The Mommas and the Pappas

After suffering through middle school and an abundance of failed relations thereafter, I have finally found the source to blame: Parental Masters, specifically Kenneth and Fern (I didn’t change these names. Feel free to either send them fan mail or hate mail depending on how you think I turned out). Good parents tell you that you are beautiful and you can do anything. Smart parents tell you the truth. My parents were good until I got to college, and then they became smart. (See picture below…they told me I was beautiful.)

I am a firm believer that parents should warn their children that they are either normal or need to do some self-evaluations to fix their social habits. My mother has no problem telling me I sound like a valley girl and my high-pitched voice will not take me very far in life. (This is not mean; it’s just telling the truth. Even though I hang up the phone every time she says this.) Such was the case with Allen. 

Where do I begin? Allen was a math “teacher”, “6’0” and “athletic.” Allen was actually unemployed looking to teach math, 5’7, and he claimed to play tennis. (I’m pretty sure I could have won a match, at least on the Wii.) Once again though, I have low standards so this hardly bothered me. His high pitched-voice, on the other hand, was a little bit startling. 

We met at a coffee shop that Allen quickly decided was not suitable due to the large crowd invading the space. As we made our way to the second coffee shop, Allen did not hold back his comments about how the date was going,

“I think it’s fine that we keep walking to another coffee place. We seem to have a lot in common. You like sports. I like sports. There are no holes in the conversation. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up the conversation on dates.”

As we ventured to the third coffee shop since the second had the same problem as the first,

“I think we are really connecting. My other dates were full of awkward silences. This is going really well. Don’t you think?”

By then I discovered, he was going to make commentary on the date the entire way through, and I was going to politely agree to everything he was saying. We finally settled at the fourth coffee shop, a vegan hole-in-the-wall…I like cheese, and I like milk. This was an “udder”ly bad decision.

“You don’t have your phone on the table, and you aren’t checking it every so often. That shows you really respect me, and are having a good time.”

Do you know how to respond to these comments? Do I clap, like he just scored a basket? The cherry on top was our final conversation topic. PAST RELATIONSHIPS He asked about my history. I replied nothing serious. He replied questioning what that meant. I replied, “There is no one from my past who meant enough to bring into my present.” He asked again what nothing serious meant. I stopped responding. (We both went to college. College relations for the majority of college graduates can be described as nothing serious, and we all know what it means!)

Alas, the date was over, as I excused myself to hang out with my brother-in-law. Two seconds later Allen asked me out on date two, via text. I declined the offer. 

I want everyone to know: This uncomfortable date full of commentary is not a reflection of Allen, but a reflection of his parents. Parents’ inability to tell their children the truth about how weird they really are hurts the child’s chances at correcting his behavior and venturing down a more average path. Allen is the product of parents cushioning their children, when what we need is someone to tell us our behavior is weird, our jokes aren’t funny, we are destined to live average lives and we could stand to take a shower.

So this is for all the parents, including my Mom and Dad. I’m blaming y'all if my search for my NJB, doesn’t pan out as hoped!

That one time I went on a date with an Israeli...

Israeli boys. They think they can say anything and get away with it, don’t they?

Erez seemed like he was all that and a loaf of challah until he opened his mouth.  At 6’2 he met all of my necessary standards: at least 3 inches taller than me. That warm, magical July night, I realized I needed to develop higher standards. 

Have you ever met someone and felt like they made you and everyone else around you uncomfortable? This was my night at its most basic description.

Let’s just start this date from the very beginning, he tried to kiss me hello. To quote my best friend, “Boy, you don’t know me like that!” (I didn’t say this, but I had the urge to go wash my face.) We were seated, and then my uncomfortable evening unfolded.

Ordering Process:  I don’t care what anyone says. A boy should always order before the girl so the girl knows what she can order. Before ordering he made me think he was only getting one roll, (We had sushi) and so I ordered one salmon avocado. He ordered three rolls. To say I was disappointed with my order is an understatement. I was not only disappointed, but I was hungry. 

After my one roll was delivered to the table and his three sat beautifully in front of him, he told me I could have some of his…I’m not saying I am super clean, but I am not going to eat off of someone’s plate that I don’t even know. That’s intimate, and this was a first date. 

The Conversation: What do you think the most inappropriate conversation topics are on a first date? I’m sure they were all discussed that evening. To set up the scene for you: I sat up straight in my chair, and he leaned across the table. Every time he leaned closer, my chair scooted a little bit further back. (By the end of the night, I was about 4 blocks away.)

Our first conversation topic was alcohol and drugs. It went a little something like this:

Erez: So, eh, do you, eh, like to drink?

Me: I am 22 and fresh out of college. It’s kind of my age group’s thing. How about yourself?

Erez: Yeah, I don’t. You see, eh, I don’t need it to have fun. I can go to the club by myself and enjoy without. Eh, you know?

Me: I don’t need it to have fun, either; it just speeds up the process. (Clearly I am trying to joke.)

Erez: Do you, eh, do drugs ever?

Me: What?!?

Who asks that? This was not as far out as our next conversation topic of not being an Israeli woman or a lesbian:

Erez: Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever end up with and Israeli woman. Eh, you know they are all…B*tches.

(Long Pause)

Me: I don’t think I’ll end up with an Israeli woman, either. They aren’t really my type.

Erez: Ah, but what about an American woman?

Me: They aren’t really my type, either.

Seriously, what? Did he just ask me if I ever fancied myself a lesbian? (No offense, lesbians are cool. I’m just into Jewish men, hence the blog.) I was just trying to make a joke over an inappropriate first date comment.

At this point in time I looked to the table sitting a few inches beside us, and their faces resembled partial horrific expressions and the other part sympathy to my situation.

The Goodbye: I’m not great with signals. I don’t really know if I am putting them out or not. But in this instance, I know I was definitely, 100% not putting them out. When I suggested we get the check and offered to pay my half, he had a look of expectancy in his eyes. (The only thing he should have been expecting is to pay for my one $7.25 roll.)

We exited the restaurant, and he went in for the kiss. I adjusted to the side hug, which I thought was a safe bet. Apparently, his eyes were already closed, and I felt a bite on my ear. (The reaction you are having right now was much like mine.) I felt awkward and ran out in the rain to the subway as fast as I could.

When he asked for a second date, he spelled my name wrong. I didn’t respond. Instead, I scurried away on my search for an NJB…or just an NB. (This is a lot harder than the movies make it seem.)

America's Pathetic Sweetheart

I’m just gonna lay it out there. If getting dumped and/or made a fool of was an Olympic sport, I would definitely take home the gold. People Magazine covers would be adorned with articles about “America’s Pathetic Sweetheart.” And I would gladly accept my role.

I became very aware of my foolishness during my junior year. Not only did the boy I like make a fool of me, but my best friend hung me out to dry. (Literally, I cried so much that I needed to hang my sweatshirt to dry.)

The abbreviated version of this love story goes a little something like this. Sophomore year I had environmental poli sci with Sam. We started chatting over the next summer. I developed a crush, and I thought he liked me, too…apparently not. 

If you recall the post about horrible dances, I took Sam to my formal. He drank the entire time. Texted the entire time, even while we were dancing. And, he was not up to hang out with me and my friends after the dance had concluded. I got the message loud and clear. He was definitely not that into me.

The next week I clearly remember one of my best friends coming up to me and asking me if we could talk. Jessica pulled me aside after Shabbat dinner was over and said this, “So I met this really great guy last night, and he is really nice. I am going out with him Saturday. And his name is Sam.” Wait for it. “Is that okay with you?”

Before I get into this, I would like to point out a few technicalities. (1) Are you trying to rub it in my face that he likes you and not me? (2) He isn’t a great guy because he has no respect for friendship boundaries. (3) Uhm, why are you asking if it’s okay with me, when you already told him yes?

CLEARLY, IT’S NOT OKAY WITH ME! (I’m down for being dumped on, but not with contributing help from my best friend.) However, due to point 3, I uttered the obligatory phrase, “Yeah, have fun!” And I exited the scene all the way to my other friends’ apartment to begin my night of patheticness.

Have you ever seen a girl crying in the middle of a bar and wondered what was wrong with her? Well, from my experience, I can tell you her best friend is probably going out with someone she either really liked or dated. 

We were in the middle of my favorite bar, and I was wearing a sweatshirt with Mickey Mouse dressed up like Santa Claus. (Just to give you a timeline, this was in December, and we had already stopped by an ugly Christmas sweater party.) Some boy approached me and handed me a Cranberry Vodka and said, “You look like you could use this.” I wasn’t even offended. Although, it did spark me to start crying again.  (Note, I was not crying because Sam didn’t like me. That would be dumb. I was crying because I felt betrayed by my best friend.) 

The rest of that night is a puffy-eyed blur of me repeating the story over and over again to strangers who all had the same reaction. “What a ______?!?!” I don’t really know where the end of this story is, because I forgave Jessica (thinking she knew too much about me to throw a friendship away), but there is always that thought in the back of my head. And nothing has really been the same ever since.

So I will give you this advice: Friends don’t date friend’s crushes, or exes, or anything for that matter during said friend’s search for her NJB…it’s just not right.