There is a reason/ reasons why I left Jdate, and vowed to never return; the Bochers’ were shady liars who feigned true interest, while only wanting to slide their shvantzes (penises) where they are not welcome. There have been drug dealers who thought a first date and a deal were one in the same, and others who asked to split the bill on our first date.( Gevalt! (heaven forbid)) There were even those who were definitely into men more than I.
But, I allowed outsiders to convince me to give it another go, ‘you need to date older men, Dorie,’ said my father, ‘You’ll meet someone this time. I’m sure,’ said my sister. Oh, they were so optimistic. Sorry, Dad and Sis, I think the Bochers’ of Jdate have failed yet again.
The week after our fourth date, the one in which Bocher #1, asked me to be exclusive, sailed by smoothly. We texted back and forth; I wished him luck on an upcoming interview, he thanked me graciously. Friday arrived and after not hearing whether we had weekend plans, I texted him to inquire.
‘Hope you are doing well, wondering whether you’d like to get together this weekend?’
‘Would you?’ he replied.
‘Yes, but I’m busy Friday and Saturday, was thinking we could do something Sunday.’ I replied.
A good while passed, and then I got THE text.
‘No thanks, Dorie.’
Three words, yet I read them over and over again like they were in another language; one I most certainly didn’t know. One that I’ve come to call; the language of the Shtik drek (shit-head).
I rehashed Date #4 in my mind. Yes, he said he was ‘my biggest fan.’ Yes, he said a good number of times that he ‘really, really liked me and that he had mentioned me to his mother. ‘Yes, he showed me the workout area in his condo and said he would ‘give me a key’ so I could use it. Yes, he most definitely asked me to be exclusive, hadn’t he?
I texted him back, beyond confused, wrote, ‘ Huh?’
‘I’m sorry my grandmother is coming in Sun and it is the only time I will get to see her. Even were that not the case however ure proposal that we hang out Sunday night is farce and I would never agree. You are apparently very very busy, and apparently go to bed at 7:45 many nights.’
I quickly typed back, ‘Yes, I am busy, but I am trying to make this work. I’m very confused, Bocher.’
He responded, ‘I frankly don’t see this working. I would like to be friends. There seems to be a fundamental incompatibility here. Let’s get coffee or something another weekend.’
Shock and awe. Shock and awe, followed by me wanting to write back, ' Gai tren zich.' (go fuck yourself ) I remained tsemisht (bewildered), my left eye brow raised slightly in confusion.
I typed, 'What? I thought you wanted us to be exclusive and now you want to ‘just be friends.’ That doesn’t make sense.
Besides shock and awe, I was highly, highly perturbed. I didn’t know what to think, and yet I wasn't sure if I cared, but waited for a response. Yet again, I mulled over the past dates in which he has told me that ‘we have so much in common! I find you so interesting.’
After this text, I decided to put aside my cell phone, placed it far, far away, because frankly, it was ruining my positive energy and affecting the writing I was working on. I put it in my purse on the other side of my bedroom and not soon after heard the sound of my phone vibrating, not one time, not two, but seven. Seven times. I did not make my way to my purse. I did not fish for my cell phone amongst the other things in my purse; wallet, ipod, lipgloss, Tylenol, tampons. I left it there, continued on with my day, which consisted of completing my goal of 1000 words and working out at the gym. There, I saw my sister, who had been previously been informed of the strange turn in which Bocher and I’s relationship had suddenly taken. We chated on the elliptical as we both feverishly moved our muscles. I told her about the plethora of messages he had sent me and the fact that I had not yet glanced at them.
My sister loves drama. She is quite the plyoot (bull-shitter).If the TV network BRAVO were to create a ‘Housewives of Falls Church, City,’ she’d be the first to apply.
She begged me to check them, but I refused, until later that evening at her house when I grew tired of her incessant pleading and her husband’s inquiries. I promised to read them aloud as my 2 year old nephew grabbed fistfuls of mac and cheese out of his bowl. But before reading, I quickly scanned them to make sure they were appropriate for everyone’s ears. They were not, so I picked which lines to read.
In the interest of space and your own boredom, I will do the same for you.
‘Actually, what I said was that I would appreciate it if you didn’t continue to have sex with someone a month into us going out for my physical health since I don’t want VD or any other diseases…I don’t want to be implicated in some plebian drama (yes he did use ‘plebian’)…I wasn’t so much asking you to go steady (yet again he did say ‘steady’) as to preserve a zone of basic decency. Our dynamic (which apparently is not one that meshes) has me agitated and occupying too much mental space for someone I see once a week.’
After reading them, I looked at my brother in law, farmisht (dumbfounded). For a writer, I had no words. Bocher #1 had successfully berated me, but by that point I was pretty much over it. Drama I do not do. I have enough of my own. My brother in law looked to his son, smiled and said, ‘Yay, once again DeDe is all yours,’ to which my nephew responded with his arms flailing, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, De De De De De.’
At least, one of us was happy, because in the end my brother in law was right, Bocher #1 was just looking to get some, and truthfully, I’m not looking give.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Miscommunication
I shall begin this blog post with a mis-claimer of sorts: Bocher #1 appears to be bi-polar, or suffering from some sort of personality disorder; therefore, what I believed to be merely an aftereffect of alcohol on our first encounter/ date, was actually one of his personalities saying hello. I shall proceed:
Date # 3 ended on an encouraging note; a night at the symphony, a nice dinner, good conversation, some foreplay, a kiss. Date # 4 began on another, on a completely different page. It started with a text, sent by me, misread by him.
Thursday evening, as I sat in my advanced workshop, critiquing essays, praising writers, I notice, yet again, a classmate, Mr. Pepperoni,( I shall refer to him as) whipped out a bag of Pepperoni and popped a single slice in his mouth. I try not to judge people’s food choices, because most would find my obsession with dried prunes to be peculiar, but I could not help but think that this was the strangest snack I had seen eaten in a school setting. Apples, granola bars, carrots, vending machine foods I understand, but bite-sized pepperoni, seems quite kooky. I had mentioned this man to Bocher # 1 on our preceding date, and he too thought it to be out of the ordinary, so, I decided to text him that Mr. Pepperoni had yet again become hungry.
‘Mr. Pepperoni has yet again taken out his bag of tasty treats. Strange, indeed.’
He texted back; ‘Eh, I’m over it. Go take a hike.’
At this point, my eyebrows cringed, and I thought, ‘What the fuck?’
I text him back: ‘Huh, what are you talking about, did I do something wrong?’
He replies: ‘Yes, you were telling me about some guy’s dick, which is highly unappealing and quite unattractive. I’m done with you.’
I firmly believe that communication is the key to any successful relationship. Text messages greatly hinder this crucial aspect. It’s impersonal and one cannot fully comprehend the message being transmitted, as is the case here. A relationship via text is doomed from the start.
I texted him back explaining my true meaning. No response. I called him apologizing for the miscommunication, again explained, and asked him to call me back. No call. I go to sleep. It was midnight, drama I do not do after this hour.
The next day, Friday, he texted me to apologize, and said that considering he had accepted my drunken booty-calls on our first day, he hoped that I too would accept his blunder. I did, but told him that his texts hurt, to which he responded with a plethora of messages. For time purposes I will jumble them into one:
‘I am very careful as to who I let into my life. I have worked very hard to be at the place I am right now and do not want to deal with anyone who might hinder this. I do not know your current situation, but hope you can understand this.’
I responded: ‘Well, I don’t want to get in the way of your life or your future.’
Throughout the day and into the evening, texts were sent back and forth. In them, he questioned my current sexual health/ whether I have a venereal disease, basically called me a nafkeh (whore). I phoned him, but he did not answer, or phone me back. He tshepen (annoyed) me, but I agreed to see him the next evening after he insisted we me to meet to discuss this face to face.
I spend Saturday writing, slightly dreading an evening with him. I’ m not one who enjoys confrontation or criticism. I choose to surround myself with positive people who uplift me, make me happy, listen to me cry, comfort me as I do, not those who make those tears fall.
We chose to meet at his condo at 7:30. I arrived, called him, to which he said happily, ‘I’ll be down in a sec.’ I waited and waited, and then waited some more. I flipped through the Anthropologie catalogue three times, and began to flip again, when finally, approximately 20 minutes later he emerged apologizing in slacks and a button down that I had not yet seen. After the flea incident, he sent his entire wardrobe to the cleaners for fear of further infestation. Luckily, he had finally received said wardrobe, comforter, and other things he had sent to be disinfected.
Weird, I think yet again.
He said I look very nice in my leggings, flowery blouse, beret and ballet flats.
‘Very Parisian.’
He mentioned earlier in the day wanting to dine at restaurant which President Obama recently took Michelle for their anniversary, Blue Duck Tavern.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ I said not wanting to sit through a whole dinner date.
‘That’s okay. We can just get drinks,’ and so we do. He asked about my writing and my progress. I related to him my current frustrations regarding my thesis and my struggle to find distance while writing about my personal life. I continued my ‘sob story’ telling him how I’m struggling to find writing time in between classes and work. To which he replied,
‘How much do you get paid at Gymboree (a kid’s gym where I teach gym and art classes)?’
$12. 50 an hour. It’s pretty shitty.’
‘I’ll pay you $100 this week to call in sick and write.’
‘No,’ I say. Bist meshugeh? (Are you crazy?) I thought. ‘That’s like prostitution.’
‘No, it’s called patronage,’ he says.
‘No. Definitely, no.’
I sat far away; distant from him, confused how he could be so polite, acting as if the texts had never been sent.
He noticed, asked me what was wrong. I told him that I thought he knew to which he responded, ‘What? But I’m your biggest fan.’
Fuck, I’m farblondzhet. (confused)
Men claim they are easy to understand. Supposedly, they ‘say what they mean.’ That is ridiculous. Their sentences are mired in many meanings, and at the moment, I understand none of his.
I bring up the texts, and the discussion began. He let me know that at my age (he is 29, I am 25) he was doing a lot of crazy things, still in L.A. (he went to USC film school here), didn’t really know where his life was headed. He’d been through a lot, but at this moment he finally knew where he was headed, hence, he was hesitant when letting others in.
I assumed he was over the whole drunk-dial thing, considering he had asked me on a second date, never mentioned it, asked me on a third, then on a fourth. I was wrong.
After letting me in on his life story, he wanted to know if I was done with Mr. Booty call. He then revealed that if we continued to see one another I would be, because he did not want to get a venereal disease or AIDS.
What the fuck?
I asked him, ‘Are you asking me to only date you, to be exclusive?’
He said, ‘yes,’ and I agreed, thinking about how communicating with him was at times completely confusing.
The date continued and we both ordered a second drink. He ordered a third, I stopped at two, he continued on to four. Four vodka cranberries into the conversation and I could tell he was slightly tipsy, or drunk, and the conversation had become continuously more erratic. He finally asked for the bill, and I glanced to it, wanting to pay. It was over $150 dollars. I put my wallet away. I tell him I would like to do something nice for him, and he told me that spending time with him is enough. He’s ongetrunken.(drunk)
We walked back to his condo and I agreed to come up. He wanted to show me the horse-races he had been betting on while online. He asked me to pick a horse. I declined, but after much insistence agreed to spend money frivolously.
I told him I’m going to use the restroom. When I returned, I noticed that many of the top buttons on his shirt have magically come undone. No longer do a few chest hairs peek out from his shirt; instead, I now saw a small forest.
Fantastic.
I let him know that I was oysgehorevet (exhausted) and should get home. He asked me to stay. I declined, saying, ‘another time.’ Hand in hand we walked to my car, and kissed goodnight. I promised to text him when I’ve made it home.
I did.
He responded. ‘My chest, her head.’
'Huh,?'
I do not respond, and went to sleep baffled.
Date # 3 ended on an encouraging note; a night at the symphony, a nice dinner, good conversation, some foreplay, a kiss. Date # 4 began on another, on a completely different page. It started with a text, sent by me, misread by him.
Thursday evening, as I sat in my advanced workshop, critiquing essays, praising writers, I notice, yet again, a classmate, Mr. Pepperoni,( I shall refer to him as) whipped out a bag of Pepperoni and popped a single slice in his mouth. I try not to judge people’s food choices, because most would find my obsession with dried prunes to be peculiar, but I could not help but think that this was the strangest snack I had seen eaten in a school setting. Apples, granola bars, carrots, vending machine foods I understand, but bite-sized pepperoni, seems quite kooky. I had mentioned this man to Bocher # 1 on our preceding date, and he too thought it to be out of the ordinary, so, I decided to text him that Mr. Pepperoni had yet again become hungry.
‘Mr. Pepperoni has yet again taken out his bag of tasty treats. Strange, indeed.’
He texted back; ‘Eh, I’m over it. Go take a hike.’
At this point, my eyebrows cringed, and I thought, ‘What the fuck?’
I text him back: ‘Huh, what are you talking about, did I do something wrong?’
He replies: ‘Yes, you were telling me about some guy’s dick, which is highly unappealing and quite unattractive. I’m done with you.’
I firmly believe that communication is the key to any successful relationship. Text messages greatly hinder this crucial aspect. It’s impersonal and one cannot fully comprehend the message being transmitted, as is the case here. A relationship via text is doomed from the start.
I texted him back explaining my true meaning. No response. I called him apologizing for the miscommunication, again explained, and asked him to call me back. No call. I go to sleep. It was midnight, drama I do not do after this hour.
The next day, Friday, he texted me to apologize, and said that considering he had accepted my drunken booty-calls on our first day, he hoped that I too would accept his blunder. I did, but told him that his texts hurt, to which he responded with a plethora of messages. For time purposes I will jumble them into one:
‘I am very careful as to who I let into my life. I have worked very hard to be at the place I am right now and do not want to deal with anyone who might hinder this. I do not know your current situation, but hope you can understand this.’
I responded: ‘Well, I don’t want to get in the way of your life or your future.’
Throughout the day and into the evening, texts were sent back and forth. In them, he questioned my current sexual health/ whether I have a venereal disease, basically called me a nafkeh (whore). I phoned him, but he did not answer, or phone me back. He tshepen (annoyed) me, but I agreed to see him the next evening after he insisted we me to meet to discuss this face to face.
I spend Saturday writing, slightly dreading an evening with him. I’ m not one who enjoys confrontation or criticism. I choose to surround myself with positive people who uplift me, make me happy, listen to me cry, comfort me as I do, not those who make those tears fall.
We chose to meet at his condo at 7:30. I arrived, called him, to which he said happily, ‘I’ll be down in a sec.’ I waited and waited, and then waited some more. I flipped through the Anthropologie catalogue three times, and began to flip again, when finally, approximately 20 minutes later he emerged apologizing in slacks and a button down that I had not yet seen. After the flea incident, he sent his entire wardrobe to the cleaners for fear of further infestation. Luckily, he had finally received said wardrobe, comforter, and other things he had sent to be disinfected.
Weird, I think yet again.
He said I look very nice in my leggings, flowery blouse, beret and ballet flats.
‘Very Parisian.’
He mentioned earlier in the day wanting to dine at restaurant which President Obama recently took Michelle for their anniversary, Blue Duck Tavern.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ I said not wanting to sit through a whole dinner date.
‘That’s okay. We can just get drinks,’ and so we do. He asked about my writing and my progress. I related to him my current frustrations regarding my thesis and my struggle to find distance while writing about my personal life. I continued my ‘sob story’ telling him how I’m struggling to find writing time in between classes and work. To which he replied,
‘How much do you get paid at Gymboree (a kid’s gym where I teach gym and art classes)?’
$12. 50 an hour. It’s pretty shitty.’
‘I’ll pay you $100 this week to call in sick and write.’
‘No,’ I say. Bist meshugeh? (Are you crazy?) I thought. ‘That’s like prostitution.’
‘No, it’s called patronage,’ he says.
‘No. Definitely, no.’
I sat far away; distant from him, confused how he could be so polite, acting as if the texts had never been sent.
He noticed, asked me what was wrong. I told him that I thought he knew to which he responded, ‘What? But I’m your biggest fan.’
Fuck, I’m farblondzhet. (confused)
Men claim they are easy to understand. Supposedly, they ‘say what they mean.’ That is ridiculous. Their sentences are mired in many meanings, and at the moment, I understand none of his.
I bring up the texts, and the discussion began. He let me know that at my age (he is 29, I am 25) he was doing a lot of crazy things, still in L.A. (he went to USC film school here), didn’t really know where his life was headed. He’d been through a lot, but at this moment he finally knew where he was headed, hence, he was hesitant when letting others in.
I assumed he was over the whole drunk-dial thing, considering he had asked me on a second date, never mentioned it, asked me on a third, then on a fourth. I was wrong.
After letting me in on his life story, he wanted to know if I was done with Mr. Booty call. He then revealed that if we continued to see one another I would be, because he did not want to get a venereal disease or AIDS.
What the fuck?
I asked him, ‘Are you asking me to only date you, to be exclusive?’
He said, ‘yes,’ and I agreed, thinking about how communicating with him was at times completely confusing.
The date continued and we both ordered a second drink. He ordered a third, I stopped at two, he continued on to four. Four vodka cranberries into the conversation and I could tell he was slightly tipsy, or drunk, and the conversation had become continuously more erratic. He finally asked for the bill, and I glanced to it, wanting to pay. It was over $150 dollars. I put my wallet away. I tell him I would like to do something nice for him, and he told me that spending time with him is enough. He’s ongetrunken.(drunk)
We walked back to his condo and I agreed to come up. He wanted to show me the horse-races he had been betting on while online. He asked me to pick a horse. I declined, but after much insistence agreed to spend money frivolously.
I told him I’m going to use the restroom. When I returned, I noticed that many of the top buttons on his shirt have magically come undone. No longer do a few chest hairs peek out from his shirt; instead, I now saw a small forest.
Fantastic.
I let him know that I was oysgehorevet (exhausted) and should get home. He asked me to stay. I declined, saying, ‘another time.’ Hand in hand we walked to my car, and kissed goodnight. I promised to text him when I’ve made it home.
I did.
He responded. ‘My chest, her head.’
'Huh,?'
I do not respond, and went to sleep baffled.
Friday, October 16, 2009
A Growing Problem, An Easy Fix?
During the summer of my junior year in high-school (2002), I, and another friend, departed from the sweltering heat of Mobile, Al and ventured to an even hotter local, Israel. For six weeks, we hiked through the Negev Desert, up Masada, a historical site in which 960 Jews chose death over surrendering to the Roman Empire, and even through the Golan Heights. We lounged in the Dead Sea, covered ourselves in the deep green mud of its waters, sun-bathed on the shores of the Kinneret and the Tiberias, placed our special prayer in the Western Wall, and even spent several nights working on a kibbutz (a self-governing community, similar to a commune).
We formed adeeper sense of what it meant to be Jewish. Our group of sixteen formed an identity of one Jewish unit, yet even as we waved our goodbyes and hopped aboard a plane, we could hear our friends shout, ‘Bye Bama.’You see, from the moment we arrived in Israel to the moment we left, we were linked to our location. The revelation of Jews in Alabama was a shock, followed by incessant teasing. It appeared that news regarding our presence had never been transmitted up north or out west. Southern Jews were a myth and debunking it was almost impossible. I have used this to my advantage while residing in Washington D.C. and during my many efforts to find an NJB online, (Southern Belle looking for her Union Soldier). Sadly, this fact may truly become fiction, because as the rate of Jews in United States rapidly declines, as does the rate of Jews in the South, and more specifically my state of Alabama.
Presently, I reside in Northern Virginia but my heart belongs to Alabama. It sounds cheesy, yes, but similar to my friends in Israel who could not and would not separate myself from my state, I too, cannot detach myself from Bama, and although I do not know whether a return is a part of my unpredictable future, I would like to know that if this be the case there are Jews to return to. I am not alone with this feeling. In September of last year Jews in the South and around the States were surprised to learn that the problem in one small southern town, Dothan, Alabama, had escalated, leading one yarmulke wearing Jew to whip out his wallet and offer monetary incentive as bait. Larry Blumberg, a member of Temple Emanu El, extended $1 million over the next 10 years ($50, 000 to each family) to help relocate 20 young Jewish families to the small city of Dothan. His announcement came with much excitement and within several weeks the Temple’s website had accumulated over 275,000 hits, but as is usually the case, the quantity was massive, but the quality was lacking. And let’s be honest, quality is what Jews are looking for, listing a number of stipulations that accompany the $50,000. They include: the family must remain in Dothan for at least 5 years, pass background and credit checks, submit written and personal Rabbinic references, host an in-home visit at their current residence, and travel to Dothan to meet the dwindling Jewish community. After reading this I wonder if uprooting your family for five years and inviting someone to investigate your entire life is worth the $50,000. Is the fine print worth the reward? 400 families thought so, but as of February 2009, only one had made the move. The Temple assures that ten more are to follow, but I wonder if money is the only way to solve the problem, especially in this harrowing economy?
My own Synagogue, Ahavas Chesed, struggled with a similar story in which the old are dying, while the young are leaving and never coming back.
The prospects of the big-cities and more burgeoning Jewish populations are causing young Jews like me to question whether there is any opportunity in Mobile. For myself, I wonder why I would want to return to a city in which options to write and edit appear dismal and only in the forms of a small local newspaper and local magazines. Unlike Temple Emanu El, Ahavas Chesed chose another way to recruit members. Last year my father, as well as several other congregation members met to discuss the possibility of allowing non-Jewish spouses to become members of the synagogue. Opinions regarding this idea were countless; how could one become a member without wanting to commit them to the religion? How could a congregation allow a discrepancy between the two? In the past, non Jews were not considered full members unless they were willing to undergo religious conversion. In the conservative sect of Judaism, Rabbi’s will not officiate at interfaith marriages; therefore, how could my synagogue, one of the conservative sect, allow those already married to pray where they could not be blessed? Questions like these were debated, but eventually, the fact that our congregation had dwindled to only 175 families trumped them. Is this a way to bring more families to Mobile or assure that those growing up do not leave never to return? I do not know. I am myself am still struggling with the knowledge that my Jewish heritage is impossible to escape, while questioning whether I believe in the importance of marrying a Jewish Bocher. Does this news affect my ultimate return? It does not hurt, nor help, because truthfully the only thing bringing me back is family, and sometimes, this overrides possible opportunities elsewhere. My future is unknown, my beliefs still forming, but my family has always been there and it is with them that I continuously long to be.
We formed adeeper sense of what it meant to be Jewish. Our group of sixteen formed an identity of one Jewish unit, yet even as we waved our goodbyes and hopped aboard a plane, we could hear our friends shout, ‘Bye Bama.’You see, from the moment we arrived in Israel to the moment we left, we were linked to our location. The revelation of Jews in Alabama was a shock, followed by incessant teasing. It appeared that news regarding our presence had never been transmitted up north or out west. Southern Jews were a myth and debunking it was almost impossible. I have used this to my advantage while residing in Washington D.C. and during my many efforts to find an NJB online, (Southern Belle looking for her Union Soldier). Sadly, this fact may truly become fiction, because as the rate of Jews in United States rapidly declines, as does the rate of Jews in the South, and more specifically my state of Alabama.
Presently, I reside in Northern Virginia but my heart belongs to Alabama. It sounds cheesy, yes, but similar to my friends in Israel who could not and would not separate myself from my state, I too, cannot detach myself from Bama, and although I do not know whether a return is a part of my unpredictable future, I would like to know that if this be the case there are Jews to return to. I am not alone with this feeling. In September of last year Jews in the South and around the States were surprised to learn that the problem in one small southern town, Dothan, Alabama, had escalated, leading one yarmulke wearing Jew to whip out his wallet and offer monetary incentive as bait. Larry Blumberg, a member of Temple Emanu El, extended $1 million over the next 10 years ($50, 000 to each family) to help relocate 20 young Jewish families to the small city of Dothan. His announcement came with much excitement and within several weeks the Temple’s website had accumulated over 275,000 hits, but as is usually the case, the quantity was massive, but the quality was lacking. And let’s be honest, quality is what Jews are looking for, listing a number of stipulations that accompany the $50,000. They include: the family must remain in Dothan for at least 5 years, pass background and credit checks, submit written and personal Rabbinic references, host an in-home visit at their current residence, and travel to Dothan to meet the dwindling Jewish community. After reading this I wonder if uprooting your family for five years and inviting someone to investigate your entire life is worth the $50,000. Is the fine print worth the reward? 400 families thought so, but as of February 2009, only one had made the move. The Temple assures that ten more are to follow, but I wonder if money is the only way to solve the problem, especially in this harrowing economy?
My own Synagogue, Ahavas Chesed, struggled with a similar story in which the old are dying, while the young are leaving and never coming back.
The prospects of the big-cities and more burgeoning Jewish populations are causing young Jews like me to question whether there is any opportunity in Mobile. For myself, I wonder why I would want to return to a city in which options to write and edit appear dismal and only in the forms of a small local newspaper and local magazines. Unlike Temple Emanu El, Ahavas Chesed chose another way to recruit members. Last year my father, as well as several other congregation members met to discuss the possibility of allowing non-Jewish spouses to become members of the synagogue. Opinions regarding this idea were countless; how could one become a member without wanting to commit them to the religion? How could a congregation allow a discrepancy between the two? In the past, non Jews were not considered full members unless they were willing to undergo religious conversion. In the conservative sect of Judaism, Rabbi’s will not officiate at interfaith marriages; therefore, how could my synagogue, one of the conservative sect, allow those already married to pray where they could not be blessed? Questions like these were debated, but eventually, the fact that our congregation had dwindled to only 175 families trumped them. Is this a way to bring more families to Mobile or assure that those growing up do not leave never to return? I do not know. I am myself am still struggling with the knowledge that my Jewish heritage is impossible to escape, while questioning whether I believe in the importance of marrying a Jewish Bocher. Does this news affect my ultimate return? It does not hurt, nor help, because truthfully the only thing bringing me back is family, and sometimes, this overrides possible opportunities elsewhere. My future is unknown, my beliefs still forming, but my family has always been there and it is with them that I continuously long to be.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
'All Dressed Up'
The prospect of Date # 3 begins quite grand. The Friday morning before our Saturday night date he texts me asking if I’d like to accompany him to the see the National Symphony Orchestra at the Kennedy Center, to which I reply, ‘that sounds amazing.’
He’s pulling out all the stops. This man wants to get laid. I think.
I tell my sister, who is uber-excited for me. Frankly, more excited than I am. And later, when I mention it to my brother –in-law, he confirms my thoughts.
He’s definitely looking to get some.
Shit! I will most definitely have to hold myself to a one drink minimum. No booze, no bootie! I think.
Saturday goes by without any glitches. I sleep in until 10:30. My workout is not rushed. He does not text to cancel, or move the date to a later time; instead our only texts discuss the planned time of our meeting, which is my decision. ‘6:20 if we want to grab dinner before the symphony, or around 7:20/30 if we want to grab dinner after.’ We have box seats, so we can dip and eat if you get hungry.’
I choose 7:20, hoping the extra hour will allow me to do some writing. I always have such high hopes.
I meet him at his condo (that he owns, might I add) in Foggy Bottom at the appropriate time. After calling him to let him know of my arrival, I wait. A few minutes later he taps on my window and I open the door to find him in the exact same outfit he had worn on our first date. I might have been farshnikert, but fashion I never forget!
We make our way to the Kennedy Center. In the cab, he lets me know that he sent one of the top entomologist a sample from his condo.
‘He’s going to be flying in to take a look at my place.’
Am I supposed to be impressed? I wonder. Frankly, I find that a tad excessive.
The night is cool, crisp, like a tall refreshing drink. We arrive and snag our tickets from will call. I glance to the ticket. My eyes immediately scan in on the price, 60 bucks.
60 bucks! That’s $120 total, and we haven’t even gone to dinner yet. On my budget of $20 a day I could live off of these two tickets for six days, six freakin days! Oy, Vay!
As we wait for the music to begin, we discuss our day. He spent his writing an article. I spent mine writing one (on him) as well. At times, I feel we are so similar, at times; his overflowing wallet reminds me that we are not. Besides us, another young couple sits. I watch as she moves her chair towards him, puts her hand on his knee, and grabs his hand. I move my own towards him, one on top of the other, subtle, but obvious, he is oblivious to my body language. His hands remain in his lap. Not one to make the first move, I quickly move mine to the other side.
The first act, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony No. 6, begins. The conductor, a Hungarian half bald fella, moves his arms with veracity. The music moves from mellifluous to melancholy, and then ends with great intensity. I glance to Bocher #1, he mentions that he wishes he had some Twizzlers, and we both laugh. Act 1 commences and he says that he needs to use the little boy’s room. I concur and so together we make our way to the restrooms. Oddly, this is an action that has become routine. Our bladders appear to be linked, which is strange, considering I have to pee almost every five minutes. It’s refreshing to know that someone else also has a bladder the size of a tiny lima bean.
After our trip to the restroom, he asks me, ‘Everything come out okay?’
Questions such as these leave me farmisht.(confused)
Is he trying to be crude, witty, all of the above?
I never know exactly how to respond. Although I would like to give him a raise of the eyebrow, I simply giggle and grin.
After taking our seats for the second act, Bela Bartok’s The Wooden Prince, he mentions that he is in need of a diet coke, and asks if I would like a beverage as well. I politely decline, and he leaves. A few minutes pass and I smile at the couple sitting besides us. The doors close, the symphony begins. His seat remains empty. I stifle my apprehension.
He’ll be back.
Twenty-minutes pass and I glance to the door. Again, I smile to the couple next to me. Their grins say it all, ‘Poor girl, left by her date, and at the symphony. How sad!’
Sad, indeed. I try to focus on the music, the flute, the harp, and the loud booming drum, but my eyes continue to look over to the door hoping he’ll make a grand entrance. I can no longer enjoy the melody, the beauty, the ballet; he has now ruined it all. Angry and verklempt (ready to cry), I continue to hope he will appear.
An hour later, and still no Bocher, the symphony players take their last bow, and I walk briskly to the door.
Outside, Bocher #1 waits, hands in his pocket, looking kalamutneh.(gloomy)
It was my fault, says the usher. People aren’t allowed in after the symphony has started. It distracts the conductor.
I look at her, miffed, and he smiles at me and asks, ‘How was it?’
I cannot be mad. I want to be mad. It’s not his fault.
‘ Amazing!’ I say. I’m so sorry you missed it.
‘Well, tell me about it.’
I try to, but I cannot do it justice.
‘The good thing is that I’ve made us dinner reservations, and Virginia is going to join us.’
Virginia is the Asian cougar (women seek the company of younger men) who resides next door to him. After recently losing her husband, she has taken up the hobby of scouting young men. I believe that Bocher #1 is among one of her prey.
‘She’s very excited to meet you.’
Odd. I think.
We enter the cab where he tells the driver to take us to Westend Bistro, adjacent to the Ritz Carlton on 22nd Street.
Yet again, my mind wanders to his wallet, his true intentions, and the money I could have saved. We enter the restaurant and I look around for Virginia.
‘Where’s Virginia?’
‘I was kidding, although she did want to join us at the symphony.’
At times, he leaves me stumped. We each order a drink; a glass of wine for myself and a vodka cranberry for himself.
One drink minimum. Two max. I tell myself.
The conversation flows smoothly. He wants to see my current writing. I swiftly change the subject to our meal of mussels and salads. It is a known fact that most men find baggage unattractive. I come with a shit ton of it, and a third date is usually not the time to reveal this. I might want a fourth date, or even a fifth, and so skirting the issue is always best.
By the time dinner ends, it is almost twelve. We walk to his condo where he asks me if I would like to come up. Slightly buzzed, I accept. As he opens the door to his condo, a chill escapes into the hall and as we make our way inside I understand why. It is an igloo. Not like an igloo. It is an igloo. The AC reads 62 degrees. Chill bumps grow on my body at any temperature below 75 degrees. . The hair on my stubble free legs has now grown bag. The task of shaving was for not.
‘Shit! It’s cold in here.’
‘Well, I read that any form of bacteria is killed at temperatures below 65. And since I’m still not sure about the flea infestation I’m just being safe.’
That’s meshugeh. I think
He grabs his only comforter (the others, as well as all his clothes are at the cleaners, due to the feared infestation) and wraps it around me. He leads me to his bed, and my blog begins to sound like a Harlequin novel, but No, I am no longer buzzed, and he simply receives a kiss (or two or three…). We talk and he lets me know that he really likes me, and I let him know I feel the same. He invites me stay, but I decline and say ‘another time’, because past nit (it isn’t proper) and it is freezing. He walks me to my car and tells me to text him when I get home.
After putting on a long sleeved shirt, sweat pants, and wrapping myself in my heated blanket I text him and thank him yet again for a wonderful evening. Before sending it I add, you make me happy, thanks. He responds ‘ditto’ and I smile as the hair on my arms finally falls back into place.
.
He’s pulling out all the stops. This man wants to get laid. I think.
I tell my sister, who is uber-excited for me. Frankly, more excited than I am. And later, when I mention it to my brother –in-law, he confirms my thoughts.
He’s definitely looking to get some.
Shit! I will most definitely have to hold myself to a one drink minimum. No booze, no bootie! I think.
Saturday goes by without any glitches. I sleep in until 10:30. My workout is not rushed. He does not text to cancel, or move the date to a later time; instead our only texts discuss the planned time of our meeting, which is my decision. ‘6:20 if we want to grab dinner before the symphony, or around 7:20/30 if we want to grab dinner after.’ We have box seats, so we can dip and eat if you get hungry.’
I choose 7:20, hoping the extra hour will allow me to do some writing. I always have such high hopes.
I meet him at his condo (that he owns, might I add) in Foggy Bottom at the appropriate time. After calling him to let him know of my arrival, I wait. A few minutes later he taps on my window and I open the door to find him in the exact same outfit he had worn on our first date. I might have been farshnikert, but fashion I never forget!
We make our way to the Kennedy Center. In the cab, he lets me know that he sent one of the top entomologist a sample from his condo.
‘He’s going to be flying in to take a look at my place.’
Am I supposed to be impressed? I wonder. Frankly, I find that a tad excessive.
The night is cool, crisp, like a tall refreshing drink. We arrive and snag our tickets from will call. I glance to the ticket. My eyes immediately scan in on the price, 60 bucks.
60 bucks! That’s $120 total, and we haven’t even gone to dinner yet. On my budget of $20 a day I could live off of these two tickets for six days, six freakin days! Oy, Vay!
As we wait for the music to begin, we discuss our day. He spent his writing an article. I spent mine writing one (on him) as well. At times, I feel we are so similar, at times; his overflowing wallet reminds me that we are not. Besides us, another young couple sits. I watch as she moves her chair towards him, puts her hand on his knee, and grabs his hand. I move my own towards him, one on top of the other, subtle, but obvious, he is oblivious to my body language. His hands remain in his lap. Not one to make the first move, I quickly move mine to the other side.
The first act, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony No. 6, begins. The conductor, a Hungarian half bald fella, moves his arms with veracity. The music moves from mellifluous to melancholy, and then ends with great intensity. I glance to Bocher #1, he mentions that he wishes he had some Twizzlers, and we both laugh. Act 1 commences and he says that he needs to use the little boy’s room. I concur and so together we make our way to the restrooms. Oddly, this is an action that has become routine. Our bladders appear to be linked, which is strange, considering I have to pee almost every five minutes. It’s refreshing to know that someone else also has a bladder the size of a tiny lima bean.
After our trip to the restroom, he asks me, ‘Everything come out okay?’
Questions such as these leave me farmisht.(confused)
Is he trying to be crude, witty, all of the above?
I never know exactly how to respond. Although I would like to give him a raise of the eyebrow, I simply giggle and grin.
After taking our seats for the second act, Bela Bartok’s The Wooden Prince, he mentions that he is in need of a diet coke, and asks if I would like a beverage as well. I politely decline, and he leaves. A few minutes pass and I smile at the couple sitting besides us. The doors close, the symphony begins. His seat remains empty. I stifle my apprehension.
He’ll be back.
Twenty-minutes pass and I glance to the door. Again, I smile to the couple next to me. Their grins say it all, ‘Poor girl, left by her date, and at the symphony. How sad!’
Sad, indeed. I try to focus on the music, the flute, the harp, and the loud booming drum, but my eyes continue to look over to the door hoping he’ll make a grand entrance. I can no longer enjoy the melody, the beauty, the ballet; he has now ruined it all. Angry and verklempt (ready to cry), I continue to hope he will appear.
An hour later, and still no Bocher, the symphony players take their last bow, and I walk briskly to the door.
Outside, Bocher #1 waits, hands in his pocket, looking kalamutneh.(gloomy)
It was my fault, says the usher. People aren’t allowed in after the symphony has started. It distracts the conductor.
I look at her, miffed, and he smiles at me and asks, ‘How was it?’
I cannot be mad. I want to be mad. It’s not his fault.
‘ Amazing!’ I say. I’m so sorry you missed it.
‘Well, tell me about it.’
I try to, but I cannot do it justice.
‘The good thing is that I’ve made us dinner reservations, and Virginia is going to join us.’
Virginia is the Asian cougar (women seek the company of younger men) who resides next door to him. After recently losing her husband, she has taken up the hobby of scouting young men. I believe that Bocher #1 is among one of her prey.
‘She’s very excited to meet you.’
Odd. I think.
We enter the cab where he tells the driver to take us to Westend Bistro, adjacent to the Ritz Carlton on 22nd Street.
Yet again, my mind wanders to his wallet, his true intentions, and the money I could have saved. We enter the restaurant and I look around for Virginia.
‘Where’s Virginia?’
‘I was kidding, although she did want to join us at the symphony.’
At times, he leaves me stumped. We each order a drink; a glass of wine for myself and a vodka cranberry for himself.
One drink minimum. Two max. I tell myself.
The conversation flows smoothly. He wants to see my current writing. I swiftly change the subject to our meal of mussels and salads. It is a known fact that most men find baggage unattractive. I come with a shit ton of it, and a third date is usually not the time to reveal this. I might want a fourth date, or even a fifth, and so skirting the issue is always best.
By the time dinner ends, it is almost twelve. We walk to his condo where he asks me if I would like to come up. Slightly buzzed, I accept. As he opens the door to his condo, a chill escapes into the hall and as we make our way inside I understand why. It is an igloo. Not like an igloo. It is an igloo. The AC reads 62 degrees. Chill bumps grow on my body at any temperature below 75 degrees. . The hair on my stubble free legs has now grown bag. The task of shaving was for not.
‘Shit! It’s cold in here.’
‘Well, I read that any form of bacteria is killed at temperatures below 65. And since I’m still not sure about the flea infestation I’m just being safe.’
That’s meshugeh. I think
He grabs his only comforter (the others, as well as all his clothes are at the cleaners, due to the feared infestation) and wraps it around me. He leads me to his bed, and my blog begins to sound like a Harlequin novel, but No, I am no longer buzzed, and he simply receives a kiss (or two or three…). We talk and he lets me know that he really likes me, and I let him know I feel the same. He invites me stay, but I decline and say ‘another time’, because past nit (it isn’t proper) and it is freezing. He walks me to my car and tells me to text him when I get home.
After putting on a long sleeved shirt, sweat pants, and wrapping myself in my heated blanket I text him and thank him yet again for a wonderful evening. Before sending it I add, you make me happy, thanks. He responds ‘ditto’ and I smile as the hair on my arms finally falls back into place.
.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Giving it Another Go
After an intoxicating first date, Bocher #1 texts me the next morning inviting me on another. I try to recount whether my kisses were of my own volition or on account of dear Mr. Absolute.
Yes, the conversation [that I remember] was interesting, maybe the kiss was good, but who knows. I bury my head in my fluffy pillows and ponder over the possibilities of another encounter. Was he drunk? Check, Was I drunk? Check, check, check…Does this deem date number two?
I write back saying, 'A second date, guess that’s a Jdate first for you? That would be nice. Talk to you soon.'
He writes back, “Well, I wasn’t the one making drunk booty calls, all evening.”
I check my outgoing call list, and text messages. Oy, vay! If he’s willing to forgive this, he definitely deserves date number two.
We chat, via text, the rest of week and I ask him if he would like to accompany me to the National Book Festival on the Mall that upcoming Saturday. Prior to our first disaster, hmm I mean date, our emails consisted of much talk regarding our favorite nonfiction writers, his Sedaris, mine Sedaris. With this in mind, I relished the idea of a date outside among other lamden (scholars). He calls Friday evening and we map out the writers we would like to hear. First on my list is Ralph W. Eubanks, a former professor and one of the current readers of my thesis. I was greatly looking forward to catching up and hearing him read from his new memoir. Next up, is the author, Azar Nafisi, whose book, Reading Lolita in Tehran; A Memoir in Books, greatly intrigued me. He agrees to see them and we decide that further decisions should be made that following day.
Saturday morning I awake early and make my way to the gym. My workout is rushed because of our 1:30 pm meeting time. This does not a happy Dorie make, but I brush it off, and afterwards, text him asking for his address. A few minutes pass and my phone suddenly vibrates, not once, not twice, but three times. I open it, and read the many messages he has now text me back. Basically, they read this:
'Oh my gosh, so sorry, but I have a work emergency. I feel horrible, but I messed something up Friday that is on deadline, so I have to fix it today. I don’t think I can do anything until later in the day. I’ll be ready anytime after 5:30, and then we can do whatever you like. Dinner, or, a movie, or both. Whichever. I’m really, really sorry!'
I text back:
'Yeah, no big deal. Just text me when are available.'
I’ve learned from past experiences that men do not like women who constantly K’vetch. (complain) I am Jewish, it’s kind of my M.O., kind of a part of who I am, but I outwardly suppress this part of me, because he could be telling the truth. He could be busy wiht work. He could be a N.J.B. Or, he could simply be a shtik drek (shit-head). Whatever the case, inside, I’m pretty perturbed. I would like to text him back, ‘Kish mir en toches’ (Kiss my ass) But I do not, because I am a southern lady, who finds mindless cursing rude. Yes it’s raining, and we might not have been able to attend the events, but had I know this, I wouldn’t have woken up early on my day to sleep in, nor would I have rushed my work out. Yes, technically, it’s only 1:30 pm and my day is not ruined, but I don’t really care about technicalities. My day is ruined. My plans, squashed and Bocher #2 has a lot to make up for.
As the hours pass, I spend them being productive; writing, reading, mopping. He text me saying he will be showered and ready anytime after 6:30. I write him back, saying I’m having a bad day, and not sure I still want to go out. Yes, it’s lame. Yes, I’m lame, but the dreariness outside my window has made its way inside my psyche and I’ve become depressed Dorie. No fun. He texts back, basically begging, saying he has been looking forward to the date, etc, etc…. lots of rubbish. I decide to give this man who has now cancelled on me twice, a third chance, and so I meet him around 6:30.
By this time, the dreariness has turned to rain drops, and the rain drops have become a down poor. I arrive close to on time, and he announces that he is not staying in his condo at the moment; instead, his temporary residence is at the Washington Marriot, just a few blocks up the street.
That’s odd.
He then explains that he recently found out that his mother’s dog, which he had been keeping while she was incognito/ out of town, had been treated for fleas. Therefore, he was having his place fumigated, or the carpets clean, whichever it was, it was still slightly teetering on meshugeh. (crazy)
He asks if I’m okay to walk, and yet again not wanting to k’vetch, I say, ‘sure!’ So, it’s raining, and although he does have an adequately sized umbrella, we are both still getting drenched. My perfectly straightened hair comes under stress and I fear it is frizzing. Finally, we arrive at the luxurious Marriot, where he checks in and we decide to see a movie in Georgetown and then get dinner. After noticing me shivering, he promises no more walking. I thank him profusely and tie back my now crimped hair. We arrive at the AMC Loews Georgetown and decide on The Informant!. After the movie attendant rings up the pricey total of $21, Bocher #1 searches frantically in his wallet for his credit/ debit card. It is nowhere to be found. He has no cash. He looks at me, I at him, and say, ‘It must be back at the hotel. Do you need me to pay?’ To which he replies, ‘I have no idea where I left it. That would be great. I’ll pay you back.’ Since the movie isn’t until 7:45 and it’s only 7, he insists we return to the hotel to find it. He, ‘feels horrible.’
So, we make our way back to the hotel, where he has left it in the restroom of his suite, and then to the ATM in order for him to pay me back. He hands me $25 dollars. Suddenly, I feel like a nafkeh(prostitute).
Eventually, we sit down in the packed theatre, in horrible seats, and chat before the movie begins. He tells met his dog story. I tease him about cancelling on me yet again. Lighthearted fun. During the movie, he sits somewhat slouched, never tries to grab my hand, or make a move. He is a complete gentleman, and as I rest my hand on the thigh closest to him I wonder why. Do I want him to?
The movie, which I would highly recommend, ends and we settle on grabbing a bite to eat back at the restaurant of the Marriot. At dinner, we both order a salad. We both continuously have to get up to pee, We both laugh. We both smile. It’s kind of disgusting. Our discussion delves on our similar taste in writers, our family, our future goals. He pays and we make our way to my car where I kiss him on the cheek, and he leans in for a hug. Awkard, but cute, kind of like him. On the drive home, in a sober state of mind I decide I just might like him, and after texting him that I’ve made it home, he texts me back and asks when he can take me out again. To which I reply, ‘ Date # 3 would be nice. Talk to you soon.’
Yes, the conversation [that I remember] was interesting, maybe the kiss was good, but who knows. I bury my head in my fluffy pillows and ponder over the possibilities of another encounter. Was he drunk? Check, Was I drunk? Check, check, check…Does this deem date number two?
I write back saying, 'A second date, guess that’s a Jdate first for you? That would be nice. Talk to you soon.'
He writes back, “Well, I wasn’t the one making drunk booty calls, all evening.”
I check my outgoing call list, and text messages. Oy, vay! If he’s willing to forgive this, he definitely deserves date number two.
We chat, via text, the rest of week and I ask him if he would like to accompany me to the National Book Festival on the Mall that upcoming Saturday. Prior to our first disaster, hmm I mean date, our emails consisted of much talk regarding our favorite nonfiction writers, his Sedaris, mine Sedaris. With this in mind, I relished the idea of a date outside among other lamden (scholars). He calls Friday evening and we map out the writers we would like to hear. First on my list is Ralph W. Eubanks, a former professor and one of the current readers of my thesis. I was greatly looking forward to catching up and hearing him read from his new memoir. Next up, is the author, Azar Nafisi, whose book, Reading Lolita in Tehran; A Memoir in Books, greatly intrigued me. He agrees to see them and we decide that further decisions should be made that following day.
Saturday morning I awake early and make my way to the gym. My workout is rushed because of our 1:30 pm meeting time. This does not a happy Dorie make, but I brush it off, and afterwards, text him asking for his address. A few minutes pass and my phone suddenly vibrates, not once, not twice, but three times. I open it, and read the many messages he has now text me back. Basically, they read this:
'Oh my gosh, so sorry, but I have a work emergency. I feel horrible, but I messed something up Friday that is on deadline, so I have to fix it today. I don’t think I can do anything until later in the day. I’ll be ready anytime after 5:30, and then we can do whatever you like. Dinner, or, a movie, or both. Whichever. I’m really, really sorry!'
I text back:
'Yeah, no big deal. Just text me when are available.'
I’ve learned from past experiences that men do not like women who constantly K’vetch. (complain) I am Jewish, it’s kind of my M.O., kind of a part of who I am, but I outwardly suppress this part of me, because he could be telling the truth. He could be busy wiht work. He could be a N.J.B. Or, he could simply be a shtik drek (shit-head). Whatever the case, inside, I’m pretty perturbed. I would like to text him back, ‘Kish mir en toches’ (Kiss my ass) But I do not, because I am a southern lady, who finds mindless cursing rude. Yes it’s raining, and we might not have been able to attend the events, but had I know this, I wouldn’t have woken up early on my day to sleep in, nor would I have rushed my work out. Yes, technically, it’s only 1:30 pm and my day is not ruined, but I don’t really care about technicalities. My day is ruined. My plans, squashed and Bocher #2 has a lot to make up for.
As the hours pass, I spend them being productive; writing, reading, mopping. He text me saying he will be showered and ready anytime after 6:30. I write him back, saying I’m having a bad day, and not sure I still want to go out. Yes, it’s lame. Yes, I’m lame, but the dreariness outside my window has made its way inside my psyche and I’ve become depressed Dorie. No fun. He texts back, basically begging, saying he has been looking forward to the date, etc, etc…. lots of rubbish. I decide to give this man who has now cancelled on me twice, a third chance, and so I meet him around 6:30.
By this time, the dreariness has turned to rain drops, and the rain drops have become a down poor. I arrive close to on time, and he announces that he is not staying in his condo at the moment; instead, his temporary residence is at the Washington Marriot, just a few blocks up the street.
That’s odd.
He then explains that he recently found out that his mother’s dog, which he had been keeping while she was incognito/ out of town, had been treated for fleas. Therefore, he was having his place fumigated, or the carpets clean, whichever it was, it was still slightly teetering on meshugeh. (crazy)
He asks if I’m okay to walk, and yet again not wanting to k’vetch, I say, ‘sure!’ So, it’s raining, and although he does have an adequately sized umbrella, we are both still getting drenched. My perfectly straightened hair comes under stress and I fear it is frizzing. Finally, we arrive at the luxurious Marriot, where he checks in and we decide to see a movie in Georgetown and then get dinner. After noticing me shivering, he promises no more walking. I thank him profusely and tie back my now crimped hair. We arrive at the AMC Loews Georgetown and decide on The Informant!. After the movie attendant rings up the pricey total of $21, Bocher #1 searches frantically in his wallet for his credit/ debit card. It is nowhere to be found. He has no cash. He looks at me, I at him, and say, ‘It must be back at the hotel. Do you need me to pay?’ To which he replies, ‘I have no idea where I left it. That would be great. I’ll pay you back.’ Since the movie isn’t until 7:45 and it’s only 7, he insists we return to the hotel to find it. He, ‘feels horrible.’
So, we make our way back to the hotel, where he has left it in the restroom of his suite, and then to the ATM in order for him to pay me back. He hands me $25 dollars. Suddenly, I feel like a nafkeh(prostitute).
Eventually, we sit down in the packed theatre, in horrible seats, and chat before the movie begins. He tells met his dog story. I tease him about cancelling on me yet again. Lighthearted fun. During the movie, he sits somewhat slouched, never tries to grab my hand, or make a move. He is a complete gentleman, and as I rest my hand on the thigh closest to him I wonder why. Do I want him to?
The movie, which I would highly recommend, ends and we settle on grabbing a bite to eat back at the restaurant of the Marriot. At dinner, we both order a salad. We both continuously have to get up to pee, We both laugh. We both smile. It’s kind of disgusting. Our discussion delves on our similar taste in writers, our family, our future goals. He pays and we make our way to my car where I kiss him on the cheek, and he leans in for a hug. Awkard, but cute, kind of like him. On the drive home, in a sober state of mind I decide I just might like him, and after texting him that I’ve made it home, he texts me back and asks when he can take me out again. To which I reply, ‘ Date # 3 would be nice. Talk to you soon.’
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