1, 2 Buckle My...Seatbelt

Mike Leibowitz was better known as G-d’s gift to my elementary school carpool. He was just my type: older, blond, blue eyes and for a long while, I thought he was smart. Unfortunately for Mike, it would have seemed more than odd for him to be attracted to me at age seven while he was 15. I, on the other hand, saw nothing wrong with our passion for each other. (I was cute as a button…minus the uncontrollable, wild, Jewish curls.)

It never stopped me from tempting him in carpool with my delightful charm. As my mom’s huge, obnoxiously embarrassing, white, pedophile minivan pulled through the pick-up line each day at school, I was the first to hop in. (I was always hoping Mike would scooch up close to me.)

I plopped myself in the middle backseat and dumbed myself down by reciting these words almost every time: Mikey-poo, will you buckle my seatbelt? Of course I knew how to buckle my seatbelt. (I should have seen the signs of his unintelligence then. A seven-year-old should never have to dumb down for a 15-year-old.)

The next year, dear ole Mikey-poo started working at Superfoods, the super market a few blocks away from our houses. As my mom, my sister (who was Mikey-poo’s age) and I entered into the checkout line where he was the bag boy, I began to fake sneeze, literally making the sounds “ah” and “choo.” (I was starved for attention from him as you may have already guessed and this was my last resort.)

I can still hear those biting words he spoke to my sister, “Is there something wrong with her?”

At that point I stopped my fake sneezing, which was adorable, and continued my search for another NJB. All I have to say is: Mike, there ain’t nothing wrong with this NJG, you dummy!

Receptionist of Love

Agudath Israel Sunday School, population 30 students, for the most part of my life was the only place I could come across an NJB. I, like the rest of the Jewish girls, nice and bad, fell for the best looking, hunk to ever sing Hatikvah after breakfast every Sunday.

This crush, though, unlike the other thousand plus I have developed over the years, has remained a secret up until this post. Ryan Edwards was the magnificent brother of my best Jewish friend, Erica Edwards. (Hints why I had to keep my burning passion for him under lock in key and my heart.)

Erica and I were inseparable at Sunday school, partly because no one wanted to be friends with us, not even the only other Jewish girl in our grade. It only made sense that our fun together once a week would continue after the school day ended.

Ryan was held late on Sundays that year for Hebrew school, and Erica and I took that time to play doctor at her house with my cousin and her best Jewish friend. (I say best Jewish friend because in the South we all had one. There were separations between the gentile and Jewish friends.)

The same dilemma always reappeared with playing doctor though. Ryan’s bedroom was the barrier between us and the playroom. Obviously someone had to be stationed as receptionist in his room to one: make it seem like a real doctor’s office and two: keep a look out for Ryan since we wouldn’t dare step into his room. Because I, at a young age, already was a disbeliever in the feminist movement, I always volunteered for the stereotypical gender role in order to spend optimal time in his room. (I prefer to look at this as sweet and endearing; rude people would call it creepy.)

All of my stories but this one end in rejection or some sort of failure. If Ryan’s mother shows this to him, I guess that would make that the end of my never-ending childhood crush…or the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Crossing my fingers and wishing on a six-pointed star that this post helps in my search for my NJB.

Books for Bigger Breasts

My hunt for a nice Jewish boy (NJB) started in first grade with an obsession and love for Sunday school which began and ended that year.

You could say Nick Allen was my first manly crush. (He was more than four times my age...A child can dream.)It was through him that I learned my perfect type: smart and Jewish. He was my mother’s co-worker, and the most scrumptious Sunday school teacher I ever learned from.

His maturity in his late 20s only deepened my mature six-year-old feelings for him. Waking up on Sunday mornings and driving to my synagogue became my most favorite time of the week, and on the drive home afterward, I had to fight back my tears before even trying to enjoy an episode of Babysitters’ Club.

When Sukkot rolled around that year, he was invited to my romantic backyard sukkah for dinner with my family. This, to me, was the prime time to impress him, and make him fall in love with me. (Hey, it could happen. I am sure I have seen it on CNN.)

As my parents sat around after dinner to chat, I scurried to my room. Minutes later, I reappeared with a book underneath my shirt stuck out to reveal a shelf like look on my chest. While what I had done was obvious to our company that night, I like to think it looked like the most natural and painless reconstructive procedure to ever have happened.

I am not sure what was said to me that night about my behavior, but I am sure with my confidence and the help of One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, I was the cutest girl at the dinner party.