I want my man in a Kippah

Some refer to dating as a learned art. There are hundreds of books, websites and essays that claim to have the answer to it,
And if you need a pocket sized manual, the Department of Counseling and Psychological Services at Florida Institute of Technology has a handy brochure entitled, ‘The Art of Dating, which can be folded into any man or woman’s coat or purse and taken out in a time of need.

Some refer to dating as a necessary part of life, like death and taxes.
At one point or another, you’re going to enter into it and you must be ready with all the essentials; books, condoms, mace.

I wouldn’t quite refer to myself as an artist, but childhood paintings, sculptures and etched portraits hang upon the walls of my parent’s home, a picture of mine was even in the kid’s magazine ‘Highlights,’ yet the time spent sketching the faces, shading the outlines, and molding the clay, has done nothing for my skills in the supposed ‘art. of dating’

Because to me it isn’t an acquired art; instead, it’s torture, it’s a game, and rarely do I come out of it a winner.

In high- school and all throughout college I had a steady boyfriend; hence I avoided it all together. Unfortunately, these boyfriends were all drek (literally feces/ crap) which led me down a spiral of despair and onto the couch of a therapist.


She told me, “The men you choose are like rubber bands pushing you close and then pulling you away. You will be attracted to men similar to him [my current boyfriend] the rest of your life if you do not realize this.”

She then handed me a copy of ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus,’ a prescription for Prozac, and a hearty thumbs up. I never returned to her office, her crimson colored couch, or to the annoying sound her Zen table waterfall made as the water rushed down it. Instead of making me feel comfortable, the consistent running of water made me feel like I had to pee every time I sat down. The good doctor’s similes weren’t my style, and she apparently had shitty taste in prose.

In June of 2009, Forbes magazine ranked Washington D.C. as the number 6 (out of 40) best cities for singles in the United States, yet ever since my plane landed at Reagan International, and I put my stuff away in Arlington, I’ve been single, extremely single. I wouldn’t even say I’ve steadily dated one man.

So, I ask, yet again, why?

Do I have too high of standards?
Do I even know what I’m looking for, and if that’s the case, why am I looking so hard when people keep telling me that when I stop searching, my bashert(predestined) will suddenly appear?

Prior to moving to D.C., not only had I always been single, I’d also never dated or been the girlfriend of a Jewish man. On my long list (yes there is a paper list) of requirements, this was absent, and it didn’t matter, yet now it does, and it’s not just my father, my mother, my sister, or my relatives who it matters to, most importantly it matters to me. My childhood and past have been marked by traditions, customs, and even food that are all Jewish in nature, and as I witness my sister’s Jewish marriage transpire, I realize that I cannot see a future void of this past and present. Judaism is part of me and I want it to be a part of the man I eventually meet and marry. I want the chuppah.

I want the ketubah, the Brit milah, Bar/ Bat Mitzvah of our kids.

I want the Kugel, the shofar, the mezuzah outside our door.

I want the Jew, not the fro, but I want my man in a kippah.

But, maybe it’s just not the time. Maybe I’m just not ready, or too jaded to see him if he’s standing there. Maybe, I should focus on me, and he’ll appear as my mother says.

Whatever the case, I’ve taken those maybes and decided to log off.

December 6 is my last day on Jdate.

It’s been fun, but too many ‘whys’ have led me to say,‘I just don’t think it’s my time to date.’

Bocher # 2

I find it sad that the sole stimulus for my own dating is due to a blog, because truthfully it’s the only thing at the moment pushing me out the door and into the arms of a single man.

That being said, last Saturday night I took another one for my online followers and met Bocher #2.

Prior to our date we exchanged the acceptable three message quota. I hotlisted, he messaged, and the fun began. His first email consisted of the typical reply to my despondent ‘about me’ section, which reads:

So, here's the deal, I gave this site a second chance, considering the first didn't go so well, but am sad to say that second chances just don't appear to be my thing. About me: I'm in graduate school pursuing an MFA in nonfiction writing. When I'm not writing or attempting to write witty essays, I'm either at the gym or with friends and family. I like to keep busy, and at the moment am doing an excellent job of doing so. I'd love to meet someone who respects me, gets me, and wants to want me. I've come to the conclusion that nice girls finish last, but hope that someday, someone will prove me wrong.

He responded with an, ‘I hope you haven’t given up yet. I’d love to chat, please respond if your time isn’t up.

It wasn’t the wittiest email I’ve received (one Bocher whose last name was Dore, commented that if we were to ever get married I might not want to take his last name), but physical attraction to the man who wore a baseball cap in two of his four pictures and looked more handsome than cute, more preppy than bad-boy, convinced me to write back, plus he was 30, thus fitting my age range of 27-around
34.(any single man over the age of 34 in desire of a 25 year old woman leads me to believe that he might be a paskudnyak (nasty fellow)).

Messages bounced back and forth. In one he mentioned that he’d moved to the area from Los Angeles in order to ‘start a career in international affairs,’ but in the proceeding one he revealed that he had lived in NYC the last year. The two didn’t quite equate, but I took it in stride and when he wrote, ‘I could show you at least one place that I like and that is easy going- the Brickskeller’ I replied coyly, ‘ So, are you asking me out on a date?’ He said yes. I gave him my number… He called…yadda yadda yadda.

After learning that I do not eat meat (I didn’t mention that I don’t drink beer) we decided to meet for Sushi at Sushi Ko , a restaurant in D.C. which he often frequented. The day of the date he texted me and said that we should probably ride together because parking ‘can be difficult.’ I assumed he was saying that he would like to meet at his place and ride together, which was a usual ‘no-go’ in my book of ‘what to do on the first date.’ No where in this ‘book’ did it say, ‘have him pick you up at your house,’ or ‘ride together to save fuel;’ instead, it read, ‘never have him pick you up at your place on the first date, he could be a stalker or a serial killer, and hence knowing your address could be bad,’ and ‘never ride together, one word, AWKWARD.’

But, I agreed to meet him at his apartment in Chevy Chase so he could drive us to the restaurant.
I arrived a little late and as I attempted to parallel park in a tiny space with my Honda Civic, I called to let him know that I was having trouble finding parking. He asked me if I was the car sticking all the way out onto the street, and I laughed, told him, yep, ‘I can’t parallel park, can’t really drive.’
Within seconds he appeared, looking very much like his pictures; handsome in a nice black wool coat, black dress pants and a stripped button down. He was also tall,
5’11.(check and check)

He told me to follow him and I could take his parking spot when we left. As he walked over to a number of cars, I wondered which was his. A man’s car says a lot about him. If he opened the door to the Lincoln town car on his right, I might assume it was his Bubbeh’s (grandmother), if he opened the car door to his left, a Volkswagen Beetle, I might have assumed that he felt comfortable in small spaces. Luckily, he opened the door of the khaki Jeep Wrangler, which said to me, ‘rugged, like a mountain man.’

On the way to the restaurant we bullshitted about our days. He told me that he was moving in a week because he couldn’t stand his upstairs neighbors loud foot stomping at 6 in the morning, and I concurred with his reasoning.

Once we arrived, I remembered that I’d been to the restaurant on another Jdate, and there was plenty of parking, plenty.

He’d made a reservation, but due to the small size of the restaurant, we still had to wait awhile to be seated. We sat in the corner and I learned that he’d gone to the University of California in San Diego and was in a fraternity, which led to us discussing fraternity life. I’d been in a sorority for 2 years at Auburn University, hated it, dropped out, and all in all wasn’t impressed by the experience. He understood, but had met some great guys in his and didn’t hate or love his fratastic years.

Finally, we were seated upstairs and he asked if I liked Saki. Considering, I’d been farshinkert (sloshed) on my first date with Bocher #1, and we all know how that ended, I decided to say yes, but only wanted a glass of wine.
I wasn’t quite sure what he did during the day (a.k.a. his job/ career), so, I decided to ask what a job in international affairs entailed.

He laughed and said,

‘Well, that’s what I’d like to eventually do, but due to the job market, when I got here no one was really hiring. So, when I passed by a shop with a ‘we’re hiring’ sign, I applied and got the job.’

‘And that job would be?’ I asked.

‘I work part time at the Fed ex Kinkos store.’

Now, I know I shouldn’t have judged because I work part time at Gymboree Play and Learn, making practically bupkis,(nothing) but I did, because two broke people does not equal a whole lot of gelt (money ); instead, two broke people equals a lot of dollar bills and no hundreds.

I continued to listen and gave him the benefit of the doubt. The economy sucks, at least he had a job at all, plus if I ever moved he could get me free boxes.
We gabbed about our aspirations, his ‘too work for an embassy or any form of international affairs, mine to ‘write something of substance, gain fame and fortune with a witty nonfiction book.’

Somehow the conversation steered towards expensive D.C. living, which led him to say:

‘I know it’s a faux pas to talk about an ex on a first date, but, last year when we lived together in NYC living was insanely expensive.’

I love it when people start off a sentence with statements such as ‘not to offend you or anything, but,’ or ‘I know it’s a faux pas but,…’ If you don’t want to offend me or you know it’s a faux pas then don’t say it, because you and I both know that what you are about to say is going to definitely offend me.

He then continued to talk about his ex-girlfriend for a good five minutes, and with the information I’d previously been given I concluded that they’d probably been broken up for about six months, hence there was no way he was over her, considering they lived together, and he most likely was simply looking for some toches (booty).

After the meal of one smoked salmon roll, one yellow tail nigiri, and one tuna nigiri, we walked to his car and he asked about us getting together again when he returned from his thanksgiving in Connecticut.

I said I’d like that and when he dropped me off at my car, I gave him a hearty hug, because I usually don’t kiss on the first date (unless I have been boozing) and he said he’d call me soon.

Besides for preventing a possible stalker situation, driving alone on the first date, allows you to review the dialogue, actions and intentions of the Bocher. Yes, he was a neshomeleh (sweet heart), opening my car door, telling me to tell him if I needed his coat if I were to get too chilly, but, unfortunately, all I could focus on was the faux pas, the ex.

I guess his thoughts were dissimilar to mine, because the next day I received a text from him which read:

‘Hi Dorie. Thanks again for coming out last night. I really enjoyed your company. I look forward to getting together again soon. Have a good Thanksgiving.’

I wrote back:

‘Yes, me too and thank you again for dinner. Hope you have fun in Ct and eat lots of turkey. You can tell me how it tastes when you return.’

Today, as I reviewed the texts, I noticed a red ‘x’ next to this outgoing message.

He never got the message.

Maybe, we won’t be going on that second date.

Reflections/ Why?

This is my third time on Jdate, shalosh (שָׁלוֹשׁ) (3 in Hebrew). You’d think that after the first two times I would have thrown in the my tallit
(Jewish prayer shawl) and moved on to others means in order to bait Bochers, but I haven’t, which leads me to the question of, why? Why, when most of the men I’ve met and most of the dates I’ve gone on have been crazy?

14, that’s the number of Jdates I’ve been on, which is not a lot, but at the same time, it's not something I'd blow my shofar about it.


My first experience was interesting, not bad or good interesting, just plain ole vanilla yogurt interesting. Of that experience, I would say my favorite date would be date #2, Bocher #2, experience achat (אַחַת, 1). Bocher #2’s profile claimed he was 5’4”, which I took to mean that he had a sense of humor, because truly what man is 5’4?” I concluded that he must be at least 5’9.” I gave him the benefit of the doubt and a couple inches. But, on the night of date I opened the door to find a short skinny guy who was indeed 5’4.” In my wedges, I towered over him, which for me, was a new, odd experience. I’m 5’1”. I’ve never been the same height of any male I’ve dated, much less been able to clearly see over his jewfro.
A paper airplane could have soared over his head, and he might not have even felt a breeze. You get the gist. He was short. I was shocked.

Prior to the date, he texted me to ask if I’d be ‘kosher’ with first stopping by a bar that his friend works at for a ‘quick drink.’ On the first date, I feel it is necessary to well, lie. I pretend to be a low maintenance, carefree, go with the flow kind of gal, because most men do not like that in truth I’m a planner who makes daily to do lists, and finds pleasure in checking off completed tasks. That’s scary, not sexy, so, I tell him ‘sure, I love meeting new people,’ which is a complete lie, because I don’t like meeting new people, I don’t even really like people. (I’m slowly getting over this)

Shorty (I will now refer to him by this moniker) and I make our way to the bar. Once we arrive he parks his VW Rabbit in the back parking lot. (Sign #1). We do not enter in the front entrance; instead, he told me that it was ‘cooler to walk in through the back of the bar, more gangster.’ (Sign #2) He motioned me to the bar where does not introduce me to his bartender ‘friend,’ but instead, ordered two drinks for himself, one for me, and proceeded to hand the ‘friend’ his keys and tell him that his car is parked out back. (Sign #3) Prior to trying this website, I’d dated my fair share of drug dealers, or men who said they were just ‘helping out a few friends,’ so I knew a drug deal when I saw one, and yes, my friends, Shorty was a drug-dealer, and this was a deal.

I typically didn’t like to involve myself in illegal acts. (still don’t) So, after I confirmed my suspicion, I asked him to promptly take me home. He did, and I never saw him again.

I continued to date, but was taken aback by the number of men who didn’t pay on the first date, and didn’t look anything like their profile picture. I was frusturated and over Jdate, and as the website ‘Stuff Jewish Young Adults Like, states, I was ‘Liking to Hate to Like Jdate,’ a process which involved ‘ intitial charm’ followed by, a feeling of ‘distinct aversion to the site.’ The site continued to state that ‘typically, after a month, the JYA will deem Jdate “lame” or “desperate” and will claim to shun association with the site […] Finally, after a latency period of around 3 months the typical JYA will again overturn their opinion of the site.’

I guess I’m the ‘typical JYA’ because three months after cancelling my membership, I decided to give it another go. My favorite Bocher during experience shtayim(שְׁתַּיִם, 2) was a young man I shall call ‘23 and looking to get married,’ or ‘Mr. Marriage.’ This time I agreed to meet him at his apartment in Georgetown, because although I learned little on my first try, I did learn that you should always drive separately on Date #1. Awkward conversations are no fun, neither are awkward hugs, awkward kisses on the cheek, even awkward handshakes.

I arrived on a brisk wintry evening to find Mr. Marriage not yet ready, but willing to let me wait in his apartment while he quickly changed sweaters. I would assume that normal men his age would be listening to some form of rap, pop, or rock while getting ready for a date, but he was listening to the soundtrack to ‘The Beauty of the Beast,’ in French, and while I waited, he sang along. Throughout the entire date, he continued to sing, but he was nice and intelligent, so I decided to give him a second chance and a Date #2. This Date was much better than the first. We grabbed a bite to eat at the vegetarian restaurant on his block and then played Scrabble. Yes, it was dorky, but cute dorky.

After this date, I flew back to Alabama for the holidays, during which he incessantly texted me and on the Saturday I got home asked if we could get together. I said I was beat and insisted on Sunday instead. Sunday arrived and I was still jetlagged so I told him I’d have to cancel. He called me and proceeded to tell me that he was ‘on his way to buy me flowers and that he didn’t understand me.’ I told him that I think we needed to ‘slow things down,’ He went off and when I told him I didn’t understand what he was talking about, he said, ‘ you’re a writer, aren’t you supposed to be intelligent?’ I quickly got off the phone with him and never spoke with him again.

Now, to my present try, which as you all have been reading, has been just as amazing as the first two. I do believe that crazy Bocher #1 (of experience shalosh (שָׁלוֹשׁ)) is the craziest I’ve met while on the site. Yet, I haven’t cancelled my subscription, and I’m still hotlisting men, emailing men, and hopefully going on dates with men. Every time I re-subscribe I genuinely hope that I’ll meet someone, because (I will blow my shofar this time) I’m a catch and I, like most maidels, deserve to be rewarded for my efforts. So, why, why go through all the bullshit, the waste of time, and the money, why? Because after every bad date I think that there has to be one good one, one good guy, one happy ending. Nice Jewish Boys do exist. I know a few, 3 including my brother-in-law,my father, and my nephew.



More have to be out there. They have to...Right?

'Hush, it's the Kinder'

My childhood was filled with Jewish cuisine; the smell of Kugel, a sweet noodle casserole, Brisket, matzo ball soup, and mandel bread, a cookie similar to biscotti, lingered throughout my home year round. Hebrew prayers, and Yiddish words and phrases echoed off the walls. I never understood these strange words and giggled when they would be spoken. For my sister and me, they were like a secret language that only my parents were able to understand. Like their own ancestors, who prior to the first crusade used the language as a tool of separation, my parents also used the words to their benefit.

Whenever my sister and I were not privy to certain information, or our presence was not welcome, my parents would whisper to one another, ‘Shh, the kinder.’ They’re whispers were never quite soft enough; because, we always heard them, which led to incessant pleading regarding what needed to be kept secret. Often when entering the kitchen, I would say, ‘the kinder, the kinder, better be quiet.’

Some words became separators, while others became used as signifiers of love.
‘You have such a shana ponem,’ my father would say after hugging me tightly and kissing me on the cheek.
‘Shana ponem?’ I asked.
‘A beautiful face, you are my shana ponem.’
I loved being my father’s shana ponem, but my mother had another name by which she called me.
‘Bubeleh,’ she would say, ‘dinner’s ready.’
I never asked the meaning, but later learned it was an endearing term for loved ones.

For the longest time, I believed that I was my mother’s only Bubeleh, but years later heard her call my older sister the same term. I was astounded, shocked, even slightly hurt. After this, the term became slightly tainted, and I disheartened. I always imagined that she referred to my sister by another nickname, like Boshe (her Hebrew name) or even just B, but my term, my ‘Bubeleh,’ Oy vai iz mir! I still like to think that she refers to only me by this name; and it was a mere slip of the tongue. Denial does a lot for my self-esteem.

Other words and sayings sparked interest in my little ears, such as ‘toches,’ ‘bupkis,’ and‘shmuts.’
‘Sit on your toches,’ my mother would insist.
‘My what?’
‘Your bottom.’

‘That’s complete bupkis,’ she’d pronounce to my father.

‘Bupkis?’

'Nonsense, Bubeleh. Your father is speaking complete nonsense!’

‘There’s shmuts all over your shirt, Doe,’ she’d announce while wiping it away with a wet cloth.
‘Shmuts?’
‘Dirt, filth.’

Certain words and sayings weren’t revealed until I aged, because they weren’t ‘kinder, friendly,’ such as ‘putz,’ the slang term for a man who is in fact a dick, or ‘ kish mir en toches,’ which literally means ‘kiss my ass.’

As is evident, the Yiddish language is as much a part of my youth, as is, the shmuts that always landed on my school uniform, the sound of the washer and dryer constantly running in the house, or the smell of fresh mandel bread baking in the oven.

I always wondered the origin of these words that enriched my life and made my own family unique. I asked my mother who had introduced her to the language and she told me that her own mother and father had taught her them while growing up in Dayton, Ohio. Her own mother had even called her bubeleh, and now she was able to call me the same name of love. I never had the chance to meet this wonderful woman, she passed before my birth, but realize that this passing of tradition gave me a part of her, and thus, when I have my own little ones I look forward to referring to them with the same name.

The language began as the primary language of the Ashkenazic Jews, which referred to the Jews residing along the Rhine River in northern France and western Germany. It started as a Germanic dialect, but transformed to one that included elements of Hebrew, Arabic, Slavic, and Romance languages. The persecution of Jews in this region during the Crusades led to its spread to Lithuania and Poland. At this time, Jews used the language to their benefit. They began to isolate themselves from Non-Jews and formed their own culture and economy in which this language was spoken. It defined them and aided in the promise of their future in a society that did not want them.

This thought changed in the late 18th and 19th century, when Jews began to encourage an immersion of themselves into the Western European culture. During the Haskalah, a period of Jewish enlightenment based on the European enlightenment, the use of Yiddish declined and was looked down upon. It became a symbol of the old and unworldly. Suddenly, Jews no longer wanted to separate themselves; but instead wanted to once again be a part of the crowd.

The decline of this language coincided with the death of the six million Jews who lost their lives in the Holocaust. Those who survived the holocaust and remained in the Soviet Union found that it had been outlawed by Stalin. Without Jews to carry on and transmit the traditions and language, it withered and almost died, but my own family, exists as a symbol of the strength in which Jews possess.

Today, a small resurgence of the language can be heard in among the ultra-orthodox population of New York,
who consider it to be their primary means of communication. In 2004 it was estimated that less than a quarter of a million people in the United States fluently spoke the language. Interestingly, although it is a somewhat dead language, many universities have begun teaching it and there are even Yiddish studies departments at Harvard, Columbia and Oxford.
Although spoken by few, a complete demise of the language appears impossible, as is proven by my own parents, who can still be heard ‘hushing around the kinder,’ or myself who still believes that although men consistently reassert themselves as pricks, one day, (oh, I pray) I’ll meet a nice jewish bocher, who loves my shana ponem.

'Who's the sucka now?'

After I agree to meet him the texts end for the evening and I cozy up under my heated blanket, comforter, and pink sheets… sounds like a lot of covers for a little lady, but I’m cold even when its 98 degrees outside. I’m like a chameleon. My shade changes with the seasons and I can often be seen outdoors sunning myself in order to gain warmth. But, enough about my chameleon qualities, back to the Bocher:

Monday morning arrives and as I help my manager set-up the equipment at Gymboree Play and Learn, I receive a text from Bocher # 1. He waited an entire 12 hours to have contact, wow, he deserves a cookie. The text reads:

‘I have a present for you.’

After reading this, I laugh and question what kind of present he could have waiting. Later, I mention the text to my sister and brother in law, both of whom have been updated on Mr. Crazy and I’s strange status. In response, my brother in law says, ‘I know what kind of package he has.’ He then makes a crude motion to his penis and my sister and I both roll our eyes and say, ‘Eww.’

My day continues without any further texts from Bocher. He waits until the evening to make his next move, and it’s a big one.

After getting out of the shower I look to my cell and behold one new text from him. It reads: (I hope you are sitting down reader, or are close to the nearest restroom, because you might pee in your pants after this one)

‘Would you like to move in together?’

Even now, I cannot help but laugh from shock,because truthfully who asks that after four dates, or better yet, who the hell texts that? Who? Ahh yes, Bocher #1 does! Oy vay!
I’m pretty astounded and confused. I’ll recap the last blog of texts: ‘you are a narcissist, you hurt my feelings, you are replaceable, ta-ta… but wait, let’s move in together,’ yep that’s normal.

Honestly, what I’d like to write back is, ‘Bist meshugeh?’ (Are you crazy?)
But instead I text:
‘What?’

His: (even better than the first)
‘Please bring your stuff. I’d also like to discuss the possibility of us getting pregnant sooner rather than later.’

My mouth is agape. I mean come on; he has to know I’m writing a blog, what other reason would there be for his ridiculousness. The texts are a pot of gold. Finding him has been like having the matching $ signs on the dollar scratch off, and winning not just my dollar back, but instead, 2!

I tell him we can discuss that later, and suggest we just meet for dinner this Friday evening.

He texts:
‘Talk is cheap. I’m talking about doubling down and diving in head first.’

He then goes on to tell me about the many girls he’s been boning over the past few weeks, and I wonder, who’s the shlooche (slut) now? I haven’t been boning dozens of Bochers. Mr. Booty call and I have ended our fun, because he’s a putz (dick/ penis), and I realize that he will never koved (respect) a Ms. Booty call, and koved (respect) is truly what I deserve.

I try to steer the texts in a direction that does not involve babies or the making of a home…but he’s very persistent in his wants, until I tell him that I’d ‘simply like to get to know him.’

Suddenly, he doesn’t want me so much. He goes from wanting us to cohabitate and have little kinder (kids) to now being indifferent about us meeting for dinner.

He writes, ‘I thought we had potential but I wasn’t really enjoying myself (hence I want you to move in). I’m seeing some other ladies but they aren’t artsy like you. I’d be happy being friends. Take it easy. I’m indifferent either way.’

He then goes on to tell me that (got tsu danken-thank god) he’s free Friday and is having a hard time ‘getting a sense of who you are,’ considering I ‘play games and rely on the imposition of others.’

I see no point in arguing with him and simply say I’ll see him Friday. If I argue the texts will continue and I’m exhausted from Monday and him.

The week continues without a single text from Bocher #1, and I am extremely grateful. I use the week to relay the texts and conversation to a number of people; my sister, brother –in-law, co-workers, and mother, all of whom have similar responses of he's 'meshugeh ahf toit (really crazy).’ My sister says I should definitely not go out with him again, he could be truly geferleh(dangerous).

I think about my need for a good blog post in conjunction with my need to live another day. Sorry, I choose another day and text him Friday to tell him I’m not feeling well, because I’m a pussy who simply can’t ‘just say no.’

He replies and tells me that he hopes I feel better. I breathe a sigh of deep, deep relief, and continue with my Friday.

That night, he texts me to see how I’ m feeling and I wonder if maybe he is a good guy, but soon receive an answer after I tell him ‘sleeping, but better.’

His response:

‘You are a complete joke! Keep sleeping suck.’

So, after yet again deleting his number from my phone, I do just that.

I roll over and keep sleeping. Who’s the sucka now?

'Be Miserable and Wither'

Bocher #1 might be Bi-polar, not like jokingly, ‘Ha, he’s just bi-polar,’ but clinically bi-polar, as in takes medication for a chemical imbalance in his noggin.

After telling me we were ‘fundamentally incompatible,’ I deleted his number from my cell phone and decided to take his ridicule with stride. It was fun to write about, but I was moving on. Unfortunately, although done with him, he was not finished with me.

The Saturday of Halloween I receive a text from an unknown number as I’m getting together my costume of cat ears and a tale.

It reads, ‘Happy Haloween, Dorie. Be safe and hope you are doing well, :), Eric’

I laugh at the fact that he’s texted me and then at the fact that he has misspelled Halloween. For someone who claims to be a bal toyreh (scholar), he is a dumkop (dunce).

I forget about it, make my way to a house party in Dupont, and freeze my tiny tail off on the rooftop of a friend’s condo. My phone buzzes, I glance to it, another text from him:

‘Can you please help me?’

Being the nice young lady, and gitte neshomah (good soul) that I am, I text him back.
‘Are you okay?’

No, he’s not ill, well, physically…mentally, yes, as his ongoing responses imply. The man is wordy, like someone who wasn’t able to talk his whole life, and then suddenly, was given the go ahead. So, like the previous posts, I’m going to abbreviate the abundance of texts that he inundated my innocent phone with.

‘I don’t know what your deal is but I would like to talk face to face. I am baffuled (yes he spelled it this way) by your behavior. You’re stupud(yes that’s the spelling). I’m hot. You narcissist.'

My jaw does not close, even as I type a response. I’m a little ongetrunken (drunk), but enough to know when someone is being rude and offensive. I type back:

‘Huh? You berated me and told me you just wanted 2 be friends. Are you drunk?’

He types:

‘No dorie. I’m not. U suck u r so self involved. You are so disrespectful. You hurt my feelings. You are an idiot. I would have taken care of your tuition and whatever else stressed you out. You are a fucking idiot so be miserable and wither.’

Truthfully, I don’t know how to reply and what to say. A 30 yr old man has just told me that I hurt his feelings, that I was an idiot, and that without him I will be sure to lead a lonesome, horrible life.

I’m kaas (angry), and want him to quit texting me, but know that ignoring him is not the answer. He will simply continue with the texts until my inbox is full of bullshit.

So, I call him on my way home from the party.

He answers and in the background I hear the drunken muffles of others. It sounds like he’s at McDonalds ordering off their dollar menu. This negates his denial of drunkenness. No man who takes a date to The Ritz Carlton eats McDonalds just for the

‘Hi, Dorie. This is [he states his full name]. Where have you been?’

‘Hi, Bocher #1. What do you mean where have I been? You told me you just wanted to be friends. So, what do you want, Bocher # 1’

‘I don’t want to be just friends. I want to be your boyfriend.’

I sit in my car tsemisht (bewildred) and laughing, and then tell him that he’s drunk and we can talk about this at another time.

I hang up, change into my pajamas and fall fast asleep until 7 am, when my cell buzzes next to me.

I am an incredibly light sleeper. The sound of an orange tic tac hitting the floor could jar me awake, keep me awake, and greatly anger me.

I open the phone. It’s him, shocking! 2 texts read:

‘You suck.’

Followed by,

‘Doe is rude and extremely offensive.’

I do not respond until later that afternoon. I know you are thinking at the moment, why the fuck is she even responding? To which, I will reply with the answer, ‘I don’t fucking know.’

I text: ‘I think we need to talk about last night. Please call me when you get the chance.’

He responds: ‘Its fine we r cool now.’

I’m surprised by the normality of this text and type back:

‘Really, because last night, not so cool.’

Bocher #1 does not disappoint and responds with a usual fluster of insanity.

‘Really? Well your behavior since we first met, ‘not so cool.’ I have 2 gfs now one is 19 and the other is a hostess at the cheesecake factory and is interested in converting to Judaism. They are both much nicer than you.’

I laugh, and laugh, and then laugh some more while typing, ‘Congrats.’

His response: 'Ugh. I don’t know why I care so much but you are insulting and hurtful. You are replaceable. Ta-ta.’

Any man who types, texts, or says the words ‘ta-ta’ is questionable.

I remove myself from my phone and continue on with my day, thinking that Bocher # 1 is done with the texts, but no, he returns for more, and my poor phone becomes yet again a victim.

‘I am sorry for my last message. I would like to get together and talk sometime if you’d be willing.’

Honestly, I don’t know whether to blow it off and tell him to zolst es shtipin in toches (shove it up his rectum) or respond, because I really need another good blog. So, for the sake of the blog, I agree to meet up with him to discuss his intentions and remarks.

Happiness is only a Jew Away?

Everyone desires happiness, wholeness, completion. At 25, I’ve pretty much found none of the three, yet notice myself searching for each through different avenues; family, friends, work, school, men. I want to be ridiculously happy, you know the kind of happy where your cheeks hurt so much from smiling, or you feel as if you’ve just done a thousand crunches from laughing so much. Yes, it’s disgusting. Yes, it makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Yes, I want it.


Judaism considers, ‘marriage to be the ideal state of personal existence; a man without a wife or a woman without a husband, is considered incomplete.’ Does this mean that in order to reach that state of nirvana I must marry, because if so, I guess I should search harder, re-do my Jdate profile, up my ‘game.’

In Judaism, they call it basheret zein (to be destined) in my language; I call it Mom and Dad, Brooke and Gary. Truthfully, this statement appears accurate in respect to my life and those around me. These two marriages exist as the ideals set before me. My parents have been married for over 35 years and my sister and her husband are going on year four.

I’ve never had to deal with the D word, divorce; those around me have never become a part of that roughly 50% who can no longer work it out. Divorce is not a part of my language, my life, and I don’t ever want it to be. Well, of course you say, ‘no one wants this to be an aspect of their life,’ but I’d like to avoid this by any means, thus I rely on the facts to lead my life.

Statistics show that certain factors contribute to the likelihood of divorce. Many of them are logical, including age. Those who wed when fresh out of diapers, usually end up divorced, while those who wait till they’re in their boxers, briefs, panties or thongs have lower chances of signing on the dotted divorce line. My mother walked down the aisle at 24, while my father waited for her under the chuppah, wearing a polka-dotted blue bow-tie at 25. My sister signed the ketubah (Jewish marriage agreement) with her hubby when she was 26, he 25.



The odds are with them because, ‘only 24% of those who marry after 25 will divorce.’ I am 25. I’m already beating the odds, but could strengthen my chances if I wait till I’m old, grey and wrinkled, because ’60 year old men and women enjoy the lowest likelihood of divorce.’ It might greatly please my father if I waited that long, and truthfully after my current Jdate experiences, I question whether it might indeed take me 35 years to meet my match. I pray it doesn’t, and hope that God is listening.


Another factor that strengthens the likelihood of dissolution is geography. Where a couple resides apparently has a large influence over marital bliss. People in the south may be politer, making sure to say ‘Yes Ma’am, No Ma’am,’ ‘Yes sir,’ ‘No sir.’ Southern men may be gentlemen, their gals may even be southern belles, but this does not save them from divorce, because ‘the Bible Belt states [Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota] have some of the highest divorce rates of all.’ The divorce rate for Alabama is 5.4%, while the rate for Virginia is only 4.2%. Does this mean that if I move back South and meet a man my marriage might be doomed? My parents have never left their one story brick home on Pine Needle in Mobile, Alabama, and their marriage is still intact and thriving. Does this mean they are the exception? My sister and brother –in-law have yet to relocate from Northern Virginia. Does this mean their smiles are merely a result of their location? And finally, if I move to the North Pole, does this ensure that my husband and I will die hand in hand. These questions appear ridiculous, but when it comes to marriage, divorce, happiness or tears, they might be relevant.

Although these two factors and others (income, education, race) are important, at the moment one factor outnumbers them all; religion. I’ve never been an extremely religious Jew. Growing up, I attended the Jewish Community Center for pre-school, went to Sunday school on Sundays, wore a cute new dress on the High-Holidays of Rosh Hashanna (our Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (our day of Atonement), even sometimes went to Shabbat services on Friday nights and Saturday mornings. When it came time for my Bat-Mitzvah, I belted the Hebrew prayers loudly. But, as I grew out of those cute Ralph Lauren dresses, I grew out of my faith as well. I began to question my religion and my place within it. I dreaded Sunday school and saw it as a major hamper to my sleep. I didn’t have many Jewish friends. At my private school, I was only one of five who considered Christ to not be their savior. Instead of attending a Jewish summer camp, I attended a Christian one in which I learned how to sign ‘Jesus loves Me,’ and attended vespers each night. Not one of my boyfriends or crushes were Jews. I honestly believed that no cute Jewish men existed, and that the term ‘hot’ only applied to Christians. But, then I moved to Northern Virginia, met some ‘hot’ Jews, and began contemplating the role my faith played in my future, my marriage, my happiness. Emmanual Clapsis writes: "Controversy abounds on the topic of survival rates, but the best studies show a higher survival rate for single faith marriages than interfaith marriages" Some studies even imply that ‘3 out of 4’ interfaith marriages end in divorce, thus if I to continue to take every action possible to prevent spousal separation my decision regarding a yarmulke wearing mate over a gentile (non-Jew) should be simple, a Jewish man it is. But, there is a big, B-U-T, because I still don’t know. Yes, the ideals set before me are of happy Jewish marriages, but truthfully before I find my basheret, I need to simply find happiness, and until then, I’m not ready to know.