Health Follow-Up and Reading Lists

After that marvelously depressing post about health defects and shidduchim, blogger JACP informed me that she found her husband because she had cancer, and not in spite of it. Which is not to say she didn’t have her shidduch woes. There were plenty of the “Oh you had cancer? He had cancer! You must have so much in common!” type of matches. (Can anyone explain the logic?)
Yet, though she never attempted to hide her medical record, she was married at the obscenely young age of 17. Which just goes to show… something. Probably something like “tell the whole world about your shortcomings and someone is bound to love your for them.” Or maybe “don’t be afraid of being yourself because it really doesn’t matter.”
How did she have a dating history at the age of 17? Two words: Borough Park. The exact little romance she won’t tell me, nor is it any longer on her blog. This is because she wants us all to buy her Artscroll novel selling under the dreary name of Miracle Ride and with an equally dull looking cover (but the content has been salvaged and gets pretty exciting). (If you’ve read her blog and want to ogle this fun and spunky girl (or woman, now that she’s married with a kid) in person, Eichlers of BP is showing her off June 4th, 6:30-8pm and you get a 25% discount on the signed book if you mention my name… or even if you don’t.)
I’m actually wondering if it would make a good addition to my growing list of “shidduch” books. Thus far I have the two classics: The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde and Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. There’s also The Outside World by Tova Mirvis (rated for some adult content) and For Matrimonial Purposes by Kavita Daswani (hat-tip to Larry). (Why is it the Jewish one that gets the parental guidance warning?) Anyone know of any other books that comfort Shidduchville residents with the knowledge that they are not alone and yes, there is hope? It would make a good post-sem reading list. Suggestions welcome below.

Bulwer-Lytton Contest for Dating Gaffes

It was a dark and stormy night and many couples gathered in the lounge of the Brooklyn Marriott…

It’s a seven word opening made famous by Snoopy, but written by a chap named Bulwer-Lytton (poor fella). The Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest is a celebration of the fact that it is probably the worst opening line for a novel in the history of literature.

Bulwer-Lytton had nothing on daters when it comes to bad lines, though. Most opening lines in dates are something like “I parked over there,” or “So…” or “Where to?” which can’t really get that bad. The good stuff usually gets said as the evening wanes and the conversation gets stilted and the daters desperate. When they’ve stirred the ice in their glass too many times, when they’ve already casually glanced at all the paintings, when they’ve covered everyone’s siblings and summer camp history, then the brain turns to slush and the tongue slips.

Once while dating an exceedingly reticent guy, I got tired of dragging the conversation along and resolved not to say another word until he did. He seemed perfectly ok with the lack of conversation anyway. He was looking around the room, glancing at people and items, smiling when something was nice or funny. I sipped complacently at my water and waited for him to notice that he was on a date and not at the 3D theater. “I like eavesdropping,” he finally explained. “People have the most interesting conversations.” I suppose that was my cue to just stop trying.

Then there was the friend who told me that a guy announced on their first date, “I got my stomach stapled.” Her response? “Um… that’s nice?” Well what do you answer to that?

One guy asked me, “Do your friends make fun of you?” An interesting question at any time from anyone. In this case, the context was my use of the word “dang” as an invective. Did that mean he’d prefer a “damn”? A bit shocking for a forever learner, but hey, I’ll know for next time. (He should hear the imprecations of maidels too aidel to use “dang.” Now those can get strange.)

And let’s not forget the egotistical dater who, when gently asked by his date if he wanted to know anything about her, answered, “No, not really.”

Or the guy who took his date to a lounge with a number of Renaissance-style paintings, and, after glancing around, casually wondered, “What’s with all the naked ladies?” The poor bais yaakov girl choked her Sprite back into the glass, and that kind of started things off wrong.

But there’s a definite grand prize winner among the stories I’ve heard. It was probably just a slip up, but that doesn’t make it any less disconcerting a line to hear on a first date. One guy asked a friend, a mere half-hour after they met, “So, what school do you want to send our kids to?”

Oh ouch.

Courting Candles

This is our courting candle. We picked it up in Salem, Massachusetts, where I’m sure it flies off the shelf during chol hamoed, during prep school holidays, and whenever parents with punk teenagers pass through.
The concept behind the Courting Candle is simple: a Suitor comes to call on the eligible Young Lady. The Young Lady’s Father grills the Suitor on his Income and Prospects while eying his Appearance. When he’s made a superficial Judgment of the Suitor, he leads him into the Parlor, where the Young Lady is sitting demurely, embroidering something moral on a Sampler, or perhaps sewing something for her Trousseau. Father then brings down the Courting Candle so the Young Couple can somewhat see each other. He sets the height of the Candle using the wooden base, and warns the Couple in a stern Voice, “You may speak until the Candle burns down to the Hook.” If Father likes the Suitor, he will set the Candle very high, giving the Young Man more Time to endear himself to the Young Lady. If Father doesn’t like the Suitor, he sets the Candle very low, so he can kick the Nuisance out of his house ASAP.
I wish we could take the courting candle on all dates. Just imagine – you’re sitting there and the candle is burning down. But you like the guy and you’re having a good time. So you reach forward and push it up. That immediately sends the message, “this is going great.” If he then reaches forward and moves it back down, that blares back, “Well it’s not mutual, can we go home?” Then you can either explore your incompatibilities (that sounded so modpsych I couldn’t resist) or just leave. But if you both move the candle up, it’s a pretty good sign there’s going to be a second date. No ambiguities.
Dating simplified.

I Want a Personal Penguin

Personal Ad:

21-year-old female seeking personal penguin for life.

Reminder

Someone informed me that not posting for three days has put me under suspicion of dating and pending engagement. If anyone even harbored such suspicions, I refer you to this previous post about prematurely engaging friends. Being on vacation prevents a person from doing the things she usually does to avoid doing the things she ought to be doing.

(That totally made sense. Just read it again.)

Plus, everyone knows that Memorial Day is for shopping.

Plus, I’ve already quit blogging. This is all just random accidental stuff. Honest.

Don’t Use Such Language on Me!

I was providing sane human companionship to an SMF when she mentioned that the thing that was giving her real anxiety at this juncture so close to her wedding was failing her history midterm. This is not terribly surprising; she got seriously exciting when I asked if she’d like framed 8×10s of epithelial tissue for her living room. She complains that people ask her random questions about physics because they like to see her eyes light up as she outlines the explanation. During dead time on the train, she enjoys flipping through photos of her slides from bio lab, which she stores on her digital camera. (I know! Where do I find these people?) I must have commented on how conscientious she is, because she retorted, “Let’s call a spade a spade – I’m crazy.”

“Not crazy – just an ambitious overachiever,” I tried to frame it in more euphemistic terms. Apparently I failed. “Not ambitious,” she corrected. “You should never use that on a girl – it’s the kind of word that only sounds good on men.”

Oops. And to think I’ve unblushingly confessed to having the same disease that killed Caesar. No wonder I’m not married. Sometimes my own naïveté astounds me.

She then reeled off a string of other terms that Must Not Be Applied to Women – “serious” is good for a guy, but not a girl. A serious guy is obviously the strong and silent type, while a serious girl must be mildly depressed. “Career-driven” is like ambitious. Only men are allowed careers (when they’re allowed a job at all); women are supposed to put family first; “career” doesn’t jive with that 1950s housewife charade. No career. Career is bad.

Talkative is bad, she says, because everyone assumes girls are chatty to begin with, so if you specify talkative, it means they’re a chatterbox and don’t shut up. Whereas men are not known, as a breed, for verbal skills, so talkative means he can carry on a conversation.

She had many, many more, but thinking about all the terms that Must Not Be Applied to me made my head hurt, so I went to spend some serious (though quiet) time reviewing my supply and demand charts because my ambition is to succeed and maybe even have a career down the line.

If I’m going to be undesirable, I might as well overachieve at it.

Is Bad Health Bad for Shidduchim?

Someone asked me if it would be badforshidduchim if she got a hearing aid. The answer is “duh yes” because anything that suggests that you’re not a perfect specimen is a strike against you. Also, I have this vague feeling that my head is filled with urban legends about people neglecting their health or hiding disabled children in the closet because of shidduchim, but I couldn’t remember any specifics. Well, I actually met one schizophrenic girl who was sort of stuck in the closet, ignored, and glossed over (and now her sister-in-law hates her for existing – would you consider that a successful tactic?) but it’s not the same as say, not taking pills or postponing surgery.

And yet I remain convinced that there are indeed such tales floating around. Does anyone know any?

List of Date Must-Brings

Theoretically, your presence should be enough on a date, but not always. It’s probably better to be somewhat overprepared rather than get caught in a tight situation. Over the course of my admittedly not humongous dating career, I have compiled a list of pocket-stuffers for the boy scout dating girl. No lightning bolts here, but don’t leave home without ‘em.

1. A credit card. Yes, he’s supposed to be paying, but just in case, bring backup. You don’t want to spend the evening washing dishes to pay for your meal. On my second ever date, the guy patted his pocket and gave me a terrified look, declaring that he must have forgotten his wallet. I shrugged and pulled out my own, figuring that accidents do happen, though this was definitely a poor choice of accidents for a date. When I extracted my credit card and matter-of-factly reached for the bill, he informed me that, in fact, he was joking. I probably looked as incredulous as I felt. I also felt a drop stupid – I mean, was I supposed to figure he had to be kidding? And what exactly was he hoping to learn from that kind of prank? That I considered him enough of a schlemiel to believe him, or that I’m calm about mishaps, that I’m liberal with Daddy’s plastic, or that I share his endearing sense of humor? I still don’t know, but after that I considered a credit card a must-have item.

2. $20-$40 in cash, including a few small bills. This is a definitely a worst-case-scenario item. While I can’t think of too many situations where you’d require cash specifically, it is an almost guaranteed way out of most sticky positions, from muggers to unfriendly vending machines. If you should happen to be dating a guy who doesn’t offer to treat you to a drink, if you should happen to split a stiletto in a lady trap and need to get replacement slippers in Chinatown, or if you stop for a snack at a hot dog stand and he only has his credit card—cash is king.

3. A metrocard. In the very worst case scenario, when you find yourself slithering out the window during an ostensible bathroom break, you’re going to need a way home. Or if he slithers out the bathroom window, for that matter. (Hey, nobody’s perfect.) Or if he disappears during a blackout, is finally caught by the FBI, or winds up in the emergency room getting his stomach pumped (this last one, unfortunately, has occurred). A girl (or boy) should never leave herself (or himself) at the mercy of her (or his) date. They just don’t make ‘em the way they used to.

4. Directions to a good restaurant. Speaking of things being different than they used to be, some liberated men show up without destinations in mind. This happened to me three times in succession, sad but true. Now I have learned to be prepared with a location that I want to go to. Make it a good choice: out of the way, unfrequented or quiet, good menu, not extravagant (you might like him), and maybe even in a good neighborhood for walking (because you might like him).

5. A cell phone. I don’t actually carry one of these, but they’re very useful in a pinch. You can have a friend call with the sad news of your grandmother’s death, allowing you to regretfully cut the date short. Or if you get completely lost, you can call someone within reach of MapQuest for directions. This is not, admittedly, a likely scenario, since it is unlikely that a guy will let you give him directions, let alone call a girlfriend for them. This I learned the hard way one date; we were partway to Queens before I could convince him that he really wanted to go in the opposite direction. After that I decided to just get lost. It’s less frustrating, and not necessarily worse a dating venue than a lounge. But once you’re out of gas in Mystic, CT, you’re going to need a cell phone to call Chaverim (don’t they have a branch in Mystic?), so definitely bring one along.

6. Photo ID (driver’s license recommended). This is the sort of thing you should always carry around anyway, but definitely don’t leave it behind because you’re trusting someone else to orchestrate a flawless evening. ProfK has a story somewhere about a time she was compelled to take over the driving on a date, for the health and safety of herself and everyone on the road. Alternatively, you might get caught in an illegal immigrant roundup and have to prove your citizenship. OK, it’s an unlikely scenario where you’ll need it, but aren’t all bad date stories unlikely?

Bad date stories are splendid things after the fact, but you don’t want to be stuck in them for an unnecessarily lengthy amount of time. With a drop of prescience and the right things in your pocket, you can weather even the most unbelievable dates with some grip on your sanity.

Other items the Boy Scout dater will want to consider:

Slim jim

Derringer

GPS

Narcotics/Emetics

Flats/spare heels

Ketchup

Zipcar reservations

Supercompact umbrella

More?!

Why doesn’t Yeshiva World just open a Shidduch Letter section? They never seem to end. Isn’t anyone happy with the system? Or are all those people married already?

Drive You to Drink

If you’re female, over the age of 27, and in the mood for some depressing fare, read this.

If you’re not, but curious about what it’s about (and it’s long), basically it’s an article by a middle-aged single woman claiming that if you’re looking for love (or even just a wonderful guy) then you’ve been lured into the catacombs by a fictional cask of amontillado, and if you don’t want to be walled up inside forever, you’d better just marry the first guy who proposes.

Interestingly, the author got tired of waiting for a husband to start her family, and got a sperm donation instead. Can you see that going over in the orthodox community?

Oh Right, a Date Tonight

I think we’re finally reaching a happy equilibrium here. By that I mean, a date no longer rocks the house. For my first date, my mother prepared fruit and homemade cake and a number of drinks and set the table nicely, and basically made a big fuss, and the guy didn’t touch a thing.

I’d like to interrupt to ask about this: According to some, it’s an issur for the guy to touch anything on the table, and a sure strike against him if he dares refresh himself with a drink. In my humble opinion, if the hostess has gone through the trouble of putting out the stuff, it’s only decent to acknowledge her efforts. Am I missing something here? Or is this just some more New York nonsense that someone invented and everyone else perpetuates because everyone else does it?

Anyway, sometime a few months ago the cake disappeared, the drinks became less varied, the table setting less elaborate. If he didn’t like fruit, water, or orange juice, the poor fellow would have to just starve.

The morning before my most recent date, my mother snagged me on my way out the front door in the morning. “Can you pick up something at the bakery for tonight?”

“Tonight?” I asked, because I’d honestly forgotten there was a date happening.

“Yes, for your date.”

“Anything particular you want?”

“No, just something nice, not too much.”

Well, there’s progress.

How Do You Like Your Avatars?

Been experimenting with WordPress’s new avatars the past week.

Any style preference?

Poll: Glasses Make You Ugly?

In Shidduchville, upon returning from seminary, girls tuck their glasses away and sally forth only in contact lenses. They believe this enhances their beauty, eliminates any brainy appearance, and makes them so much more desirable. I once scandalized a Shidduchville girl by showing her my brother’s wedding photo – my sister-in-law was married in glasses.

Question for the masses: Are girls in glasses so terrible?

Shidduch Evaluation

I was sifting through my game cards when I came across this one:

“While talking to the shadchan, you notice her penciling “OK” next to “Appearance” and “short” next to height on her paper.”

Was wondering: did I make this one up, or did someone tell it to me? Has anyone ever had a shadchan evaluate them to their face?

Me Ibn Him Ibn Him Ibn Him

Who cares about yichus?

Just wondering. I can see where Chassidim would consider it a big deal, and maybe (maybe) some rosh-yeshivish families, but does anyone else really care?

My mother tried adding some family self-tooting to my shidduch profile (she said it couldn’t do any harm), but I deleted it very permanently (I think it looks too desperate). I think I have very cool (and even impressive) ancestors, but fairly mediocre yichus. (A few above average rabbi grandfathers/cousins/uncles doth not yichus make. Everyone has those, I suspect.) Besides, I’m not convinced it matters. And it rather lowers the tone – like I have nothing special to offer myself, so we need to drag the dead out of their graves to help.

Does anyone here look for parentage in their prospective dates? Do you know anyone who does? Anyone who’s been turned down for lack of it?

Don’t Do (Pingback)

Poor Halfshared seems to have gotten the treatment at her brother’s wedding. She came up with a list of things people shouldn’t do to ancient singles. However, between me and you, obnoxious middle-aged women aren’t changing their black suits so soon. So here’s the Bad4 Approved way of dealing with tough wedding situations:

Don’t blush, cringe and say, “Can I ask you a question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want” and then ask, “How old are you?”

Proper answer: “Forty-three this June. I know – I’m a walking advertisement for collagen injections.”

Don’t say “Nu..What’s with you? We want to come to your wedding already.”

Proper answer: “It’s next week, but I didn’t send you an invitation for a reason.”

Don’t come over to me like I’m the biggest nebach in town and ask me how I am doing with a pitying smile. Would I get all that special attention if I weren’t the “old maid” at the wedding?

Proper response: (looking tearful) “It’s really hard… really hard… to enjoy my brother’s wedding when people keep trying to pity me!”

Don’t redt me a shidduch and then in front of me say “ well actually you might be too old for him, maybe it’s for your younger sister.”

Proper Response: “I’ve been screening suggestions for her all night. Tell me about him.”

Alternative: “Oh no, my sister wants to marry a wealthy nonogenarian. I, personally, prefer them young. Easier to dominate.”

Actually, not sure about this last one. Suggestions welcome. Hey, with the right response prepared, weddings in Shidduchville could become extra fun.

Quote of the Week: Applied Pressure

This logic courtesy of my inimitable little sister:

“Bad4, I’m so curious about who you’re going to marry! Can you get married already?”

Talk about pressure! I’m pretty curious myself, actually. (I suspect most people are.)

Dating Mom

I have a list! How cool is that?

Actually, I’ve had one for a few weeks now, but wasn’t aware of it, due to dater’s apathy. I actually had the following conversation one night:

“You’re going to get all dolled up Thursday night!” That’s my mother speaking. (Why can’t people ever say things like that to me without sounding gleeful?)

“Why am I doing that?” I turned one eye from my inbox.

“Because you’re going on a date.”

“Oh.” Eye returned to screen.

“Care to know with who?”

“Hm…”

“[Named].”

“Mhm.”

“Would you like to know his information?” (Love that. “His information.” Like “his records,” “his file”…)

“I guess – it will probably come in handy.”

“It’s in my inbox – I’ll need the computer.”

“Oh, no rush.”

And to think only a year ago (or is it approaching two years? Yikes!) I eagerly requested all the gory details. I’m quite lucky to have parents to take care of this stuff for me, because if it was up to me to find me dates, I’d have bought a lifetime subscription to Spinster magazine long ago.

Anyway, it’s really too bad I was so out of it. If I’d have known I was a girl with a list, I would have walked straighter, stepped with a swagger, and held my head high, the better to gaze down my nose at the girls who are merely on lists instead of having them.

I’m a girl with a list.

OK, so it’s a list only two people long, and right now one of those people is female.

Yeah, female.

It happened like this: When I pushed this fellow off because of finals, his mother either was incredibly bored, or couldn’t imagine what kind of freak pushes off dating for finals, because she hit the phones again to gather information about me. And her son went back to yeshiva from whence he cannot return, which, it turns out is only in Lakewood, and not Mozambique like she made it sound.

Anyway, this mother says that while I was studying, her son began dating someone else, and she’s not going to drag him back to NYC to date me until she’s met me herself. (I assume the new girl is in Lakewood.)

“What do I wear to date a mother?” I asked cheerfully. “Will she take me out to eat, or do I just get a bottle of water out of her? Do we go to a lounge or walk around the park?”

“You’re not going,” my mother replied firmly. She’s insulted, though she doesn’t say that. What she says is that she doesn’t understand how any woman can think she knows her son so well that she can screen his first dates for him.

“Not everyone has children like yours,” I pointed out.

I’m taking it lightly because I don’t think that’s the issue. I’m remembering this mother and how I wished she’d interview me instead of torturing my references. And I’m thinking (with reason) that this mother dug up ambiguous information during finals that she doesn’t think can be explained by anyone but me. And that she values her son’s learning or his time or maybe just the bridge toll, which is fine with me.

“He’ll be back some Shobbos soon; he can go out with you himself without wasting any time or money,” my mother insisted.

Still, to my mind, not a good reason to throw out a perfectly good guy. Possibly I’m too tolerant. I suggested the mother call me or email instead of meeting me. I’m not eager to get dressed up for her anyway.

My mother grudgingly agrees to the compromise, but adds, “It’s not like he’s the last guy on earth. There’s this other guy we’ve been pushing off because we said you were busy.”

And that was when I found out that I had a LIST. This should put me on a higher plane of existence, where everything is happy and I actually feel wanted, and I can walk proudly because I’m a single girl with dates.

If only. What is actually running through my mind is: “[sigh], another date… What will I wear?”

Guy Kvetches?

Just noticing that nearly all these tearful letters come from girls. Backspacing all the sexist explanations I was going to give, but opening the floor for everyone else to make them, why do you suppose that is?

A Single Kvetch

This from a single girl to the married world, thanks Ez.

The beginning sounded very legit, but the end got a bit kvetchy, I think. I know perfectly well my single friend is checking OnlySimchas when I call her, and she knows when I’m working on some project when I’m talking to her too. So a married friend is making chicken and you’re painting your toenails. What’s the difference?

Furthermore, friends probably do have plans to set up their friends, but things only work nicely like that when we’re dealing with machines. Husbands, especially during shana rishona, have not yet achieved that useful configuration. (She’s working on it.) I don’t blame husbands for not feeling comfortable pushing shidduchim for girls they’ve never met. Dunno if he’s right or not, but I wouldn’t introduce one more thing for them to argue about in their new marriage.

I don’t believe newlyweds have a right to complain when asked for money for other friends – not in the slightest. But don’t equate their budget issues with your own. That’s just wrong. The letter writer is probably not paying her own rent or feeding anyone, doing her own laundry, or getting her vacuum cleaner repaired. When she has to balance a real budget, maybe she’ll have some more sympathy. (Though I do agree that the marrieds should be quiet and chug it up. Where do they think their pots came from?)

Jeepers. Now some are going to wonder whose side I’m on. Ahdunno. I think everyone should give everyone else a bit of space. I don’t have any trouble with married friends. If they want to keep up, I do. If they don’t, I don’t. And if they call in a year and a half and want to pick up where we left off, I think I could handle that too. (Why not? They’re the same person I liked last year.) I give them some extra space because they have less flexibility, and don’t care if they get jealous because I’m having more fun. Ce la vie. I don’t demand much from them, and I don’t let them demand anything excessive from me.

When a friend gets married, the equilibrium of the relationship is disturbed. You need to let things settle and see where they fall. If she’s got no room in her life for you, forget it. Bad investment. Don’t throw good money after bad. It isn’t worth getting upset about – because she doesn’t realize, may not care, and probably won’t respond to your letters to YeshivaWorld. There are plenty of us out there who want to be your friends. We can’t set you up, but we won’t promise to. We’ve got the same budget you have. And we won’t be making chicken when you call.

My Little Drinking Habit

It’s well known that I have a drinking habit. Apparently. It’s not the first vice I would pin on myself, personally, but many people seem to have no trouble integrating it into their concept of me.

Almost two years ago I moved into The Room. It’s the biggest room in the house, on the third floor, has skylights and benches and nooks and crannies all over, and pretty much everything a person could want in a room except closet space. It’s been passed down from sibling to sibling; or more accurately, as soon as one sibling vacates it for more than 6 months, the next sibling eagerly shoves in and takes over. Therefore, many of the nooks and crannies are filled with artifacts from my three older siblings (hat collection, magic equipment, 2nd grade “What I Want to be When I Grow Up” composition). There is still plenty of room for my own junk, which should give you an idea of the sort of wonderful room we’re dealing with.

Among the more interesting things collecting dust is my brother’s bottle collection. It ranges from a 2-gallon bourbon bottle to an intricately designed leather hip flask, with the expected Maker’s Mark in between. There’s also a bottle labeled Swing that has a rounded base, and one called Revolve that spins, and one that looks like it should hold a genie (it doesn’t. We’ve tried). My father was very conscientious about making sure every bottle was empty before it joined the collection, doubtless just to prevent his underage son from imbibing intoxicating substances at a young age. But try explaining that to my guests.

I guess I would also wonder if I walked into someone’s room and saw rows of bottled lined up on a shelf near their bed. But they are covered by a sheet of plastic against the dust (orders of Mom). So I was not prepared when a newly acquired visiting friend looked at me very oddly and asked, “Bad4, is there anything you should be telling me?”

“What about?”

“Um – that?”

“What’s that?”

“Your whisky collection?”

“You mean my brother’s bottle collection?”

“Oh…”

I would say that that floored me, but if it did, the next incident sent me through the floor. A nice aidel, bais yaakov maidel acquaintance who was dropping in asked me, very quietly, if she might have a shot. I’m afraid I gaped, rather. And then I laughed her out of the room, poor girl.

Well, the bottles kept attracting similar attention, so I jokingly mentioned to my parents that I was getting a reputation as a drinker. They were both entertained and concerned, and my father actually offered to move the bottles out, which is great, since they’re taking up prime real estate. I could better use the space to store books, or maybe my old creepy-crawly collection, which has been hidden in a drawer for years now. A pity, really. When I had the 6-inch spider crawling up a fishline to my ceiling fan, it actually sent one guest into screaming hysterics. For the “I believe you finished 2 gallons of bourbon on your own” crowd, a 3-inch staghorn beetle crawling along the window ledge will really give them something to buzz about.

Clearly, to get married, you need to be more selective about who you bring home. From now on, I’m only allowing through the door the sort of people who realize that they’ll have to look somewhere more discrete for my rum stash.

But seriously, I can’t help but be convinced that all the stuff we do or don’t do because it’s “bad for shidduchim” (or “good for shidduchim”) is just to silence the yenting of those below the mean on the bell curve. Judging a whole person by a few key items is a cognitive shortcut taken by those overwhelmed with information. Anyone with fairly acute mental processes should be able to accept a few exceptions in the general population. (Which is the idea behind the bell curve, since it came up.) Anyone who can’t do that should be eliminated from giving shidduch information. Maybe there should be a quick IQ test for callers to give before they ask any questions. With the cognitively overwhelmed effectively silenced, maybe the girls of Shidduchville will feel less constrained in their self-presentation.

Personal Service Annoucement

Since I’ve gotten about 9 queries on the subject in 24 hours, I’m going to make an official post and then not say another word on the subject.

Evaluation of weekend at SerandEz:

Food: Good. Especially dessert.

Accommodations: Cozy. ‘Nuff said.

Company: Entertaining. (Nobody told me it was supposed to be interactive entertainment.)

Couch Cushion Count: Sufficient.

Service: Excellent.

Computer Access: Competitive. (Before and after Shobbos. Not during.)

Conversation: Seriously obsessed with dating. (About 4-5 hours of dating discussion over the course of two meals and one afternoon. Singles never seem to tire of it.)

Number of times asked “What are you looking for?”: Once, by the woman who gave me the ride out. (She even had someone in mind. What on earth could I have possibly said to set her off?)

Not recommended for those who like to get their Shobbos bagel, but on the flip side, 3 am adds flavor to any snack.

Would you go back?: Can you spell garlic Parmesan pretzel? (Spell check tells me I can’t.)

And this post, Corner Point, is an example of omphaloskepsis, as is this line.

Oh That’s So Nice!

People seem to think that to get to know you they need to know your family. I don’t know how much they think they can really learn about a person from a list of information, but people are like that. So you wind up listing your siblings and their vital stats to anyone who’s decided that they’re going to “get to know you.” What is considered a vital stat seems, to me, a bit arbitrary. Do they have jobs? Who cares. Are they happy? Not interested. Do they feel God’s presence in their lives? Aw c’mon. Stick to the important stuff. We just want to know if they’re married. (And if they’re married, if they have kids.) And if your siblings are not married, then friendly interrogator is going to say “Oh,” and pull a sympathetic face. If there are three of you looking for mates, the sympathetic expression becomes downright pained.

So I was rather relieved when my older sister got herself engaged. She was the old maid in the stat list (for real, at age 28), and I had come to dread the “so tell me about your siblings” because she’s number two in the list. Well, she’s spoken for now, I’m glad to say. That leaves only two of us careening toward lonely old age at the breakneck speed of one day every 24 hours. But my second brother won’t become antediluvian for another two years at least, and I probably have a similar time span before my own scalp peering through the part in my own hair becomes a target of sympathy.

But I celebrated too soon. I’ve only swapped one annoying response for a dozen others. Like “Oh that’s sooo nice,” and “So there’s nothing holding you back now,” or “That mean’s you’re next!” I’m not sure what to respond to these, so I give a tight smile and say, “Uh huh.” Is there a good response to those kind of comments? I never thought I’d say it, but I much prefer the irritating “So what color is your gown?” (Arriving, yes, the day after the official announcement.) At least to that one I can just say “stone-washed denim” and change the subject.

Where Oh Where Would My Date Want to Go…?

What’s a good venue for a date? We love complaining about lounges, but is there anywhere better? Personally, I prefer moving. I’m one of those people who often miss the bus because I’d rather walk to the next stop then stand still at the current one. I don’t mind sitting across a teeny tiny table with my legs cramped under my chair lest we accidentally footsie, but it wouldn’t be my first choice. But I understand that not everyone likes walking, especially without prior warning.

I also liked ProfK’s suggestion of a Barnes and Noble Starbucks cafe as a second date destination. I know I mentioned this to my sister and she was repulsed, so clearly it’s not for everyone.

So we all know where we don’t want to date (The Brooklyn Marriott). Question is, if any of us had our druthers, where would we like to be?

Since some folks have pleaded mercy on the guy’s wallet, extra points granted for locations that are free or cheap, in addition to being interesting.

Sniff Sniff

I love the smell of spring. I love the smell of fall too – and if I was in a profound mood I’d try to come up with something deep about how change smells nice, but I’m not so I won’t. I just want to take this opportunity to encourage you to stick your head out the window and inhale. This only stands if

1. you are in a location that has spring

2. you are in a neighborhood with growing things

3. you are near a window

4. that window opens

5. the window is close to the level of the growing things

If not, get thee to a park. Treat yourself to a date with the weeping willow by the duck pond. Surely you can’t have anything better to do?

The Single’s Guide to Being an Old Single

WARNING: This post rated “dark” and “depressing” by readers. Proceed at your own risk.

…Actually, there’s an alternative. Considering how many spinsters there are flying around, and how 10% of us are supposed to never get married, I’m thinking maybe we should come up with a way to ensure that we don’t go dotty too soon. We could come up with a list of guidelines to normalcy that bachelors and bachelorettes in the shidduch system can use to make sure they’re still within the pale. Things like “Don’t be overly honest with strangers or acquaintances, especially if it’s an unpleasant truth” or “keep track of the general fashion trends in your community and stay within the range.” A list of acceptable gifts for various occasions, as well as acceptable behaviors for various affairs. (eg: how does a single friend behave at her friends son’s bar mitzvah?)

I think, though, after a certain amount of time, if you figure you’re not enjoying being normal, there should be an equal and opposite list helping people become crazy old spinsters/bachelors for fun and profit. It would include things like preparing an alien landing site in your front yard, or calling married friends to suggest shidduchim for them. And of course, chasing children with baseball bats, keeping exotic pets, and making arcane threats when the neighbors leave the radio on too loud. Also, important tips on how to act bitter, malevolent, and entirely unpleasant at parties, while still getting invited back because people feel bad.

While being a strange old single isn’t new, it’s a growing niche market. And a lucrative one too, what with all the yeshiva tuition not being paid by the niche members. So it’s about time someone exploited it, wouldn’t you say?

I think we ought to compile a Complete Guide to Being an Old Single. It’s not that simple. For example, even if you go the crazy and unpleasant route, you still need to have a cherished niece or nephew upon whom you shower gifts and hint to about grand inheritances, because you need to make sure someone will find you a nice nursing home and visit every now and then. Or even better, make your will conditional, so your family is competing for your affection until the last moment.

The guide should include a list of ways to spend long summer afternoons and a Top Ten Ways to Dispose of Your Income Quickly and Easily (or, How to Boost the National Economy in One Fun Afternoon). There should be a tear-out poster of Ten Reasons to Get out of Bed in the Morning to tape onto your ceiling over your bed, in case you forget. One chapter on how to mix a kosher martini, for the long lonely winter evenings when you don’t want to have to think about how you’re at home drinking alone.

Also, as you become old and loony, the dating pool also becomes older and loonier, and you need to get adept at disposing of strange date suggestions—or finding out in the first place that they’re strange. One woman in her late 30s mentioned finding out that her gentleman caller had a criminal record, an illegal gun gallery in his apartment, and a court settlement to pay off. She wasn’t sure if saying “You’re a creep, don’t call anymore” was really the route she wanted to take, all things considered. So there definitely needs to be a chapter about dumping people.

While we’re at it, maybe we should put out a pamphlet on How to Treat Your Old Single Friends, for the married crew. Stuff like “Yes, you should invite them to your daughter’s wedding,” or “It is permissible to say the words ‘my husband’ in front of singles, but not more than once every two sentences.”

Just think – if 10% of the females in every age cohort are doomed to be single, these books can easily become the latest must-have for the conscientious religious Jew. All profits will go toward supporting the Spinster Club/Support Network (depending on how miserable the founders feel on the day they name it). So buy your copy today! Oh wait—let’s write it first.

So, what do we put in Chapter 1?

Slowly Losing It

Inspired by the Potshot comment thread

Which came first, the bachelorhood or the strangeness?

I mean, let’s face it. Some of those really old, single people really are a bit strange. And I can’t help but wonder – are they strange because they’re single, or single because they’re strange?

Someone once suggested that if you don’t have a spouse to keep bonking you back in line every time you veer from the path of normal, you just keep sliding off sideways until you tip off the deep end. That’s a very scary thought. I mean, I know I’m only 21 (though 22 is creeping up fast), but I’m a bit precocious in certain areas. And when it comes to being strange, I’m sure I’ve got an unusual amount of natural talent. Could I be slowly oozing across the border of sanity and into the murky territory beyond?

I ask only because last week I had to visit Touro again to re-file my graduation forms, the originals having been lost somewhere. I was wearing pretty normal (for me) clothes for a typical non-work day – a long skirt, a polo shirt, because of the rain hiking boots, and a corduroy jacket. But even as I hopped down the three steps to the front door, I felt a bit like the crazy man in the plaid pants who chases children from his front lawn with a baseball bat. Everyone was wearing ballet flats, short pleated skirts, and sweaters, all, of course, in black. My skirt was black, but that was about it. Unless you want to count my socks and the ankle padding they put on the boots. I didn’t have the baseball bat, but I didn’t need it. Nobody was coming near my lawn. They just looked me up and down warily and sidled away slowly.

I guess you don’t need to be married if you have friends around to bash you over the head when you do something totally weird. If any of my friends were still in Touro, they’d probably tell me off for showing up dressed like a Martian. But my friends are married or engaged and in other schools doing other things and with more on their mind than what Bad4 is wearing on Avenue J. That’s why I need to get married. So someone will be concerned about such things.

The worrying part was that I didn’t really care. It could be a sign of a growing anti-social attitude. Why, just last week I told an acquaintance that if she intended to try to socialize with me when I was studying for finals she should expect to have her head coughed up as a hairball the next day. What’s next? Probably glaring at happy children on the bus and making obnoxious remarks about the people in front of me at the cash register line. I’m even beginning to wonder what we did with our baseball bat. The real wooden one. I bet it would make a pleasant “thunk” upon connecting with a squealy childish rump.

It’s because of a maybe-growing intolerance for stuff. There was the scantron test I took last week. I filled in all the bubbles evenly and exactly, not going over the lines or missing a spot. If I did, I erased around the edges to make it just perfect. In high school I used to try to see how lightly I could fill them in, or I’d doodle shapes in and around them and basically disobey all the guidelines. What happened to me?

I could probably say it was just a really boring test, but coupled with the fact that I’ve begun lining my shoes up neatly, I think it might herald something more serious. Oh granted, there are advantages to lining up your shoes – for example, always knowing where they are when you need them. They also give the room a tidier appearance. But why suddenly be bothered about such stuff now? Doubtless I’m growing inflexible in my old age. Perhaps it’s an obsessive compulsion growing. I might become a neat freak perfectionist type. I might become intolerant of messiness or disorder. This time next year I might be walking up to strange men in the street and straightening their ties!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

That’s it – I need to get married. Soon.

You Can Go by Bridge, You Can Go by Tunnel…

Sometimes you do something totally stupid on a date that loses you a second date that you actually wanted, and you spend all weekend kicking yourself because if only you’d kept your mouth shut or not done that…

Skip it. It just wasn’t meant to be. It had to “not happen” for one reason or another, and it just happened to not happen for this reason.

My father’s friend was an alter bochur for a while, and for a brief streak he wasn’t getting any second dates either. One of the mini-episodes went something like this: He took a girl to Manhattan via the bridge. She told the shadchan she wouldn’t go out with him again; he was too cheap. The next date, he took a girl to Manhattan via the tunnel. She complained to the shadchan that he was a spendthrift. He threw up his arms and contemplated drinks on the hood in a parking lot. But the point is, neither of these girls were for him. The dating had to end for some reason, and it might as well be “he’s too cheap to take the tunnel” as “that leg-shaking thing he does drives me nuts” or “he’s got enough character flaws to be in an Anton Chekhov play.”

From the other end, we see the idiocy of judging anyone too much by the superficial behaviors they exhibit on a date.

Me 101 Follow-up

‘Pologies about that post. When I first wrote it about a month ago it was two paragraphs long, and was subsequently redrafted down to its current shriveled size and post-dated so I could think about it… sometime in the future. The future snuck up on me and bang – it posted itself. There was no point in taking it down because it doesn’t come off RSS feed.

But anyway, honestly, I don’t get what all the surprised responses were about (mostly via email. I guess nosy people don’t want to be so publicly nosy.) Was it that

1. Bad4 learned something about herself, cool, let’s find out what it was

or

2. Someone thinks dating is a self-revealing experience? Let’s find out why

I imagine I was really stating the obvious there. You have certain perceptions of yourself, what’s important to you, and what you want in life. And then you go on a date and discover that some things might matter more than you though, or that something you thought you liked actually gets on your nerves, etc. And then you begin to wonder who you really are and what you really want.