Dating Blogger Emily: Entry 1
After a stint in stand-up and improv comedy, Emily took the next logical career step and joined the Central Intelligence Agency. Though never quite achieving that Jennifer Gardner look – never jetting to Gstaad in Prada, but more like wearing … Read More
After a stint in stand-up and improv comedy, Emily took the next logical career step and joined the Central Intelligence Agency. Though never quite achieving that Jennifer Gardner look – never jetting to Gstaad in Prada, but more like wearing flannel in some Icky-stan – she had some interesting adventures traveling the world, and proved that nice Jewish girls can definitely keep a secret. Now that she's left her career as a covert operative (which was a big fat damper on the dating life), her overprotective parents are relieved and her grandmother is thrilled to finally be able to tell the Temple Sisterhood what her granddaughter really did for a living. (FYI – apparently, spy trumps doctor). Moving on to the next great adventure, Emily moved to L.A., where she works as a PR/media maven for a local firm. She can be seen doing improv on occasion and surfing J-Date for her next entry.
I can only compare being single and dating in L.A., to attempting quantum physics with a hangover. The standards are ridiculously unattainable and everyone looks so absolutely plastic. That said, I chose this city and I have no other choice but to dive right in.
In Lala-land there are essentially three ways to meet a Nice Jewish Boy (NJB):
J-Date: J-Date is the fabulous savior of the bored singleton …and cost effective for a gal on a budget. There have been times when I went on three dinner dates a week; so, I lovingly refer to it as the J-Date meal plan.
Friday Night Live (FNL): FNL is a bizarre L.A. institution where once a month young Jewish professionals don their Shabbat sluttiest and attend a Friday Night Service at the local posh temple. Nothing says the Sabbath like stiletto heels and a mini-skirt. After the service, singles drink requisite Manichevitz shots in a contrived after-temple-party called “The Kibitz Room.” It's a total kosher meat market. The girls are nothing but sick gazelles waiting to be preyed upon. Unabashedly, I attend every FNL.
Everything else: Fix-ups, the bars, friends and clubs. I recently joined "Friends of the IDF." I had no idea what IDF. was; maybe a birth control device, the cousin of the IUD? Needless to say I was a little surprised with what I learned at my first IDF event. I feigned astuteness about the Israel Defense Fund (IDF) in order to gain the attention and phone number of a charming dermatologist.
My entire family and gaggle of friends are strangely invested in my dating life. My mom demands an e-mail or a phone call whenever I return from a date. Now, mind you, my parents live more than 3,000 miles away in D.C. and I did have a fairly lengthy career working for the CIA; so, I am willing to believe I can handle myself with a letchy CPA. It's not that I mind calling my mom, it’s more that I hate the judgment. For example, I told her this conversation I had with a prospective date: lawyer, owns a dog. My mom is convinced that if a guy has a dog he is automatically a good guy. Her theory is for shit. David Berokowitz, the Son of Sam, had a pooch for god’s sake. And while the lawyer may not be a serial killer, he was so incredibly boring that I think I flat-lined in the middle of our call.
So, I just returned from my date with Dr. Perv, a sort-of-cute ob/gyn. We met up at this local haunt, the Spanish Kitchen and I barely recognized him because he had a good deal more hair in the J-Date picture. After sitting at the bar and having him tell me for the 18th time that he's a pussy doctor, he offers to show me his favorite party trick. I begged, pleaded, begged again for him NOT to do the party trick. Before I could beg again, he started to etch on the back of our dinner receipt. Three minutes pass and he shows me a drawing of my uterus or what he imagines my uterus to look like. I think I'm experiencing post traumatic date disorder, or I may have early onset dementia, because I can’t remember much beyond that horrifying moment. My only memory is driving home in a haze with the thought that I will need a Silkwood scrub shower to rid myself of the Dr. Perv experience.
As bad as the date was, I may be dreading the conversation with my mom more. My mom has three acceptable reasons why I can reject a guy:
A. "Mom he just wants to get into my pants."
B. "Mom, he does drugs."
C. "Mom, he is 5 feet and we'd have short babies.”
If I give my mom any other reason why I rejected a potential suitor, she bitches that I'm too hard on boys. Crap, I don't know what I'll tell her. I have a date tomorrow with a Rabbi-In-Training, so maybe I can avoid Dr. Perv talk and discuss my excitement over potentially scoring High Holiday tickets.