I'm Drowning and I Can't Get Out:)

 The older I get, the deeper the dating pool available to me. It's so immersive that one can drown in it, either by diving headfirst into a cesspool and attempting to swim or death by a thousand repeated conversations that go something like this.

"So, how do you know________?" (Insert the name of the now former friend that set you up)

"How long are you divorced/widowed/single?"

"Kids?"

(Excruciating tales of woe are exchanged over bites of overpriced appetizers. In some cases, alcohol doubles as both an anesthetic and a homicide deterrent.)

In the age of the Metaverse, you may be lucky to even go out on an actual date. Usually, it's frenzied text messages that are a virtual Spanish inquisition where conversations, inadvertently, get lost in "textation," and you're ready to retain an attorney or at least block the number. Another option is an awkward facetime with someone behind the wheel of their car at an unflattering angle that can often be harsh…on me.  

Over the many years that I've been unattached from anyone that didn't call me "Mom," I have met a slew of men, some just coming out of diapers and others going into them. The landscape has devolved from a magnificent Monet to a fifth grader's etching on his grandmother's refrigerator. Though the kid's parents and grandparents think he's Jackson Pollack, we all know he's just an average 10-year-old with a few Sharpies. Whether the rampant narcissism permeating our culture or the result of a Jewish Mother, everyone thinks they are a ten and deserve a size 2, youthful arm candy. It doesn't matter if the guy is a balding schlub whose kids don't talk to him anymore or a presentable, well-preserved middle-aged guy who tells you he only dates women twenty years younger than you; the options are "Meh" or "_____" (insert expletive). This torturous tango has made me swear off dating for years, apart from some well-intentioned individuals setting me up. Other scenarios include the random hot guy in the lane next to me who lowers his sunglasses at the red light and asks me to pull over, only to discover that he's 5 foot 5 and has three baby mamas. (Not that I have anything against petite men who procreate). After experiencing dating PTSD, I decided to be open to the universe sending this old Chiquita, my handsome prince, with a torn meniscus and a prostate issue. With the drought of potential candidates appearing in my "DMS," I leaped (ok, maybe walked) at the chance of a pleasant date with a respectable, age-appropriate man that a close friend suggested I meet. Having just lost my father, I took it as a sign from the heavens; maybe my father was finally sending me the love of my life or at least someone to pick me up when I fall in the future.

I am sure you can anticipate the disaster that ensued. I did, but at this age, you give anyone single with a pulse an opportunity. Here's how it went down.

"Chanie" (I'm not changing her name because she ain't innocent) is a blonde, preppy ex-principal on her second marriage to a retired attorney  I once dated for five minutes. Since then, he has been married and divorced to another woman, met THIS sweet-natured beauty, and sealed the deal eight years ago. They have an apartment in the building I live in, are based in New York, and travel most of the year. Chanie and I have the same birthday and hit it off over the past four years. She had been a matchmaker on the dating site "Saw you at Sinai" but had experienced too much drama to continue volunteering. In June, she approached me at the pool during a vulnerable moment.

"Henshi, I have someone I'd like you to meet.. You know that I have never set you up before, and I wouldn't just match you with some random dude. He's a great guy, and he's even willing to fly you to NY to see him.

(How exotic)

"I don't need him to fly me to New York; My kids are there, and I go all the time. I will be there next month. I'm babysitting five adorable yet exhausting girls under 8 while their parents go on a well-deserved vacation. When I'm there, I have no time and go to sleep after I put the kids to bed because I'm up early making pancakes. I enjoy it, but it's like going out on a date during Bootcamp. It would be better if he could fly down to Miami when I'm in my environment without munchkins," I replied

(Apparently, he has grown kids, no grandkids, and is semi-retired)

"Ok, I will give him your number and you guys can talk. His name is "Eli Schwartz," not THAT "Eli Schwartz," another one."

(The "Eli Schwartz" we were referring to is a complicated guy who served some time at a well-known Federal "camp")

"Oh," she appended, "Just a heads up; he's a little depressed.

"Well, at least he's not a criminal…right?"

I know this sounds extraordinarily appealing, but I'm always up to one date or conversation, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, even if my gut is yelling "Mayday," and it was.

The next day Eli called me. His voice was laced with bitterness and loneliness, precisely what I was missing. After a decent conversation, I realized that I didn't want this guy to make a trip to see me, so I agreed to meet him when I was in NY. I told him that he would have to drive to where my kids live and meet me for lunch while the kids were in camp, and I had a babysitter for the baby. He agreed or seemed to because when I got to NY and wanted to arrange a lunch date, he told me I would have to wait a week to see him because he cut his hair too short and needed it to grow in. I kid you not.

Though I didn't meet him, this didn't prevent him from calling me daily. When I finally phoned Chanie, she told me to cut him off and infer that I was seeing someone. When I asked her why the heck would she suggest this, she explained that it was her husband that compelled her to do it.

If only she were honest.

Maybe I need a sugar daddy or, at my age, a sugar "deady?"

Circle of Life

There are a few elderly Hungarian women in my building. A few of them still wear the fatalistic numbers seared into their flesh by insatiable cannibals before they finally found refuge in the US and Canada. Though they lost many of their loved ones, they exacted their revenge by creating strong, Jewish families and an unbroken legacy of love, faith, and wisdom. Their capped teeth and perfectly coiffed wigs belie their past. They have seen the true resurrection of life from the abyss of death, but you would never know it from their twinkling smiles and jewelry that weigh more than their frail, stubborn bodies. I revere them. I am humbled by them. They also, at times, get on my nerves.

Before you throw virtual tomatoes at me, please let me explain.

For these “mega seniors” who are stuck here in an endless loop, due to Corona, every day is Shabbos. They, along with their aides, wait until the heat subsides and the sun wanes to form their circle of socially distanced chairs under the shade of the voluminous palm trees in between the stretch of greenery between the pool and the beach. Like a panel of judges at a reality show contest, their sharp critique leaves no one unscathed. They’ve earned the right to scorch all passersby, but they still sting like the busy bees that they are. These bees are dripping with honey; as they say in the south, “Bless their hearts.”

Though they are adorable, there is no avoiding them or their brutally honest opinions. Every time I walk by them to go to the beach or for a walk, there they sit, “The Senior Supreme Court”. (I’m convinced that a few might be the “hanging” sort, especially if you’re wearing the wrong outfit.) Additionally, there are no charges, no trial, and no jury. You’re at the mercy of this court of widows; the physical manifestation of why women outlive men.

“Lilly” is a spry, octogenarian who calls me “Mees Ahhmereeca” each time I walk by. She is the only person I know who can outtalk me. She has an extremely thick Hungarian accent which is difficult to decode, so I, mostly, nod my head and pretend I know what she’s saying. After two years of nodding my head, today, she called me over to come closer to her. Apparently, she didn’t want the whole “circle” to hear what she had to say. I went as close as “covidly” possible with great trepidation, since the last time we attempted a semi-intimate conversation, she wanted to set me up with my ex-brother-in-law.

“I don’t know VY you ahrent merried”, she exclaimed in her singsong Hungarian cadence. “Me and my Fhrends tink youahre so pritty”. (I was having wicked witch flashbacks)

With that two of her “friends” stared at me. One said,

“I think yuhre too much”. You’re dangeress.”

(Did anyone ask her?:)

I, respectfully, responded

“I’m at an age where I don’t care about other people’s opinion of me. I’ve been through too much in life. I am who I am.”

This post is officially over since I need my hands to extract my foot from my mouth.😜😁

Don't Ride with Me

 Once upon a time in a world before Instagram, there lived a melancholy girl in pre-gentrified Brooklyn; a halcyon place where chains were snatched off delicate necks while descending into the inferno of the IRT (which didn’t mean “In real-time.”). Graffiti was permanently tattooed on the walls and wrapped around each limb of the underground prisoner called “The Subway.” Whatever religion you practiced or didn’t, you prayed that you would not emerge from your screeching sardine can as a fatalistic statistic on the front page of the NY Post. In a cell-phone free era, when that creepy guy would lean against you while you were gripping the messianic pole that was the lesser of the evils of falling into some zombie’s vacant-eyed visage, you were unable to document your molestation or even monetize the incident by calling a personal injury lawyer. Viral wasn’t a positive adjective. Riding the train was like playing “The Squid Game:” Every single day.

By now you’ve assumed (correctly) that I was that kid. When my mom would don her trench coat over her sleepwear, along with her dark sunglasses; (lest she committed the felonious fashion crime of leaving the house without her perfectly made-up face) to drive me to the train station, I would remove any jewelry, put on my game face (think Jen Psaki at the podium) and avoid eye-contact as I held my breath through the turnstile of the suffocating underground tomb. I know that it is difficult to conjure up an image of life before earbuds, but unless you were vigilant in guarding yourself like the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, you could die. Your death could be fast, i.e., being shoved onto the train tracks, or a slow and painful demise by a thousand cuts. (Hopefully not with a dull knife). If there had been a thing called the “internet,” I would’ve googled “bulletproof vest” before you could announce “Stand clear of the closing doors.”

One sweltering day, as I escaped to my personal haven of riding between the train cars and singing Barbara Streisand songs at the top of my lungs (kids, do NOT make this the next “tik tok challenge”) the train stopped abruptly. The fact that there was no air conditioning nor air exacerbated the urban irritation and downright disgust of the exhausted passengers. I always thought that breathing was a fundamental right, but I guess I was wrong. You were better off NOT breathing the putrid combination of sweat, fear, and the homeless panhandlers who were understandably aggressive. They never frightened me. It was the strong untamed kids whose eyes reflected the hostile urban jungle they were raised in that terrorized many of my daily trips. It wasn’t unusual for my purse to be grabbed or to be pushed down and ogled by a herd of teens. It got so bad that I was chased down by a gang with no cop in sight. I was lucky that I bumped into an angel; a guardian one. Though it wasn’t Curtis Sliwa, it was an angel wearing a red beret and jacket. That guy saved my life. Cue the harps.

Well, on the day the train stopped... for 30 minutes, I realized what purgatory must be like; total darkness, stationary air, and literally no light at the end of the tunnel. After that near-death experience, I took my meager savings and decided to take taxis home from Manhattan, but in those days, the yellow cabs refused to go to Brooklyn; it was too dangerous.

The good ol’ days were NOT good. NYC was ecstatic when Giuliani cleaned up the city. Say what you will; he single-handedly reduced crime and made it safe to ride the subways and walk the streets. Sadly, those days have come around again.

I think New York could use someone like Guiliani. #fullcircle #Brooklynmassacre

Pass Over

     As everyone knows by now, my descent to the promised land of Miami is never uneventful. I'm still the middle seat buffer between my parents. I, also, double as a translator because my father can't hear clearly, therefore, I have to repeat what my mother says, just louder. ( I asked my mother if she would like to switch seats so she could sit near her husband, but she declined.

We had been waiting for over three hours to board the plane because Delta had bad weather at their hub for two days and all flights were affected. Most were delayed and many more were canceled, leaving a lot of neurotic Jews worrying about the quadrillion tons of food they had shipped two days before. The airlines offered 1200 dollars and a travel voucher to go the next day and we had to wait for enough people to take this offer because the flight was overbooked. (My father casually mumbled in an undertone, "anti-semites", like there's an explicit conspiracy, perfectly executed during the countdown to Passover. I said, "Yeh Ta ( my father), Delta airlines hates Jews because I'm sure the CEO collects nazi paraphernalia and has David Dukes on speed dial with a Deutschland Uber Alles ringtone."

Finally, we were ready to board. The anxious mob spewed forth from all corners of the waiting area to board the luxury liner, I mean airbus. I was smashed between two people in the throng and was so close to them that I may have, inadvertently, conceived a child.

My father pushed himself through the crowd to make sure he got on the plane and had room to store his carry-on and arrange easy access for his "sponge cake contraband". I told my father not to worry, as I didn't want to go ahead of people, but because of my dad's "subtle orders", I parted the crowd like the Red Sea and no one came at me to fight about it. Thank G-d it wasn't Jet Blue.

On the plane, chaos ensued. People were irate, cranky, and tired(and those were just the flight attendants) There were still not enough seats and it was musical chairs for another twenty minutes. A young 20-year-old guy with a backpack was causing a bit of a ruckus because he had a boarding pass to sit next to his mother and was visibly upset to see that having a boarding pass with a seat number was not a sure thing. The entertainment continued,

Young man: "This is MY seat, next to MY mother"!

Flight attendant: "Sir, we do not allow people with "anger management issues" on this flight. We will remove you if you can't control yourself"

I tried to diffuse the situation through brilliant interjection and piped in,

"I guess the flight attendant couldn't believe that woman is your mom. She looks way too young!"

Maybe the President can send me with Brad Pitt to negotiate peace in the Middle East, or maybe I should've just taken out my phone and let the blue chips (sorry, Jet blue) fall and get dragged where they may, so I could have submitted my video to CNN and acquire my fifteen minutes.

Remember when the flight attendants were sweet, non-combative, and served the passengers..now they're like authoritative babysitters.

When did flying become a combat zone?

Rich Man, Poor Mom

 

I’ve always hated rich people. Yeh, “Hate” is a strong word, but what I felt was more than envy or jealousy. I never possessed green eyes (well, sorta light brownish) nor resented those that seemed to glide through life without a hair out of place, but I was deeply offended by the entitlement of those who had more zeros after any number.  It was as if whatever they did was somehow worthy of perpetual applause. If they were nice to you, you were supposed to be “honored” by their attention to your insignificance.  I know this, since I got married for money and ended up poor.

 

Since I was a kid, my mom would always share that infamous quote…you know THAT one, 

“It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one”.  She would tell me to find a wealthy beau since life would be effortless and exciting if I could travel, shop, and not worry about the “b” word, BILLS. I had been working since I was a teenager, schlepping on the subways and toiling as if I had nine kids at home who needed to be fed, when in fact, the money was to support myself and indulge in my passion for fashion, which I inherited from all the women before me. I was always a hard worker and still am. The only thing that angered me were those who said “Well, if you work hard, you’ll be successful.”  I learned that you need to work smart, with a lot of luck, while jumping over hurdles and scratching your knees or even breaking a leg if you want to leap ahead of the pack of wolves that will devour you if you dare take a “breather”.  I’ve met too many of those and it wasn’t even on the way to my grandma’s house.

So, I took the easy way out.  I married a successful guy from a well-to-do family with all the right letters before and after his name.  PhD, MBA, BA and most importantly, BS.  The latter summed up the situation more succinctly than the others. I thought I would live a stereotypical Upper West Side existence, followed by a ritzy suburb where all the people were homogenous and predictable.  Life would be beautifully boring.  My problems would consist of the dilemma of whether to go skiing during Winter break or to the Caribbean.  My days would be spent shuffling the kids from one activity to the next in whatever SUV was popular and I’d bake for the PTA, the shul and have guests over each Shabbos for a ten-course meal that I perfected.  But, it was not meant to be. I became a divorced, single mother without any support.  I embodied the “P” word and like the great Oprah says there is “poor” and there is “Po”. I was really, really “Po."

I guess I was lucky that I knew what it was like to stay in the Presidential Suite at the King David every year for a month.  I never had the access to money when I was married, but I had lots of trips.  I experienced the reality of the rich being different because they are.  Sure, they could be friendly, sweet, warm, and even kind, but try talking to them about anyone’s personal problems pertaining to money and their expressions would freeze.  It was as if they didn’t want to soil themselves with what the 99% were going through.  Even the nicest women I met were completely clueless.  The rich are always worried that people only pursue them for their wealth. They are suspicious and will cut you off quicker than an aggressive driver on the BQE.  I didn’t find a lot of empathy.  I almost understood it, because they were probably hounded by those who were hustling, trying to extract some of their hard-earned wealth.  Like a beautiful woman, who is always being pursued, wealthy people are pursued by everyone and everything.

When I finally began to date, my son would ask me why I hated rich men.  I was taken aback since I never articulated it in that way, but my children knew me with a deep understanding like the survivors of the Titanic clinging to their dinghy, knew each other.

 

“I don’t hate them!”, I would retort

 

“Sure you do, Ma”.

 

He was right.  I found that when a rich man would ask me out, he wouldn’t pick me up, but rather, he’d “summon” me.  For example,

 

“I’m staying at the Four Seasons/Peninsula/Ritz Carlton.  Would you like to meet me in the lobby and we can go to dinner?”

 

Me, being over accommodating would say,

 

“Sure!” 

 

Then I’d sit for two hours in traffic, circle for another hour for parking (since I didn’t dare ask for anything) and by the time I’d get there I felt like I just crossed the finish line at the NYC marathon.  

 

Usually, the guy would be sweet enough, but everything was about him; His trips, his family, his possessions, his accomplishments which all added up to dollars and nonsense. One guy boasted about purchasing the yellow diamond that Michael Jackson gave to Elizabeth Taylor.  When you’re struggling to support your family, it’s the last thing you want to hear.  Oh, and this guy did NOT want to hear your “peon problems.”

 

For the last few years, my son has worked in the financial industry for two different hedge funds. I often hear him say “Now, I understand why you hate rich people”.

 

I can only hope that he becomes one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Convenient Encounter

Last night at around ten pm, I was driving home from my life-altering, weekly, Wednesday Torah Class and noticed something very unusual.  Miami Beach was crowded! As a newly-minted Floridian resident, I have looked forward to this time of year, when the snowbirds, the rappers and the peacocks have flown back to their indigenous areas and disappeared. You can easily maneuver through the traffic on the streets and in Publix, and the beach is not saturated with selfie-addicts with an uncontrollable compulsion to pose with every life-guard station and palm tree.  It’s searingly hot, but worth it. It was too far away from July 4th madness, to be this busy, and as I attempted to run into Walgreens to grab some water, I noticed that there was not ONE parking space in the entire lot.

Then I got it.  The debates.

I was shocked that I hadn’t thought of the Democratic Debates here, in Miami.  Usually, I enjoy watching the political theatre and the lyi-umm, I mean “acting” of the different candidates.  This election is different for me.  The polarization of this country seems to be continuing to a level, I could never have dreamed of.  Because of our great divide, I have been called every expletive known to man, in MANY languages on Social Media.  Guess I’m an “international’ sensation! I, also, hear that I’m quite popular with some prison inmates, too.

("Yeah, take THAT, Kim K.!”  You’re not the only one working on “prison reform” and rehabilitation!”)

Since, I could barely squeeze into the huge parking lot of Walgreens, I decided to try the next best thing, lucky number, 7 ELEVEN.  It too, was jammed pack with a medley of characters, mostly reserved for any of the “premium” or “not so premium” cable channels.  (Think, “Westworld”, “The Deuce”, “Cops” and “One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest”- The prequel AND the sequel.)  As I was gridlocked in that parking lot, I heard a voice shouting,

“Youwhaar so byootiful!”

I turned to my left and saw it was a worn out, Russian bear of a man with bloodshot eyes and a car that was almost as old as he was.  That or either it was a very expensive “antique” car.  I wouldn’t know the difference.  I thanked him and proceeded to steal his parking spot. I was so proud of this accomplishment, that I may just be the next feature on “American Greed’ and called the “B” word. (Who says dreams can’t come true?”)

As I sauntered into the convenience store, I noticed a bevy of cops blocking the aisle between the coffee selection and the snacks.  I saw this as a sign from the universe.  It was too late for coffee and I was better off not indulging in my personal contraband, one of the greatest “Loves of my life”- “Pringles”.  The officers just stood there, so I just picked up my water and went to the counter to pay for it. (If you want to know, it was 2 Fiji Waters for $25.00.  Just kidding, $3.50.)  As I was leaving, I congratulated the cops on their new Chief of Police and they said they were cautiously optimistic about him.  I thanked them for their service and walked out of the busy hub.  I gulped down the water and was on my way to my car, when another guy stopped me. (I must have been having a “good” day or there was a lot of drinking involved on the part of the others.)

This one was a “doozy”. I don’t know if there are enough words or metaphors to describe this individual.  I will try, my utmost, to create a clear and concise image for you.  Here goes.

The gentleman was of average height, with a pompadour that would make Elvis and “the Fonz” jealous. He was about 40, with jet black hair, eyes like a hound dog and a huge, shiny gold cross necklace that looked like he had spent hours polishing. He WAS Andrew Dice Clay, minus the Jewish.  As he began to speak, I realized that he was more of a cross between Dustin Hoffman in “The Rainman” and any “Joe Pesci” character.  I was officially in the “twilight zone”, when he looked at me and said in very thick Brooklynese”,

“You live heeah?”.

“Yes”, I politely responded

“Yaw Gawjis! Yoomusbee a model.”

“Yes, I am.  For “Animal crackers’. (I couldn’t help myself)

“Yoo from Brooklyn?  He asked

“Originally”, I replied

He grinned at me like the cat that ate the canary (or in this case, the cat that ate the “Granny”)

“Ahm frum the Bay Ridge area, ya familya?”

(I started humming the theme to “The Godfather”.)

“Yes I am.  Very”.

“Ya know I moved heeah 15 years ago.  I needed to get away from that “Life”.  It sorta pulls yoo in”.  He was “tawking” to me like I was married to the mob.

“That’s understandable”, I, sympathetically, replied.

Then he repeated to me how beautiful he thought I was and asked me out for a drink.  I wanted to be snarky and tell him, that I first had to go and change into my poodle skirt and bobby socks, circa 1952, to join him.  Instead I said,

“I’m not available, but thank you!” and left him before you could say “GoodFella.”

Who says 7eleven is boring?

Crushed

His name was Chaim Dov Finkelstein.  We went to the same bungalow colony, when I was five and a half and he was five and I was madly and deeply in love.

He never noticed me.  Even when I flew by on my bicycle with my long, thick brown hair, floating behind me, like an exotic magic carpet to play with his neighbor, “Chaya Sora B, whose claim to fame was quite literal.  Her Uncle was a world- renowned singer, who had drifted off the path of Orthodox Judaism and I was fascinated. We would make prank calls from the rotary phone perched on the bleached wood of the walls in her “summer residence” (think the poorer man’s version of a trailer park).  The walls were so thin, that I just knew Chaim heard us composing our love songs.  Well, his mom did, because she would yell at us to “keep it down”.  Being ever so sensitive, I took It all to heart and I haven’t changed since then, thus my dating issues.

Every night, while my younger brother drove me insane, I would retreat inside my head (again, nothing’s changed), I would fantasize about lying next to the object of my desire in bed.  He would be wearing his Yellow Mickey Mouse Pajamas with feet; his lustrous blonde hair, parted to the side and slicked back with his blue eyes and dimples sharing a special “knowing” between us. When you’re five years old and puppy love hits, life is simple, pure and some might say “delusional”, but I call it “immaculate perception”.

As the summer progressed, so did my unrequited love.  I would daydream for hours, while on the swings.  He was my first and last thought of the day. The more he ignored me, the more enamored I became.  When I got the lead in “Shainarella”, I thought, that this would be my time to finally shine.  Chaim Dov wouldn’t be able to ignore me any longer.  Maybe he would even ask for my autograph?  My mother even gave me a horrible perm right before my performance, but I still looked like the princess I was playing, albeit, one who recently put her finger in an electrical outlet, The boy who played “Prince Charming” was half my height. (another thing that has seemed to plague my dating career). My stint on stage didn’t win me an Oscar.  It didn’t even get me a “Chaim” and when I saw the love of my life with his arms wrapped around an even older woman (she was 6), at the “after party”. I was crushed. I don’t want to sound like a witch with a “B”, but she wasn’t even pretty! Her name was “Leiba” and I hated her.

Decades letter, I was going through a very bad divorce and was living on top of a Shul in Woodmere.  There was a lovely blonde fellow who would help me, whenever there was an issue with the apartment.  He was a special soul who empathized with me as a single mom with sons who weren’t close with their dad.  He would tell me how his father died when he was a kid and how that loss had defined his life. I didn’t know his last name.   One day, he invited me and my kids to the “shul” downstairs on Shabbos. He was celebrating the birth of a daughter.  As he pressed a piece of paper with his name and phone number into my hands, I saw that his last name was “Finkelstein”.  I couldn’t resist,

“Wait, do you have a brother named “Chaim Dov”?”

“Yeh!”. He responded.

“I had the biggest crush on him, when I was a kid!  He’s probably Chasidic, married with ten kids in Lakewood!” 

(I, also, read tarot cards)

“How did you know”?.

“Oh, I just do”.

That weekend I saw my first love with his mom for the first time in a million years.  He was so shy, that he never even looked me in the eye.  

Sometimes, I wonder….”What if…?”:)

How Old Am I? NOT

I recently celebrated a birthday.  Yes, I say “celebrated” because previously it was more like lamented, ignored, cried, went postal or just lied.  Sometimes ALL of them simultaneously.  Whatever it was, I  didn’t  want anyone reminding me that the last time someone referred to me as a “girl” was sometime during the Clinton administration or the fact that whatever year I had reached was better than the alternative. Something I never thought of as a comfort, but more of a further reminder that I was one birthday closer to that “alternative”.  I don’t understand why this expression is only used for birthdays.   Why can’t we use it for everything?   i.e. Your friend complains, “ My kid’s a real pain!”- You respond, “Better than the alternative! “  (This doesn’t work when referring to spouses, because generally whatever the alternative is, it’s usually an improvement)

This year, my special day coincided with President’s day and I, therefore, found this rather symbolically poignant.  I was as ageless and evergreen as Abraham and George.  From here on, I would focus on the occasion and not the amount of years I was past my expiration date.  Honestly, does anyone actually ask how OLD our presidents are? No, we just regale in our furniture sales pitched by bad actors in horrendous wigs who are either chopping down cherry trees for mahogany dressers or freeing the slaves of retail from undiscounted merchandise. I was intent on freeing myself from self-hating ageism, the AARP mailing list and my obsession over my age-appropriate proximity to “Cemetery (umm) CENTURY Village” retirement communities.  I would no longer be “Old at heart”, but neither would I cement my cougar reputation by dating men who never owned a landline nor remember when the “New Kids on the Block” were actual children.  

Although I tried to avoid the “age” issue it continued to stalk me like a telemarketer at six pm.  In my arthritic opinion,  “OLD” should have definitely remained a four letter word-( It WAS “Olde”, but shortened by lazy middle aged people (20-year olds)  in the late nineteenth century who were trying to de-stigmatize it)  If someone smelled it was my birthday, they immediately asked “How Old ARE you?” to which I replied the following:

1.        “WHO raised you?! Didn’t your mom teach you to never ask a woman her age”? (useful for both Sexes.

2.        “How much money do you make”? (Perfect for males who have the chutzpah to ask you such a personal question.)

3.       “Guess”!-(Because they usually embarrass themselves by pausing and trying to subtract a couple of years from what they really think)

And when I tell them my “real” age (I have a few of those) and they respond “Oh my G-d, you look great FOR YOUR AGE, I wonder what you looked like at 18!”  I, then, retort.

1.       “You remind me of my grandmother who would remark “I love the dress you’re wearing.  It’s MUCH nicer than the one you wore yesterday”.

2.       “I actually look much better NOW”. And then proceed to take out a young, dorky picture of me with short hair and glasses

3.       “Average Parents, Great Genetics.”  So good, in fact, that my parents are now younger than I am.

Recently people who I had not seen for a while commented on my youthful appearance.  They asked me what my “secret” was. (that’s how you know you are REALLY OLD). I told them I was a vegan, became a blonde and most of all don’t hold grudges.  The reason is pure vanity, because before age 35, you have the face you were born with, but after 35, you have the face you deserve.  It's the unfiltered, unbotoxed truth.

AND I’m still not telling you how old I am.

Full Mooning (#7,777 of why I don't date anymore:)

Yesterday was “Tu B’av”. In ancient Jewish Times, this was the night that women, wearing white, danced under the full moon (since there was no electricity and everyone looked great under the moonlight, especially, women of a “certain age”, which was probably 18, in those days) while the men picked out future mates amongst them. (To my knowledge there was no DJ Booth, but alcohol may have been involved.)

To celebrate this auspicious occasion, Jewish Singles, preferably in white, attend various parties, hoping to meet their “bashert” (intended soul mate).  Most of these parties are geared towards the young, but there was a small get together for charity at a local Chinese restaurant for the older crowd. (I believe that the Jewish Tradition of eating Chinese food goes back to ancient times.  When Abraham was recovering from his “Bris” and the angels came to visit him, he gave them Sesame Chicken and egg rolls.  I saw it on intsta with the hashtag #abesanangel #sarahstent)

But, as usual, I digress.

After a meeting with this amazing woman that I’ve become friends with here, we decided to throw caution to the wind and risk our respective “dignity” and attend. 

We went to “Dollar Tree”, brought some cleaning products (for the charity) and headed towards the restaurant. We figured we’d at least eat dinner.  It was a happy hour event, which was 6-8, the last stages before the dreaded “early bird special”. We entered the dark eating establishment which smelled like bleach, but the food was, surprisingly, fantastic, even with my vegan limitations. We met some very nice people and had an assorted crew of them join us at our table.   We had already finished our meal, while the others ordered.  Everyone’s got a story and it was interesting to meet the different storytellers.  A gentleman that I’ve met previously who wouldn’t reveal his age and even worse, never laughed at any of my jokes sat next to me and didn’t even glance my way. (I was NOT insulted.  You hear me?:)

Someone introduced me to a Rabbi there (I’m not naming him, because I want to protect his position)

Me: “Nice to meet you, I’m Henshi.”

Rabbi:  “You’re the famous Henshi from Facebook”!

Somber guy not paying me attention nor laughing at my jokes:  “You’re famous?  I didn’t know that?”

Me: “Oh, so now you’re perking up! “

I think the corners of his mouth may have turned up a bit or maybe he just had gas.)

As I was going to the “big girls’ room”, the owner stopped to ask me how the food was.  I told him that I’m a vegan and that whatever I had was superb.  He, then, introduced me to the chef who asked,

“We want to start offering more vegan options.  Do you have any good recipes”?

I gave him my card and said “Actually, I do!” 

You can’t make this stuff up.

The waitress, a young Israeli girl of 21, looked like she was in over her head.  I felt bad and gave her a huge tip.  When I came back to the table, my friend said.

“The waitress kept asking for the beautiful lady in white, so she could thank you!”

(Yes, I buy compliments. Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do!)

In the interim, the rest of the table got the check that was handed over to “somber single guy” who was studying it like it was a contract.  I told him, that I was sorry that I only paid for us and he looked at me the way you look at a meth head on the boardwalk.  It was time for me to take out the REAL ammunition, so I quipped.

“I’d pay for you too, but If I do, you have to “put out”!

He laughed!  

Mission accomplished. 

Maybe this is the reason my longest and most stable relationship with a man is with my gay shrink.

Never Say "Never Again" (until the next time:)

As many of you might glean from my multitude of posts regarding the dating dance and the many extracurricular games that ensue past the first “Hey”, I hate dating.  I find it awkward, inauthentic, useless and often boring.  Like an excruciating movie, I can’t get my precious time back. It may sound a bit harsh, but when you are no longer a wistful, naïve teenager (literally and metaphorically), dating is right up there with root canals, funerals, commuting to work and breathing in the Fulton Fish Market on a hot summer day in New York City.  Yes, it’s THAT much fun!

As the great Chris Rock says, “On a first date, you’re not meeting the person, you are meeting their “Representative”.  A more accurate analysis has never been presented regarding this most ancient of rituals.  Some may call me a tad bitter, I just call myself “pragmatic” or the “antida” (short for anti-date).  After a life-time of short guys, tall guys, rich guys, poor guys, fat guys, skinny guys, bald guys, hairy guys, professionals, artists, entrepreneurs, students, teachers and rocket scientists, I have concluded that all my dates have a common denominator which is that stimulating conversational foreplay is dead, along with chivalry and chastity.  I, personally, think that my point is proven with the proliferation of “hook up” sites like “Tinder” and others.  Instead of resurrecting the old-fashioned, civil way of dating, we’ve eliminated the whole courtship process.  There’s got to be something in between the two extremes, especially since “hooking up” with some stranger is not an option for me, except when installing a washer/dryer (usually the time when I most need a man)

Each dating scenario begins the same way.  Well-meaning friend/acquaintance/stranger or random dude reaches out to me and asks if I know a “Joe D.”  This is followed by “He’s an amazing guy, about 45 years old, has a great business. Really handsome”.  I ask a few questions like “Does he have all of his limbs”?, “Does he see his children”?, “Is there a pic I can see on Facebook or instagram”?, “Does he have a criminal record”?...you know, the typical questions one asks when being set up on a blind date.  Of course, it sounds perfect, but I still want to check him out, so I do what any girl does, I “google” him.  Since his name is, fairly, common, I check through the images to see if there’s a middle-aged handsome relationship material “punim” (face)in the crowd of results. After a few minutes, I have narrowed it down to two pictures.  One looks like Albert Einstein, but with better grooming habits and a great tan, while the other looks about 12.  I don’t need to be Einstein to figure out who my suitor might be.  I, then, deduce that I will either be on Chris Hansen (2.0, if they ever revive it) or be on trial for murdering whoever set me up. Either way, jail may be a possibility.

Einstein  (I mean “Joe) calls me before I have a chance to vet him further and suggests that he pick me up for dinner.  I thank the Lord, that he doesn’t have a German accent and he offers to pick me up, which I find refreshing and a strong “mensch” indicator. I, grudgingly, recite my address and pray that my kids don’t find me dead in a back alley somewhere and only discover I’m missing, during their desperate quest for my babysitting services. 

A few evenings later, there’s a guy at my door.  He looks NOTHING like “Einstein”.  My career as a private investigator is over before it begins.  It’s the “12 year old’ in the picture, all grown up. Unfortunately, his height remained the same, so I switch into flats, put on sunglasses (though it was evening) and direct him towards a remote place near Flushing Meadow Park in Queens. I wasn’t scared he was a serial killer. I was scared that I might become one, if anyone saw us together.  Dead men don’t talk, I’m told.  Guess there wasn’t going to be “stimulating conversation” after all.

I have another blind date this week in Miami Beach.  At least I won’t look strange wearing sunglasses at night here.

Dancing With The Slobs:)

I, recently, moved to the promised land where all old Jews go to marinate; Miami Beach.
Unfortunately, I am nowhere near retirement, nor early bird specials, but I am perpetually cold and feel like I need a “little sweater”, even when it’s 80 degrees.  When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my mother, but rather my “Bubbie” (grandmother), who took me here when I was 16 years old and argued with me when I told her to “chill out” and learn how to have “fun”.  The conversation went something like this,

“Bubbie, we are on vacation.  You should learn how to have fun!”

I was frustrated that my grandmother’s idea of “fun” was waking me up at seven am to make sure we went to the supermarket, lest we waste away from starvation.  I was too naïve to realize that this woman had gone through years of hunger, fear, death and escape from death during the Holocaust and the trauma was always there.

She yelled back at me,

“Fun?? Life is NOT fun.  It’s brutal and difficult!”

 I NEVER went on “vacation” with my grandmother again, but this conversation remained with me for the rest of my life and in the usual twist of Irony, my life pattern became very difficult for over twenty years.  She was not only wise, but she was prophetic, because I never knew how to experience pure fun.  It was always tinged with sadness and sorrow.  I had my moments, but the weight of the world was always on my shoulders, literally, which resulted in two torn rotator cuffs.  My life has always been intense and difficult, yet very meaningful and character building. (I, now, possess more characters than a Bravo Reality Series or a Disney Parade).
Thankfully, this is all behind me and I have the luxury of pursuing enjoyable activities and smelling the seaweed, weed, the ocean air and the perpetual weekend bbqs on the beach.  I can finally exhale and attempt to live a normal, boring life.  Creating time to have fun is now, only third to working and having regular bowel movements. (not necessarily in that order)

When I moved here two months ago, a friend of my sister’s, a bit of a nebbish, tried to convince me to join in his latest obsession- Salsa, Meringue and “Zouk” dancing, the latter composed of slow, gyrating moves, the sort I haven’t seen since my stint at a “strip club”, during the Prohibition. This 40ish, very sweet, short and compact Jewish attorney didn’t seem to be the typical “Latin Lothario” with smooth moves on the dance floor, but maybe I was just making unfair assumptions regarding white, Jewish, straight men dancing.  Shame on me.

“I am enrolled in a competition at the Eden Roc Hotel on Sunday.  Will you come and support me”? Mr. “Twinkle Toes” asked.

“Sure, we will be there to cheer you on!”, I replied.  I hoped he didn’t see my “side eye”, followed by the “eye roll” that I shot at my sister-my idea of graceful choreography.
That same evening, I began to receive videos from him over “whats app” of him dancing with different partners.  Like watching a car wreck, it was repelling and fascinating at the same time.
I know it’s cruel to say this, but, there should be a warning label before people attempt these highly skilled maneuvers.  He was no Baryshnikov or one of those Russian brothers on “Dancing with the Stars”.  Though you could see the effort and enthusiasm, the skill wasn’t too apparent.  Still, I decided to go with my sister to the competition, which was now downgraded to the Miami Beach Hotel and Spa.  I was going to be a great sport.  At four pm, we got a text, saying that he would be dancing and we should get there.  My sister and I “jete’d” over to the hotel, joining approximately fifty or so dedicated fans of the fabulous dancers who were replete with glittery outfits topped off with tons of hairspray, make-up and 10 ft long false eyelashes.  THIS was fun.

We sat next to his parents in the front row.  It was “dancing in the round”.  The dancers competed on the floor which was a huge circle surrounded by the audience.  There were three judges at a table.  I looked around the room and smiled.  There were dancers of all ages, races, body shapes and skill.  I admired everyone there.

As our friend strode out with a beautiful, statuesque professional dance teacher to perform his first dance, we hooted and yelled, as he began to dance.  He was wearing a yarmulke, that fell of his head, while he was dancing.  His scantily-clad partner didn’t miss a beat and led him around the floor like the puppy dog he was.  This was way more entertaining than Netflix.

In fact, I’m still smiling AND having fun.  I may even take a free class.

Boxes

A girl is born

The gifts pour in

Pink boxes, twirled ribbons

Joy encased from within

Birthdays and holidays

Weddings and Grads

Boxes and Boxes

To celebrate Dads

Mom and Sister

Brother and son

Moving, Ikea

Instructions, not fun

But, Oh those boxes

Entrenched in our lives

We store our mementoes

Our jewelry, our lives

Then one day, we tire

Our bodies are slow

This box is exhausted

Sometimes it’s our foe

So, we shed all our pain

Being locked in our case

Our souls want to fly

From our limited space

And all that is left of our stay here on earth

Are boxes and boxes of stuff with no worth

We can’t avoid boxes, they remain with us still

Our body’s last place, underground until