzied chorus of “If you get them, I’ll get them.” Suddenly we’re all eating fries. And Macho Nachos. And we go to town on an Awesome Blossom. Girls are always looking for friends to second our motion. Or order seconds. Or dessert. We’re not looking for opinions, we’re looking for confirmation. We want to find someone who interprets a situation the same way we do.

All I want is someone to tell me that I shouldn’t be nervous. That I’m right to believe one unreturned phone call is just that — an unreturned call. Not a bad sign … or a meltdown … or the Love Boat sinking.

But while my friends might be “dating mayvens,” the truth is: No one knows a relationship like the two people who are in it. Sometimes, we shouldn’t let our clique convince us that all is good when it’s going down fast. Or buy in when they say a good relationship’s going bad. We should listen to our gut — or in this case, the message, which Scott left while I was overanalyzing with the girls.

“Hey Carin, it’s Scott. Sorry I didn’t call last night. We were out late. I didn’t want to wake you. But my flight lands around 5. Thought maybe we’d grab Thai food together. Miss you.”

Hmm. All in favor of me meeting Scott for dinner say “aye.” All against say … actually on this one, the only vote that counts is mine.

Freelance writer Carin Davis can be reached at sports@jewishjournal.com.

 

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Dating Creeds

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Believe it or not, I’ve never felt quite as valuable, attractive and desirable as the times I’ve gotten dumped. Well, sort of.

According to some once-doting men, I’m terrific. I’m also beautiful, talented, smart, sassy, funny, dynamic, cute and sweet. To make matters worse, I’d make a fantastic mother. And the final blow? Apparently … I’m a catch.

I listen intently to my lover-gone-evil dumper’s compliments — and cringe. Somehow my fairy tale has gone awry.

See, trailing the flattery describing my laundry list of potential partner credentials — the same saccharine methods that wooed me into that first kiss — lay an inevitable “but,” and some rambling, seemingly canned, statements.

In reiterating his appreciation for me, his desire to spare me pain and reasons why we — theoretically — should be together, suddenly my dumper’s not good enough, (“it’s not you, it’s me”), and reeeeeeally wants me to be happy (and move on). “I’m amazing, but [insert canned line here].”

Now clearly not everyone is a match. But instead of feeling empowered and desirable by my heartbreaker’s sweet lines, I am condemned to doubt not only him, but also our time together and, regrettably, my wonderful self. If I were a complete loser, I’d understand. But if I’m so swell, well … seems like I’ve been dating some — literally.

Take “Bob,” the professional with political aspirations. He fell quickly for me; we enjoyed each other, shared similar values and a distinct joie de vivre. He claimed I was everything he looked for in a woman. We talked about the future. And, importantly — we both loved sushi.

When I sought more “us” time to determine our true compatibility, Bob, the great orator, eloquently expressed his feelings for me: He relayed my wonderful attributes, my incomparable spunk and wished upon me the greatest happiness (without him). Apparently, he didn’t want to waste more of my (or his) very precious time (with me).

Guess my joie didn’t match his vivre.

“George,” a younger man (and baseball enthusiast) said I was the most beautiful, hilarious woman he had ever met. He’d gaze lovingly at me over dinner, swoon when we danced and high-five my ball-tossing ability. He reinforced my goodness and thought I’d make a beautiful bride.

Six months into it, when gazing, swooning and high-fiving left me out of a family gathering, I questioned my ranking. George stumbled to the plate, uttered something witty and reinforced my beauty. After two weeks of overtime? He was still charming and I was still “gorgeous” — just not for him.

I suppose even a great lineup can’t win a series without chemistry.

While a canned phrase certainly trumps a “fizzle,” where phone calls stop or rumors start, what if — instead of this PR-driven, cautious fantasy — we just said it: “You’re attractive, but I’ve found someone more so,” “Your neuroses were endearing; now, they’re just annoying,” “I wanted someone motivated and sassy; turns out I’d rather have a trophy wife who’ll focus more on me, ” “You’re incredible, sexy and I just don’t want to marry you.”

It may hurt, but you’ll at least have something to work with (and keep some shrinks in business). And after building your “qualifications,” seeking the “perfect” match (when perfection simply doesn’t exist), you’ve paid your dues. There’s got to be a takeaway. Otherwise, the faux-ex-fan club seems vacuous and wasteful, which simply seems frivolous.

So post-George, I reflected on men I passed up: “Jim” was great (but I wasn’t attracted to him), and “Josh” was terrific (but too goofy for me); “Brian” was really unique (but too scattered for me); “Ian,” while just OK, had amazing potential (just hadn’t gotten there yet); “Dan,” was the entire package — I just hadn’t reached the right place in my life.

So in full disclosure, I complimented my soon-to-be-ex-beaus like heck, and then dumped them. Not in a swift, clear way, but in some rambling, incoherent way. I explained issues as I saw them: “It’s not you, it’s me,” “You’re terrific, but I’m not in that place.” “I just don’t think it will work out. I can’t say why.”

Oh, no. Am I just as bad as Bob and George? Yikes.

I (and many like me) probably won’t and maybe shouldn’t ever know the whole story. But we should know something: Heartbreakers, while sometimes a fairy tale’s villain, were indeed “good” credentials. And with them, I not only learned to enjoy good food, follow baseball, work a room, and to appreciate cl-ar-it-y, I also learned “what I do/don’t want” and, importantly, to care.

I’ll absolutely take those lessons and since it’s ultimately (supposedly) worth it, I’ll tirelessly plug along in pursuit of my perfectly imperfect match. As for my ever-growing list of selling points? I’ll happily add “strong” and “wise” to my register of attributes. It’s — and here’s the hard part — adding “frustrated” and “cynical” that I’d like to avoid.

After all, I’m a catch. As-Is. At least that’s what I’ve been told.

Dara Lehon, a freelance writer living in New York City, can be reached at dlehon@yahoo.com.

 

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Then Came the Boyfriend

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With Passover around the corner, singletons everywhere are faced with a tough choice. Do you bring the person you’re dating to the family seder? Or do you simply wish him or her a “chag sameach” and go off to your separate family celebrations. At the beginning of relationships we all face the issue of the timeline: How soon is too soon for the inevitable family Shabbat dinner invitation? After you become an official couple does that mean that your significant other is now automatically invited to all family events?

For the next few weeks I’ll be wrestling with these questions. Granted, I’m elated to be able to have such issues to deal with, instead of just wishing I had someone to invite. But in the end it comes down to this: Do I want my newly minted boyfriend to be the new guy at the seder table? The one everyone in the family will smile shyly at, not quite knowing if it’s rude to bluntly ask, “Who are you?” The one my cousins will take turns asking me about, “Soooo, who is your friend?” “Is he your friend … or your (put on a fake seductive look and say in a pseudo-musical term) friend?”

Now some might not struggle so much about this issue — maybe their family seder is simply a glorified meal. A wha-bah-haggadah deal that lasts an hour or so and is done before anyone gets sleepy. If that were my family, I’d have no issues; I’d easily invite him: “Come, eat, you’ll enjoy yourself.”

But, you see, my family doesn’t just “do” a seder — we capital “D” capital “O”, “DO” a seder. We sit, we talk, we laugh, we drink, we eat, we sing, we pound the table, we clap our hands, we bob our heads, we rock out…. We scare the neighbors!

So I suppose what I really need to ask myself is: Will he enjoy himself? Will he enjoy the sheer numbers we manage to squish around a large table, or will he be overwhelmed? Will he be captivated that it takes us nearly an hour to get through the first six pages? Will he be able to smile as we listen to the “Mah Nishtanah” for the eighth time and in the third language, or will he be wishing I hadn’t invited him?

How will he react when my cousins start throwing little frogs around the table for the plagues? Will he join us in singing all of our nursery school favorites?

“One morning when pharaoh awoke in his bed….”

“…And it’s dig, dig, dig, every day and every night.

And it’s dig, dig, dig, when it’s dark and when it’s light….”

I wonder if he’ll smile as we move on to eating dinner at nearly midnight, or if he’ll whisper to me, “Are Tums kosher for Passover?” Will he have the patience to sit and watch as the kids barter with the afikomen (hidden matzah) they found, or will he inwardly be wishing the evening was over?

As we move into the early hours of the morning, will he still be awake? Will he join in with the singing or share a lai dai dai if he doesn’t know the words or will he sit quietly imagining he was somewhere else? Will he realize the magnificence of my younger cousins, singing with such intensity and growing so loud that the shadows in the corners seek refuge? Or will he just hold a secret wish that he had brought some earplugs?

I wonder if he’ll laugh when we sing our yearly ode to Mr. Potato Head; if he’ll join in the chorus of “Chad Gadya.” Will he pound his hands on the table watching the silverware rattle and the cups bounce? Or will he play the shy card and just sit?

Will he be able to enjoy my family as much as I do? Or will he be stunned into silence at the craziness that I come from?

I know that there is only one way to find out, only one way to gauge if he’s a serious keeper, or just a trial run. So this year I’ll be sitting next to my boyfriend (that is, if he actually agrees to come after reading this article!) I’ll have a hand to hold under the table and a partner in crime to chant “Carey, Carey, Carey…” as my cousin stuffs an enormous amount of cardboard-esque shmura matzah into his mouth. Someone to start teaching our crazy sandpaper clapping “L’Shana Haba” tradition to, and someone to sit next to on our imaginary flight to Japan (don’t ask).

If he’s tired, with a raspy voice and a happily full belly at the end of the night, I’ll be happy — and if he’s all set to do it again the next night, I’ll know that I have a keeper.

Caroline Cobrin is a writer living in Van Nuys.

 

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You’re Scentsational!

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When a guy — let’s say me, for the sake of argument — is lacking a romantic partner, every bit of attention I get from any woman, even a complete stranger, takes on heightened significance and pleasure. Because I don’t have a wife, girlfriend or lover, a simple smile from any woman passing me on the street is very likely to be the only, and certainly the most intimate, female contact I can expect all day. You might think that’s sad. You might feel sorry for me. And, yet, I accept it. I more than accept it — I appreciate it, am grateful for it — OK, I even treasure it. Yes, that’s right — I often treasure the smile of a woman I don’t even know. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, she’ll both smile and say “Hi,” “Hello” or “Good morning.” So I get to experience both her smile and her voice — double bonus. Triple bonus if you factor in the visual pleasures of seeing her. And a big quadruple bonus if all the above is combined with what is perhaps my favorite of the four elements — her fragrance as she passes by. That’s right, the scent of a woman.

OK, I know what you’re thinking: “This guy’s creepy. Some unsuspecting, innocent woman passing him on the street smiles, says good morning and had the audacity to apply perfume — and suddenly he thinks he’s in a relationship.”

First, in my defense, I’m not quite that delusional. I realize I mean nothing to these women beyond being a friendly smiling face. And yet … sometimes, as that powerful quadruple bonus kicks in — the visual, the smile, the greeting and the fragrance — I’ll close my eyes, inhale that fragrance deeply as we pass one another on the sidewalk, and allow myself one quick and innocent indulgence — the momentary fantasy of what it might be like to be in a romantic relationship with this particular woman. And I would guess a lot of guys do this. Hey, come on, can you blame us? In ancient Egypt, women used perfumed creams and oils as a prelude to lovemaking. Am I expected to wipe that thought from my mind as a woman’s lingering fragrance envelops me as she walks by? Of course not. In fact, if you were to order a transcript from my brain describing a few of these “encounters,” you might find something of this nature….

Sally Citrus — A refreshing fragrance for an energetic, sporty woman. We bond over tennis, hiking and biking. Over the years, we travel to exotic, little-known locations and thrill to new experiences. Eventually, we tire of one another and each drift into a series of meaningless affairs before bidding one another a deeply saddened farewell forever.

Leslie Lavender — A warm and caring scent of a woman who finds genuine fulfillment in giving to others. Together, we offer our free time to a multitude of charitable organizations, and then come home and offer ourselves freely to one another. Our relationship is founded on such honesty that even after she decides to return to her first husband, I share with her my progress on the anti-depression medication I take daily.

Olivia Oriental — A blend of excitement and mystery. Musks and precious woods are complemented by exotic essences. Our lives are luxurious, dramatic, sexy, sensual. We live fast, eat well and drive expensive sports cars. Unfortunately, one of these sports cars crashes suddenly while taking a mountain curve in Monaco, killing us instantly.

Have you picked up on the pattern? Each one of my romantic fantasies starts out with great promise and excitement, and ends disappointingly, if not tragically — just like my actual romantic relationships! What gives? Aren’t fantasies supposed to be all good? Well, I can’t worry about that right now. I’ll let my shrink sort it out. And I especially don’t want the women I encounter to worry about it. To them I’d just like to say it’s not you; it’s me. I’d also like to thank them. For their appearance, smile, greeting and fragrance. And Sally, Leslie, Olivia — to the world you may be just one person, but to one person you may be the world. Even if it is just for 30 seconds — and even if you don’t even know his name.

Comedy writer Mark Miller can be reached at markmiller2000@comcast.net or at You’re Scentsational! Read More »

I Want You to Want Me

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So there he was at my door: I knew he was short because his profile said he was 5-foot-5, and yet I’d still pictured those emerald eyes and floppy hair on a frame that was more…well, just more. And speaking of hair, his picture hadn’t included it in the close-up, but I’d envisioned a shock of thick hair, not a shaved head that may or may not have been camouflaging a receding/nonexistent hairline.

The whole picture was wholly unlike the one I’d put together. In our month of talking, phone tagging, setting dates and canceling them (the normal course for a blind date in Los Angeles), I’d written an entire storybook of Jay: he had a mellifluous, soothing voice as he read me from his favorite novel. You can tell a lot about a person from his voice — actually, I’m hoping dating sites will have users put up MP3 audio clips (“Hello, this is Bachelor No. 1”). Jay’s voice said he was laid back, sensitive, easy-going.

Except that he wasn’t. Over the first hour, Jay revealed that he was a traffic-cursing, coffee-drinking, client-hating, Type-A (Addictive) personality. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Jerry Seinfeld might have said, except that, God Almighty, don’t you think I should be with someone more … chill? Soothing? And tall?

This isn’t one of those stories about how some guy isn’t who I thought he was. (Essentially all nascent relationships are about reality competing with fantasy: eventually you’re going to have to decide whether you can accept who the person really is and relinquish the image of what you want him or her to be.) It’s not even one of those morality fables whose lesson is that I’m just way too picky.

Because here’s the thing: Even though Jay wasn’t who I had imagined him to be, or what I wanted for myself in a mate, I wanted him anyway. I wanted him anyway. Despite the fact that he wore a sweatshirt (gray hoodie, circa 1995), completely ignored what kind of food I wanted to eat, ate with his hands (not finger food), and wiped his mouth on sleeve of said sweatshirt.

There I was, leaning forward in my chair, trying to keep my back straight, napkin in my lap, food swallowed before talking (just because he had bad manners didn’t mean that I should) I laughed at his jokes, made a few of my own (but not too many). In my head there was a series of negotiations under way, like someone reasoning a bad real estate purchase.

“Well, he’s not that short, really, and he does read books, and he said that he’s working toward inner peace…”

In other words, I was trying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Except that it wasn’t that I was trying to have a good time; I was trying to make Jay like me. I was trying to make Jay like me even though I had no clue about how I felt about him. OK, I had some clues, but I ignored them, doing the same song and dance I’d been doing since high school. Back then I was so entertaining I’d wish I were out with myself! Now, two decades later, I’ve learned to sit back and let things happen, but my heart was playing the same old Sally Field tune: I hope you like me. I hope you really like me.

It wasn’t just Jay. Before him it was an obnoxious Ivy-educated lawyer, then a rich illiterate businessman, a non-Jewish surfer, a semi-employed actor I met in a cafe. I don’t even date actors, and still I’m wondering why he hasn’t called me.

My girlfriends tell me similar stories all the time: How they went out with a guy, they are hoping he will call — actually, they have to get off the phone because that may be him on call waiting — how he said this and did that on the date and what do I think it means? And the whole subtext of the analysis is trying to figure out how he felt.

“Did you like him?” I ask. Indeed they do, surely they did, they think they did, well, they might have, although, come to think of it, they weren’t sure about whether they were attracted to him, and wasn’t it a little weird that everyone is out to get him, and also what was up with that way he spoke to the waiter?

What is wrong with us? What is wrong with our egos that we need to be liked by every Chaim, Yaacov and Yankel who takes us out on a date? Sometimes it seems like all the women in America are reading these insipid magazines and self-help books, sitting forward in our chairs, laughing at his jokes, waiting for his call, wanting him to want us even though we’re not so sure we want him.

I know, I know. The proper feminist, Take-Back-The-Night, Eve Ensler response is to not care, to empower myself, to have some self-respect and not be so shallow as to base my entire well-being on what a total stranger thinks of me. Look, I’m not a particularly insecure person. At least, I wasn’t before I started dating. But you try meeting a dozen strangers a month and see how impervious you can be. Doesn’t everyone essentially want to be liked? To be loved?

A day or two goes by and Jay and I trade tepid e-mails. In the end he will not call me, but by that point it won’t matter. That’s because I will meet someone else at a Friday night dinner who is: a bit old, a tad crotchety, a possible commitment-phobe — but sweet nonetheless. So I will give him my number, we will go out and, yes, once again, I will wait for him to call.

 

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Relationships 101

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Why is finding and sustaining a successful romantic relationship so difficult? I blame the American education system. It teaches us a world of information we most likely will never need unless we’re either settling a bar bet, appearing on “Jeopardy” or helping our children with their obscure, fact-laden homework. By the time I graduated from college, I knew an impressive amount about ancient Greek history, subtext in Shakespeare’s “Richard III” and a frog’s intestines. Don’t ask me when I last used any of it.

As for creating and sustaining a romantic relationship, though — I pretty much knew, and still know, squat. Why do we spend so much time and energy teaching our children so much Trivial Pursuit-like “stuff,” while disregarding vital life skills they so desperately need? All that’s going to change when I become czar of education. You can bet that changing a tire, balancing a checkbook and cooking a meal will be part of my curriculum. And there’ll especially be a wide variety of courses available dealing with romantic relationships, including the following, taken directly from my proposed Relationships 101 syllabus:

Geography of Romance: A course dealing with the best places to meet your romantic partner. Certain locales lend themselves to greater relationship success — churches and temples, the homes of friends and relatives, bookstores, supermarkets, restaurants, parks and beaches. Other places tend to be riskier — prison, tattoo parlors, methamphetamine labs, mosh pits, wife-swapping parties, Chuck E. Cheese restaurants, gatherings of arms dealers. You can’t find the “wow” unless you know the “where.” But enough quoting Aristotle.

Interrogatory Land Mines: These refer to specific questions your romantic partner will be asking you. The most important thing to remember is that any response you give, no matter how carefully considered, how sensitive or how loving — will anger your partner and put your relationship at risk. Such questions include, “Do you think our waitress is pretty?” “If I died tonight, which of my girlfriends would you most want to date?” and, of course, the ever-popular, “Does this dress make me look fat?” Learn invaluable techniques for changing the subject, distracting with compliments and faking a seizure.

Handling Rejection I: Why you still have value as a human being despite being turned down as a romantic partner. Why a woman who turns you down may not necessarily be a lesbian. Why a man who turns you down may not necessarily have a fear of commitment — he just may not want to commit to you. Why when your romantic partner says “I’m not in the mood,” it does not mean you have a license to leave the house angrily and find someone who is in the mood. (Trust me.) Why your only true friend being your dog may not necessarily be a bad thing — for the dog, that is.

Handling Rejection II — Inappropriate Responses to Being Dumped:

Guest lecturers who have actually either made or received these inappropriate responses will discuss: Keying his car, posting embarrassing nude photos of her on the Internet, committing ritual Japanese suicide (appearing via video made shortly before his demise), weeping loudly and completely out of context for months, burning down his house, kidnapping his children, reporting her to the Department of Homeland Security and losing interest in everything in life except the reality show, “Dancing With the Stars.” Bitter students with an axe to grind are more than welcome.

Things to Make Sure Your Romantic Partner Doesn’t See the First Time She Visits Your House: For men only. The first part of the course will identify those things that most men are unaware tick women off, including: dirty dishes in the sink, dirty underwear on the floor, dirty dishes on the floor, dirty underwear in the sink, other women in the bed, other men in the bed. The second part of the course will deal with methods you can use to salvage the relationship once she is completely grossed out by your disgusting habitat. In addition, each student receives a complimentary subscription to Martha Stewart Living, a clothes hamper and a huge, scent-concealing empty box into which you can dump all your dirty clothing and dishes until you have the time and energy to deal with them.

Now, you gotta admit — all that is education you can use.

Mark Miller, a comedy writer and performer, can be reached at markmiller2000@comcast.net.

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The Waiting Game

Leave a Comment / Singles /

If dating was a simple game, we’d all travel effortless paths to love, and we’d enjoy the dating process so thoroughly as to rush toward it with glee it when it’s time. But years of falling into the mosh pit with no one to catch us leaves us jumpy and tentative at best, and although I hate to admit it, I have absolutely fallen into this watchful and wary category.

Yet I have always loved dating. I love getting to know someone new — the chat, the laughter, the best behavior, the witticisms. And the accoutrements have always thrilled me in their deliciousness: the high heels and cocktail dresses, the masculine gallantry, the lingering eye contact, the exquisite restaurants and the luscious new territory of first kisses.

Dating, in the first few years after my divorce, was rather effortless. I’d meet men everywhere — a class, a hiking trail, the library, a party. It seemed that there were available men all over the place, and I just had to be open and friendly to avail myself of a great dating life. And these were nice men. Fun. Lively. Men with manners and senses of humor who knew how to choose a good restaurant and knew how to kiss.

But suddenly all of that has gotten serious. I’m “ready,” as we like to say these days, so dating has taken on a purpose, and now somehow it seems ridiculously challenging just to get to the first date.

Case in point: I expressed my interest to a man I had a professional relationship with. His career didn’t offer him the luxury of doing so (given what he does and what I was affiliated with him for), and after some months of sensing the hey-we-like-each-other vibe, I finally got up all my courage and asked him if he was interested. He said yes, but asked that we wait until there were no professional ties of any kind. Good. Great. A man with strong ethics. I like that. We smiled at each other, and I said I’d wait.

No intrigue occurred between that day and the day of our last professional
exchange, no ethical breaches at all. Just delight and kindness. So when the
exciting day finally came (four months later), when God knows it was
absolutely time to show up with something (if not just a clear explanation),
my ethics boy was suddenly stricken by a wave of fear that he may still be
breeching some code here, and although he said he’d call, he hasn’t.

Disappointed? You could say that. Hugely disappointed. But beyond the particular boy-girl stuff with this man, my dissatisfaction is rooted in the narrowness of my current dating path. I mean, where has all the fun gone? Where’s the delightful electricity of just meeting someone and having those terrific sensations that read, “Hey! You’re great. I’d really like to go out with you,” and then a week or two later, I’m dressing up and we’re heading out. Why has it become a character-development exercise to just get to the first damned date?

These days I’m really trying. I’m not just letting whatever happens happen. I’m not falling into things, or happening into love, or “hanging out.” In fact, I’m not dating at all unless I’m truly interested. I’m telling the truth about what I really want, about what works for me in terms of heart, energy, humor, willingness and easy-going grace.

In the lesson-learning category, I can certainly cite my lack of wisdom, waiting for a man without assurance. But God knows there’s never any assurance where dating is concerned, and that seems to be the point of all this nonsense about mating anyway: its uncertainty is part of its allure. Read “Jane Eyre” or any Jane Austen novel if you need proof on that one. The obstacles only serve to make us fall harder and more passionately when we finally do give it up for true love.

But — somebody help me here — how long does it have to take? How many lessons are required before actually attaining something? Are we turning into an entire generation of lesson-learners with no capacity to actually live in love? Do we even remember what it was like to fall in love without self-invented obstacles blocking our paths?

“The path gets narrower,” my older, wiser girlfriend said to me when I said I was ready for the real thing. “Most times, it’ll be over before it starts. You won’t waste time anymore.”

Although she’s right, I have to admit that I miss the ease of meeting someone without so much on it. Does finding genuine companionship have to be such a job?

What I’m coming to is that “trying” just doesn’t seem to work. Trying is efforting, and I honestly don’t believe that dating should be this much effort at the outset. I want joy, I want delight and I want to fall into the deliciousness of newness, sweet meetings and exquisite anticipation. I don’t want angst before I’ve even donned a pair of stockings for him.

So enough already. Ask me if I’ll wait again? No way. Not a chance. You’re available or you’re not. No tests, no hurdles — no more. Life’s too short to make this big of a deal out of one date. I’ve done my time in the lesson-learning arena. I’m stamping out hope for beautifully blocked men who just can’t seem to get there.

The waiting game, for me, is officially over.

JoAnneh Nagler is a freelance writer living in Los Angeles. She writes articles, philanthropic proposals and has recently been at work on Fox’s telenovellas “Table for Three” and “Fashion House.” Her newly completed folk-pop CD “I Burn” is online at The Waiting Game Read More »

Singles – Notes to Self

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Note to Self: Do not date a man who says that he can’t be in a relationship. Do not go out with him after he tells you he wants to go out with you — but only casually. Even if everything he says or does proves to the contrary — like for example, he calls you every day and wants to snuggle all the time and bring you flowers and treats you well. Just take him at his word.

Note to Self: Do not psychoanalyze this person’s motivations. Do not reason to yourself that he has issues with his mother/father/pet gerbil. Yes, he might — OK, he does — but are you his analyst or his date? (If you lie on the couch together, chances are you’re not his shrink.) A man will always reveal himself in the first few dates. A woman will wave away his concerns with her “I need a relationship” magic wand. She can also cover her ears and say, “Nyah-nyah-nyah kishkes.” But neither tactic will change his words: “I’m not interested in a serious relationship right now.”

Note to Self: Do not stick with him hoping that he will change his mind, hoping that as he gets to know you things will change and you will convince him how fabulous you are. You are very fabulous, but it is not up to you to be a PR firm for yourself. The Constitution said, “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” (Or maybe it was the Declaration of Independence — even better.) The point is you can’t wait around just one more date hoping he will get the memo.

Note to Self: Do not think you can save him. You will not save him; he will drown you first. You entered this arrangement with high self-esteem, so you think you can handle his “casual.” But by the second month of this thing — not a relationship, definitely not a friendship — you will be too weak to assert yourself. Think of the frog boiled to death in the gradually heated water. A gross, but apt, metaphor. Not that you are a frog.

Note To Self: Do not focus on the short-term in the relationship, like how good you guys have it together, how he makes you laugh, how you enjoy his company, how you are just taking it one day at a time. This is what he says, unoriginally — as in: “I’m just taking it one day a time.” Is there anyone who can live two days at a time? All of his “one days” turns into three, four, five months. Five months of limbo.

Note to Self: After you’ve been with this man half a year, you won’t want to let him go, and you start believing that having someone is better than having no one. Listen: Having no one is better than having half a person. Let him go so you will get your full self back.

Note to Self: Breakups aren’t easy, even if you knew the whole time it wasn’t going to work out. Even if you knew from the start. Especially if you knew from the start. Although why would you go out with someone whom you knew a priori wouldn’t work out? Maybe you should write a note to yourself not to do this anymore.

Note to Him: Dear John, I had such a nice time hanging out with you. But if it’s true that you don’t want to be in a relationship, I guess we’re going to have to stop seeing each other. I’m sad because it’s rare to meet someone you connect with, and it’s hard to pass up. But I can’t start a relationship with preconditions. I can’t have a relationship with someone who doesn’t want a relationship. I’d love to have that chance with you, so if you change your mind about your state, about me, about us, give me a call.

From,

Self.

 

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Singles – Imperfect One and Only

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Sometimes, just for fun, I look at the singles ads. I play a game of wondering which one I would respond to. The answer is a resounding zero. That’s because they all sound too perfect, which makes me think they’re lying.

When a man describes himself as “Looking for someone who can indulge their longing for fine dining, travel and theater,” I suspect the reality is more like warm beer, dirty underwear and reality TV.

I have a friend who answered one of these “too-good-to-be-true” ads. They met for brunch and she knew right away it wasn’t going to work out because he glanced at the menu and then said, “So, do you want to split an order of toast?”

She said, “Why don’t you have the whole order, and I’ll just split?”

I can’t say I blame her, although in general I think single people have totally unrealistic expectations of perfection in a mate. I fixed up two friends of mine, and they seemed to be getting along fine. Then the woman told me that she didn’t think the relationship was going to go any further, because he didn’t own any classical CDs, just jazz. I told her she should be looking for a partner, not a clone. And there’s nothing wrong with jazz: It’s not like he had a collection of polka music! She could go to the opera with her girlfriends. Fortunately, she listened to me, and they are living happily ever after.

I don’t envy anyone who’s playing the dating game: It can be nerve-wracking and heart-breaking. As for me, I was never very good at the quality men admire most in women, which is keeping your mouth shut. If I disagree, I voice my opinion. I just happen to believe the world would be a better place if everyone would just do what I tell them. Plus, I only laugh at jokes I think are funny. So I guess I don’t fit the standard profile of someone who wants to please men.

So there I was on a blind date one February, meeting a man who needed his Green Card, which is why we got married in April.

My friends thought I was taking a big chance, that he might disappear as soon as he got his papers. That was more than 40 years ago, and we’re still going strong. Truth be told, sometimes we’re going weak — but at least we’re still going. In this game of singles, you just never know.

My husband, Benni, seems to like me just the way I am — even though we argue constantly.

If I say it’s too cold in the house, he says “Oh please, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

If he says no one’s dressing up for the party, I say, “Oh please, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s become a knee-jerk reaction — even when it makes no sense. Once, I was telling some friends what a wonderful father Benni is, and he interrupts me, “Oh please, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Danish philosopher S?ren Kierkegaard said, “Marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way.”

But the Larry David of existentialism was wrong. I do not regret it — even though we have our differences. In my performances, I want to make people laugh, but here’s a more serious song I sing for couples like my husband and me. We’re like most married people I know — including the jazz vs. classical friends I fixed up.

We seldom have heart to hearts,

We rarely see eye to eye,

But when we’re hand in hand,

It’s grand that he’s my guy.

I like Broadway, he likes jazz,

He wants simple, I need pizzazz.

There’s only one thing on which we agree,

I like him, and he likes me.

He likes home, I like out,

He’s kinda soft-spoken while I tend to shout,

The future looks grim, our chances are slim,

But he likes me and I like him.

He washes the cars, he opens jars,

He keeps the books and feeds the cat,

He doesn’t bring flowers or valentines,

But I’ve learned to read between the lines.

He keeps me safe, he keeps me sound,

I’m not myself when he’s not around,

We’re as different as two could be,

Still I love him and he loves me.

We’re day and night; we’re black and white,

Still I love him and he loves me.

The good news? When it comes to finding the love of your life, all you need is one.

Annie Korzen’s latest show is “Straight From the Mouth,” at the Acme Theatre every Thursday through March 16. 135 N. La Brea, Los Angeles. $25. For information, call (323) 525-0202 or visit Singles – Imperfect One and Only Read More »

Valentine’s Day.com

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“J-ated,” as in “jaded,” might be the best way to describe the ennui that has set in among many JDaters these days, singles tired of the merry-go-round of endless possibility and disappointment.

In spite of that, or because of it, new dating Web sites seem to pop up every day.

Remember that scene in the movie “Singles,” where the desperate woman asks the airline to seat her next to a single man — and she ends aside an obnoxious 10-year-old? Ostensibly that won’t happen on AirTroductions.com, which is not a Web site for mile-high clubbers (if you don’t know, I can’t explain it here). Nor is it solely for Jews. This outfit targets people who want to make business or personal connections either on the flight, at the airport, or with other travelers in the same city. If they find someone who matches your itinerary, you can pay $5 to contact that person. (It might beat hearing, “Can you take off your belt, Miss?” from the security guy….)

For more personal intervention, try the new Jretromatch.com, which uses paid matchmakers to set Jews up (that’s the retro part). The site, which launched Feb. 6, is based on the successful SawYouAtSinai.com. (Get it? All Jewish souls were originally at Mount Sinai, so it’s based on the pickup line, “Haven’t we met before? Didn’t I see you at Sinai?”) SawYouAtSinai aims for traditional and religious Jews and has a firm foothold in the Modern Orthodox market. It claims 14,000 members and 95 married success stories.

If you don’t want to leave your entire fate to the matchmaker, Jretromatch.com (and its non-Jewish counterpart, retromatch.com) also will let you peruse the database on your own. At $35.95 for a gold membership (which gets you six months plus two “free bonus months”) it’s less than JDate for the same amount of time, although with a much smaller membership (launching with 2,500 non-Orthodox culled from SawYouatSinai’s lists). Still, Jretromatch promises that matchmakers will interview all members and verify that they’re Jewish, something that JDate does not guarantee.

There are a handful of other Web sites aimed at religious and traditional Jews. The main one is Frumster.com, which skews toward the more religious of the Orthodox community (hence the word frum, which means “religious” in Yiddish), although now it has opened up to all “marriage-minded” Jews, according to Ben Rabizadeh, CEO of Frumster. The Web site claims 20,000 members and 542 couples (married or engaged) and starts at $8.95 per month, but still seems aimed most at the very religious, especially given that it requires users to specify levels of observance. You can choose between Traditional and Non-Orthodox, Modern Orthodox-Machmir, Modern Orthodox-Liberal, Yeshivish Modern, Yeshivish/Black Hat, Chasidic, Carlebachian, Shomer Mitzvot.

Other religious Web sites include UrbanTraditional.com (“putting traditional values back into Jewish dating”), Orthodate (“Your Bashert could be just a click away”) and Frumdate (“Our first priority is not simply to make a match but to help singles draw closer to Hashem and find the best within themselves”).

In addition to religiosity, there are other niches in the Jewish online dating market. Consider DarkJews.com — not a racist term, but a statement about skin tone for some Sephardic Jews — a new Web site for Syrian, Persian, Bucharian, Moroccan, Israeli, Egyptian, Yemenite, Spanish, and Turkish Jews. There’s even a category for half-Sephardic and “other,” which defies easy understanding in this context. Another category is “Come to America” where the choices are: Born, Toddler, Adolescent, Teenager, Adult or I’m Not in America.

DarkJews.com is based on the myspace.com and friendster.com models, which allows users to add their friends and their friends’ friends and is more of a social connector than a straight dating Web site. Right now it’s free, and popular among Persian Jews in California. Lumping all “dark Jews” together doesn’t work even for all dark Jews, because many of Far and Middle Eastern origin prefer to date within their own, more narrowly defined communities. Bjews.com, for example, for Bukharian Jews (from Uzbekistan and Central Asia) includes a dating site.

The most retro thing of all, though, might be to leave the computer behind. “Just let it happen naturally,” as your married friends will advise, putting aside the problem that natural meetings often mean the UPS man (or woman) delivering your Amazon.com orders and your neighbor asking you to turn your music down. Bar hopping is equally random and can lead to options with less to offer than the hardworking UPS delivery person.

If that leads you back to JDate, well, it does claim half a million members. And JDate is throwing a party at The House of Blues on Sunset Boulevard on Feb. 13.

Who knows?

 

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