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

I Can't Handle Love (#400 of Why I Don't Date Anymore:)

Another day and another well-intentioned “friend” trying to set me up with my future ex-husband.  Currently, I reside somewhere between Mrs. Robinson and a permanent move across the street to my local assisted living center. Apparently, I still have “it”, though I need reading glasses to see that I do.   At this juncture, I’m flattered that I’m thought of as a good catch, but the ones that want to catch me, usually suffer cardiac arrest way before they get there.  I’m not complaining, BUT, I still have all my hair, no belly and all my teeth, (well, not exactly ALL) so, why am I matched with guys with 15-year-old profile pics where they look like George Clooney, but IRL are George Washington, sans the wig and wooden dentures? A bit dramatic? Let me illustrate this point.

(Some details have been altered to protect the “guilty”-mostly me)

A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine reached out via FB messenger and told me she had a “great guy” for me to meet.  She had gone out with him a few years ago, but he had been too old for her.  That didn’t bother me, since she is a few years younger than I am.  However, when she said “He has a little bit of a stomach”, MY stomach reacted, strongly. This beautiful girl was happily remarried and was attempting to do something good, but you know what they say about “good intentions”.  I convinced myself that “dad bods” were all the rage and that it might be nice to feel skinny standing next to a portly fellow.  The perpetual optimist that I am, or at least pretend to be, won the mental coin toss.  I agreed to have him take me out to dinner.  The worst scenario would involve a “foodie” call, meaning, I would have a free meal at a nice establishment.

After an enlightening conversation with “Joe” on the phone, he chivalrously offers to pick me up, even though I suggest that we meet at the restaurant.  We are off to a great start since I sense a sweet, generous soul.  When he pulls up in a “souped-up” SUV, I see a tanned, attractive face peering out of the window with tufts of grey hair crowning his head.  I exhale.  It could have been worse.  The hair could be growing from his ears. Thank goodness, he is presentable.  I hop into the car (Yes, I still can) and we proceed to drive to a local kosher place a few minutes away.  The only issue is that he’s driving the wrong way.  I thought it was strange since he was born and raised in the neighborhood I live in.  He seems a bit flustered.

“Do you know where the restaurant is?”, I, politely, ask

“Of course I do!  I grew up here!”

“Um, then why are you going in the opposite direction’?

 He laughs.

“I guess I’m blown away by your beauty!”

Now, I would find this flattering if I was 13, but at  ** , it doesn’t sound too intelligent.  Yes, I’m a semi-intellectual snob.  I decide to just let it go and we finally reach our destination about 10 blocks away.

His phone rings in the car.  The Bluetooth is working and so must the BOSE speaker system because I hear an elderly woman talking in stereo.

“Hi, this is Mrs. Berger.  I need a ride to NJ tomorrow.  Can you take me?”

My first reaction was that he must, REALLY, be an amazing human being who helps the elderly and is active in community charities.  This was short-lived because he responds.

“It’s 100 dollars”.

I’m speechless.  We park the car and he tells me that he runs many businesses.  One of which he employs drivers and he, himself, chauffeurs VIPs.  Sort of the Orthodox Jewish Uber.  I respect anyone who makes an honest living, but that woman sounds like she doesn’t have too many trips left in this world.  I refrain from offering to drive her myself and reprimand myself (in my head).

I open the door and let myself out of the car.  I watch Joe descend from the SUV, in semi-horror.

From the neck down he looks like “Humpty Dumpty”.

I know I’m cruel, but he is significantly shorter than I am and carries all his weight in his tummy and it is “third trimester” large.  His legs and arms are perfect.  We sit at a table near the window and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that he has a handsome face and a beautiful smile, but I realize that he is no cerebral giant when he says.

“You’re beautiful. I love women with “love handles”.

I may possess many things, including a severe case of sarcasm and verbal diarrhea but LOVE HANDLES?????

I glower at him “Love handles”???   He really doesn’t know what it means.

“Yes, you have a great body and you’re not too skinny”.  He continues to dig a hole that evening and I reward him by telling him his mom must have dropped him on his head when he was a kid.

Now you know why I just can’t date.  I'm impossible:)