I Want One of Those…

This poem from SIS and the comment below it by Anonymous (edit: the third one – people, get creative names!)

Potshot Time

And this, from our friendly commenter Mindy – hold your fire until I duck behind a brick wall, please:

>>

By now, it seems apparent we are all fed up with the dating system.

Hence, my suggestion:

Why don’t we resort to the good old arranged marriage system?

People seemed much happier.

They didn’t have blogs devoted to complaining about shidduchim, at any rate.

<<

So, why not arranged marriages?

In a way, she’s got a point. If we didn’t think we had a choice, and if “love” wasn’t on the agenda, we could all theoretically be happy with an arranged match.

Me 101

One thing about dating – it’s a great way to learn all sorts of things about oneself that one didn’t know before.

The Final Word?

“Not during finals.”

I invented that rule as I said it, and I’ll stand by it. A date might be for one night, but those grades are forever. Or at least until I graduate.

Unfortunately, Mr. Perfect is just home for bein hazmanim, and “wasn’t available” to date over Pesach.

“I’m a little embarrassed to say that you don’t want to date because of finals,” my mother confessed. I understand her because I’m almost embarrassed to admit it myself. It smacks of mixed up priorities. Isn’t the purpose of life to get married, after all? Once you’ve done that, all else can get thrown to the wind, right?

“So say that I’m ‘not available’ this week,” I suggest. “It’ll make me sound busy, wanted, and unattainable, thereby rendering me more desirable.”

“I don’t want to lie,” replies Mother.

“It’s not. I’m not available. My nights are dedicated to getting to know my chemistry better. I’m getting intimate with Mr. Taylor and his Series. I’m spending quality time with my genetics notes. I’m busy.”

“Of course you can take off for finals,” agrees a friend. “What’s a day or two? If it was a week, now…”

“It’s a week and a half,” I interrupt.

“Are you crazy?!”

Sigh. Apparently.

What if I said money depended upon a string of As. Would that make it ok, I wonder? Or should even $$$$$$$$ pale before the prospect of meeting The One?

What if I had to write my Nobel Prize acceptance speech? Or should I not be winning the Nobel Prize before I’m married (what would people say?!)?

If someone is dying, is it permissible to postpone dating? (Someone is always dying, and if necessary, I can arrange for it…)

I have a better question, actually. Why is he allowed to put me off for a week, but I can’t put him off for seven days? Just wondering.

It’s Just Rain

When I was younger, I thought that if I ever reached the grown-up point where I perceived rain as a nuisance then life would  be too difficult to endure. (“Only boring grown ups think rain isn’t fun.”)

Shaking off my umbrella in the train station today, I mused that the human capacity for endurance is much greater than I ever imagined. The train was “momentarily delayed” around every few moments, giving me ample time to chew that thought over as I stood in the stuffy car with about 60 other drippy and impatient people.

People have always endured all sorts of bizarre… stuff, for lack of a better word. Be it manhood rituals among the American Indians to corsets in good ol’ Western civilization. Heh, if it was between squeezing into a whalebone contraption every day or wasting a few hours a week with strangers in strange locations, which would you choose?

Rumple seats, foot binding, wagons without decent suspension, outhouses, beauty scarring, Society, eight-fork meals…

Dating kind of pales in comparison.

Besides, it’s all about perspective. Remember when dating was exciting? Meeting new people, getting a free drink, seeing sights, collecting “bad date” stories? Gosh – I hope I haven’t “grown up.” One day this summer (on a day with no work, of course…) I’m going to play in the puddles, and who cares what the neighbors think. Maybe I’ll invite my date to join me. At the very least, it’ll make dating fun again. Must realign that perspective, recapture the innocence of youth, etc etc… 

…Oh drat. I’ve typed this post and it’s still raining outside. (And there’s still that guy who wants to take me out…)

This Guy’s Jaded

Shidduch-related poem here.

Aw c’mon man – going out with someone because you have nothing else to do? Get a hobby…

Ponderable

>>Here’s one to ponder: Once we’ve agreed that we’re all jaded, what do we prefer – to have just one date before it’s all over, confirming our (pessimistic) suspicions, or to have three to five dates, that ultimately end up the same, and you “wasted” more time on it, but at least it gave your ego a bit of a massage that the other person isn’t repulsed by you and possibly even found you quite interesting…?<<

Posed by Yishkov L’vetach

It’s funny because this came up in a conversation with a friend earlier last week. I lamented not getting beyond a first date all too often. She asked, pointedly, if I’d rather go to the fifth date, get all emotionally involved, and have to let it go after that, with my family all asking me if I’m quite sure I’m doing the right thing… or being rejected, which is just as bad. I said it was a terrible blow to my ego that so few people seemed interested in spending a second evening with me. (My grandmother thinks I’m great – why don’t any of these guys?) She gave an ego-burgeoning answer that boring clone girls require more dates before you realize that they’re all wrong, but I still wonder.

So, the vacation post disregarded (I seem to do that, don’t I?) let’s open this one to the peanut gallery.

Pesach Vacation

Have a happy one, everyone, and bon apetit. (People think I’m strange, but I think Pesach food is the best – I eat more and better this week then during any other in the year.) Enjoy, and don’t date too hard.

B4S

EDIT: I’m officially adding “non-gebrokstniks need not apply” to my list. Everyone’s entitled to one shallow item, right?

Almost Jaded?

What are the signs of being a jaded dater?

Is it when you were going to say “yes” and he says “no” and you don’t care?

Is it when someone describes the perfect guy, and you yawn and say, “Hey, why not?” Or maybe it’s when they describe the perfect guy and you say, “Not this week, I have a test.”  Or maybe it’s when you agree to start dating the week before finals because you figure it won’t go beyond the first date anyway.

Is it when you allot about 15 minutes to date-prep and almost forget to double check in the mirror on your way out?

Is it when you neglect all dating etiquette out of weariness and don’t care if you scandalize? Or is it when you space out on the ride home because you’re reviewing for the quiz the next day in your head?

Is it when you no longer find the concept of dating exciting, intriguing, stimulating, or even interesting? Or is it when you’d rather stay in and lose a game of Scrabble to your sister than maybe meet your bashert?

 If so, I’m getting there fast.

Shobbos Table Conversation

Mother: Two new boys this week!

Father: (perks up) Really? Who?

Mother: Cousin Sarah had a boy and neighbor Rivky had a boy.

Father: Oh. Mazal tov. But too young for my daughter.

Me: Aaabbaaa… You have a one-track mind.

Father: It’s a millenia-old track. Haven’t you read your Megillas Rus recently? Ne’ami tells her daughters-in-law that even if she were to get married that night, they’d have to wait too long for her sons to grow up.

Me: But…

Quote of the Week – Clueless

“I never dreamed that at this point in the game [with one son married and two more children 'in the parsha' for 2 and 3 years respectively] that I would still be so clueless about how the shidduch system works.”

Shidduch Musical Grows

G’s adaption of “The Boys are Back in Town” (comment under the Feeding Frenzy post and on SerandEz’s blog) gives us a new total of three songs for the shidduch musical (the Welcome Home Song, the Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now courtesy of Scraps). This could get fun. I’m thinking of a songdance scene in a lounge – around 5 couples scattered around the room. The song will start with snippets of conversation and end with the guys dancing on the tables and the girls throwing their diet coke glasses in the air in a single explosion of glass and carbonated sucrose. I’m just not sure how to get from point A to point B.

How about a conglomerated job? Anyone have ideas, songs, script lines, scenes, acts, to contribute?

Um… Something Came Up

One of the problems with being an employee and student at the same time is that you end up with very little free time. Some of that precious free time gets filled in with weekly necessities and/or household obligations, some of it is used to study (not enough, unfortunately), and very little is left free for things that fall into the “others” category.

Ice cream with friends is an “others.” NMF’s sheva brochos is an “others.” And dating is an “others.” And guess which one has priority over all others, even to the point of knocking them off the schedule despite being planned far further in advance. Yeah, exactly.

It also takes precedence over weekly things and studying, come to think of it. So dating is really bad for many aspects of my life and sometimes I wonder why I do it.

As long as it’s the cleanliness of my room that’s at stake, I can handle it. A calculus grade is tougher, but with a bit of heaven-sent luck we can weather that nicely. The part I find difficult is dealing with those pre-scheduled friendly things.

“Um, I know we’ve been planning this boggle tournament for weeks, but something came up. Yeah, it had to be that night. Hey – it’s not like I’m happy about this!”

The problem is with the taboo on mentioning dating. It’s supposed to be none of anyone’s business possibly because it’s just part of your private affairs or maybe to prevent them from getting jealous or excited or whatever undesirable emotions they might suddenly find themselves filled with. And maybe so you don’t have to face their excited “So how did it go” when truth be told, you don’t want to have to think about it ever again.

With friends I tend to disregard the taboo anyway. It’s more convenient, and doesn’t leave me tap-dancing on the border of lying.

Being Dodgy:

Me: Um, you know how I’m supposed to be going to your sheva brachos tomorrow night?

NMF: Yes – can’t wait to see you there!

Me: We-ell… can’t come. Something came up.

NMF: You’re not coming?!

Me: No… sorry. Unforeseen circumstances. Nothing I could do.

NMF: I’m so disappointed.

Me: Sorry, I really want to be there, but things happen…

NMF: Yes, I understand.

By the time you’re done doing one of these “avoid mentioning that I’m dating” dances, the person either knows that you’re going on a date anyway, or they’re convinced there’s been a tragedy in your family. I tend to think the latter is the worse option, so when the friend starts asking if everything is OK and if there’s anything she can do, I chuck in the towel and confess.

NMF: Is everything OK?

Me: Mostly – except that I can’t go to your sheva brachos. Personally, I’d rather go to your sheva brachos then meet the something that came up, but don’t tell him that. And who knows? He might turn out to be something for which I want to interrupt my life and bring all my plans grinding to a halt, so yeah, I guess everything is just peachy. Mazal tov and try to enjoy the evening without me, K?

NMF: Oh – great. I will. And you enjoy too.

Me: Will do.

Dropping Out of the Shidduch Race

Here’s another solution to the shidduch crisis (since polygamy didn’t go over so well): Enforced Association with SMFs (Soon to be Married Friends).

SMFs, unlike NEFs, are the most desperately unhappy people on the planet. Not to say that they’re sad – but they definitely lack ebullient good cheer.

It’s hard to characterize the SMF because their state of mind manifests in so many diverse ways. In general, they are nervous. But some are quietly nervous, biting their nails in the corner and gaining weight or losing weight or managing both at the same time (which just heightens their distress because that gown has got to fit). But if you ever get one of these quietly nervous people alone, beware! There is much that is troubling them. You will only hear about half of it – something to keep in mind when you hesitate to swear off marriage forever.

Some are hyperactively nervous. These people spend the week before their wedding on an apparent permanent high. They’re everywhere, apparently enjoying themselves at the top of their lungs. Get them into a car alone and you just might get treated to the sight (and sound) of them equally loudly tearing their hair out. However these people behave, you can bet they feel the exact opposite. Just get them onto the subject of their FMiL (future mother-in-law) and see how effusively they praise her.

Some seem calm and act calm – they claim their only worry is whether they’ll be able to hide their organic chemistry flashcards under their bouquet throughout the reception. Or for the less academically inclined, if the champagne-colored gowns their family picked up in Brooklyn will match the champagne-colored gowns their future in-laws picked up in LA. These people are powder kegs. If one too many things go wrong on any given day, they will dissolve into a helpless, weeping, complete basket case. If they’re not the weepy type, they might spend the evening shouting over the phone at you while dabbing at their inexplicably drippy nose.

A note to friends: SMFs need to be handled very delicately and with an excess of low-fat ice cream.

Once an SMF finishes explaining to you the reason for her distress, she will give advice. Usually the advice is not an outright “Don’t do this to yourself; stay single” but often it seems to amount to that.

“Elope – weddings are horrible!”

“Marry an orphan – you don’t want to have to deal with an MiL.”

“Don’t have anything to do with your wedding plans; just show up that night and smile at everything.”

“It’s not just that your wedding day is like Yom Kippur – the entire month before is atonement for everything you ever did in your whole life!”

“The reason parents act like this when you get engaged is because they don’t want you to have any second thoughts about moving out.”

“If you get yourself put into an induced coma the month before your wedding it will save you a lot of agony.”

If every single girl was paired up as a Siamese twin with an SMF for around 3 weeks, I think we can guarantee that about half of them would withdraw from the shidduch pool due to weak stomach. Badabing!—more men to go around for the rest of us.

The Bein Hazmanim Feeding Frenzy Has Begun

“The boys are back!”

The clarion calls sounds through Brooklyn, and is immediately followed by the clatter of heels on pavement as every mother of a bachelorette joins the stampede.

“The boys are back!” the murmur spreads across the city. Young ladies crane their necks out the window and then hurriedly pull them back in to dab on some makeup and check their hair.

“The boys are back!” the younger siblings whisper, pressing their ears against closed doors and comparing filched profiles behind the couch.

The boys are back!

Yes, it is bein hazmanim, and droves of eligible young men are pouring into the tri-state area and other Jewish metropolises. These are hungry salmon, looking to date vociferously before the season is up and they need to return to their swimming grounds in the Holy Land.

Once a week dating? Leave the leisure for the dog days. If the tempo of every other night is too much for you, get out of the race. There are hordes of women vying to give it a try in your stead. You have only three weeks to cram in the dating experiences of a month – hurry, hurry, hurry!

Who knows? He might be the One!

Part 2 of 2: The View from the Top of the Stairs

 

 

Anyway, we left me standing at the top of the stairs slipping into my heels, eavesdropping as my parents lead my date to the dining room, where they’ve put out some food he won’t touch and offer him a drink he won’t drink. I strain my ears, but can’t hear anything.

Apparently guys know that the girls are hanging over the railing listening in, because when I mentioned something on our date related to something I didn’t know he had discussed with my parents, he cracked a follow-up joke. I remained utterly confused until he said, “Didn’t you hear what I told your parents?”

“Um, no.”

“Oh.”

So there I am, not quite hanging over the railing but good enough, and hearing only distant murmurs. I count to ten twice and move to go down.

“Where are you going?” my sister hisses.

“Down,” I whisper back.

“Not yet!!!” she replies fiercely, putting out a hand to detain me. A real bully, this one. I could scuffle with her, but that would send some exceedingly interesting noises floating down into the dining room. I didn’t want his first question on our date to be, “So what was that scream I heard right before you came down?”

“What scream?”

“It was pretty short – cut off in a little gurgle.”

“Are you feeling OK? Maybe we should go back.”

“Ha ha. Just kidding. So, where should we go?”

(Just a PS: guys, if you’re going to make me choose a destination, let me know before we leave the house, so I can ask my parents; they eat out a lot more than I do.)

So I stand quietly at the top of the stairs straining my ears, still not hearing much. After a few more minutes, I’m beyond impatient. What’s the point of all this nonsense and pretend? I’m ready; I’m going down.

“If they’re talking, I want to hear,” I tell my sister, and head downstairs. After all, it’s my date. I should be at it.

Does anyone else find it all a drop weird to wait before making a fashionably late entrance? Or is nobody else ready to roll until five minutes after he shows up anyway?

It turns out the mini-date does have some use. After the date, I mentioned something the guy told me to my parents. My father raised an eyebrow—it didn’t quite jive with the story he got during his five minute grill. A word to the wise guy—keep your story consistent. Liars, distorters of the truth, and tale-tellers fail to impress. For Bob’s sake—don’t get caught at it on the first date. Give the same information on both first dates, because you bet there’s going to be some comparison of notes.

Another Two Gone

NEFs #6 and #7 both became NMFs (newly married friends) last night; wishing them both brocha and hatzlacha and lots of shalom bayis and happiness forever after – AMEN!

NMF #6 definitely wins the prize for most antisocial wedding gown; if God wasn’t personally supervising the dancing, there would have been at least half-a-dozen broken necks because of that slipping and slippery train.

I would also like to take the opportunity to make fun of NMF #7 for thinking that just because her parents are BTs and she wants to go to medical school that nobody yeshivish would want to marry someone as wonderful as her. I imagine her best bochur from Lakewood will join me in genuine astonishment at the very idea.

A very happy and slightly muddled NMF #6 says that our lives are guided by Hashem and He’s working everything out, you just have to notice it, and when things happen, it’s all perfect guidance so basically, don’t worry, be happy, have faith, everything is good even if it doesn’t look like it – and things will be fine even if they’re not. (I think that’s what she meant.) And always notice when the pieces fall together, because that’s a gift from God. (That I’m fairly sure she meant.)

May all readers merit to see the pieces fall together for them soon and often and in many ways.

Part 1 of 2: Whose Date is This Anyway?

 

“He’s here,” announces my sister. I don’t know exactly why she’s in my room—not her stated reason anyway. Her actual reason is because my room has the best view overlooking the street, and she’s date-watching.

“He’s early!” I frown, checking my watch. I tend to have these things timed down to the minute, and I hadn’t put on my jacket or switched my wallet and keys into my Shobbos coat yet. I join her at the window. I manage to spot a beat up blue sedan parking in front of the neighbor’s house before my sister yanks me down. “He might see you!” she hisses. “Go turn off the light.”

“I’m getting dressed—d’you mind?” I ask.

“You don’t need the light to put on your blazer,” she points out. I obediently turn off the light.

“He’s just going to sit there for the next seven minutes anyway,” I say. When she asks why, I explain that there’s still two minutes until 7pm, and guys are supposed to come 5 minutes late.

“Why?” she asks, all naïve youth.

“Because they know girls need extra time to futz in the mirror because nothing is ever quite right,” I explain.

“But you know he’s coming late…” she ponders, “So you can schedule in five extra minutes of futzing.”

“Basically. But then there’s a need for an extra five minutes because once you plan in the extra five minutes it’s not extra any more.” That is the ostensible excuse for the girl coming down five minutes after the guy walks through the door.

She turns back to the window and is startled to see that indeed, Mr. Date is making a call on his cell phone. “That’s crazy, Bad4!” She declares. “These rules are crazy.” I just smile.

At exactly four minutes after 7, Mr. Date strolls out of his car and meanders up the walk to our house. I scoop up my coat and shoes and head down the first flight of stairs to the second floor. It’s hard to walk quietly on wood stairs in high heels, so I prefer to be positioned where I can make my grand entrance with the least prelude of clatter.

And now begins the silent struggle. Not completely silent. More like a hissed or whispered struggle between me and my sister over when I go down.

Earlier that day my father put in a request that I not do my “foot tapping” thing when I come down. Meaning, coming down and leaning quietly against the dining room entranceway waiting for them to finish torturing themselves and the poor guy so we can go on our date. I stand because I can’t sit when I’m impatient, but I never realized that my body language was screaming “Can we get out of here please?!”

“I’m just trying to spare you extra moments of agony,” I explain. “I’m the one going on the date. No reason you should spend more time sitting around with nothing to say.”

“I have plenty to say!” my father protests.

“Are you changing your shirt?” my mother calls from her room, where she’s applying a smidgeon of makeup.

“Why can’t I go on a date without the entire house going on a date too?” I complain.

A Persian friend of mine once asked me, “Did you ever have a guy meet your family?”

“Besides the usual first date stuff?”

“What? I mean ask to meet your parents.”

“They do when they come to pick me up.”

“No, I mean come in to talk to them.”

We continued talking past each other for another 5 lines or so before I realized that her dates never went through this “mini-date the parents” business. I explained that my parents small-talk the guy before we even get a chance to dislike each other. She thought that was weird. “You Ashkenazim,” she said in that superior way Sephardim have when talking about their strange Northern European brethren.

Another One Down

 

A whopping MAZAL TOV to our very own Dreamer (whose blog is now locked) who tied the knot with her zivug last night. She was a beautiful and happy bride, albeit a rather hot and tiring one by the time I showed up – Corner Point, you really ought to keep later hours. Bas Melech and Scraps – it was nice waving to you as we passed in the doorway. Bad for Shidduchim club points to Bas Melech who showed up in a ponytail, and Bad4, who only remembered that she forgot to apply makeup once she was on Ocean Parkway. Wishing Dreamer all the best and may her marriage be everything she’s ever dreamed of, and may all her dreams come true, and the same for all single dreamers everywhere. Amen.

I’m a Segula

Three times a charm – and the charm is me. I’m a segula for getting engaged. For all the bachelors out there eager to meet their intended, here’s what you gotta do: have someone suggest you to me, and make sure that you sound utterly wrong and poorly matched. Then, while I’m dragging my feet about approving the thing, you continue dating. When I finally say “yes,” you will be about to propose to someone else. Go ahead – propose. Congrats – you’re a groom.

This happened three times. The first time, it was a “he’s a nerd she’s a nerd” match; I knew as much about the guy as the shadchan did, and I knew it wasn’t gonna work. (Those to whom these labels apply can tell the difference between a nerd, a geek, and a dork, and we don’t mix the breeds. My taxonomy is actually “geek,” while his was “dork.”) While the shadchan argued with me fiercely over two months, the young fellow in question proposed, was accepted, and went on to get married. Not to me.

The second time it worked even faster. A shadchan had a lineup of three for me – I think it was every single guy she knew – and not all of them sounded the faintest bit promising. After death and taxes, one thing was certain, and that was that I wasn’t going to marry guy #2 or #3. Luckily, over the four weeks or so during which she was playing the usual telephone tag game, guy #2 got himself happily engaged, and happily off my list. I’m still waiting on #3. (I went out with #1, so he’s lost his chance.)

Time number three, it was “he’s a smartypants she’s a smartypants” match from the same shadchan as the first one. (Yes, she has a very one-dimensional impression of me. It doesn’t bode well for her matchmaking success.) I actually agreed to go out with the fellow, albeit grudgingly. Due to communication difficulties, it took almost a month to get my information over to his end, and within 14 more days, he’d singled out his bashert. Mazal tov and baruch Hashem.

So, line up guys. If we’re efficient about this, maybe I can marry a few of you off before Lag B’Omer.