Even though I am required by Jewcy law to write missives about my dating exploits, I find myself strangely uninspired. I am a girl who could write tomes on shoes and accessories, but for some reason the topic of boys is boring. I don’t think it’s the boy’s fault and I don’t think it’s the girl’s fault. I actually think it’s everyone’s fault.

The rules have changed and have become so f’in complex, you need a Rosetta stone to figure it out. Navigating through dating waters now requires a map, compass, passport and a series of shots. We have single-handedly taken the joy and fun out of dating. It should be fun but for some reason we are so wedded (pun intended) to these dating rules.

When our parents were dating, it was easy. You liked someone; you called. You picked up the phone. But now, you can’t do that.

For example, lets say you’ve had two or three dates with a J-date. Can you surf J-date freely or do you not surf for fear that your date will see that you’ve been online? Or if your date sees you online, then does it matter because he is online? Or if you are online and you check him out again, will it look like you are being a total cyber stalker? Too many rules.

And…when did texting become an appropriate way to woo anyone. “U want 2 C me?” is not a panty dropping message and if I get something like that again on my phone I may have to scream in that voice that only dogs can hear.

I have tried to figure out why things have become so forgone. Are we a group of daters changed by the ravages of the world? Or has technology robbed of us of our ability to have basic human connections. A while ago I was in Italy walking down the street and at every café were men and women sitting and talking. I passed those same cafes about 2 hours later, and some of those same people were still sitting and talking. I was so moved by the basic human connection and astounded by it as well. I don’t remember the last time walking by a café in LA and seeing that kind of interaction, but to be fair, no one walks in LA. I have this fear that I am going to be what I call the “afterthought. ” The “afterthought” is when you are at a restaurant and you see an obviously married couple eating dinner with absolutely nothing to say. They look like strangers. They are strangers who share a home but not a life. They’re an afterthought. I sound totally morose and I really am not. I am just going to vow to go about this whole dating thing differently. A date is just that, “a date.” A bad date is a couple of hours of time and not a horrific case of the flesh-eating virus. (Although, on some bad dates, that would have been preferable.) Why do I share these thoughts? I don’t know. I just couldn’t bear sharing another dating tale this week. I promise next week to have tales of pervy gynos, midget rabbis, and flatulent CPAs.

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Coupled or married girlfriends always assume you cannot be happy unless you too are coupled or married. When I moved out to L.A. my old D.C. girlfriends went on frantic searches to find boy in L.A. for me. The search was odd at best. My sister-in-law set me up with a friend of a friend's cousin's friend. These are not exactly winning recommendations, but I still went out with him. I figure at the very least the dates would supplement the J-Date meal plan.

My girlfriend Hilary in D.C. called me with the exciting news that her old brilliant Harvard classmate is out in L.A. and is a writer. Hilary knows my weakness for academics and artists so I listened to her boy pitch. Hilary cautioned, “Either you'll love Tom or you'll hate Tom.” Tom or Tommy has an acerbic wit that is sexy or a repellent. I am also a sucker for witty banter, so I continued to listen to the pitch. Tom was Jewish, but he was also a bit sick. He had ulcertiv colitis and wore a colostomy bag. Hilary wanted to be upfront about his condition, which really didn't bother me. Once I heard he was sick, I immediately romanticized my nonexistent relationship with Tom. I am such a wonderful person, I could nurse him back to health. I realized that once Tom and I fell in love that we would have the perfect story for a Today Show Wedding. I gave Hilary the green light and Tom called.

Much as Hilary described, we engaged in witty banter for about an hour. I am not sure if the conversation was flirting or simply argumentative.

I met Tom at a very cool hipster Thai restaurant and immediately spotted him at the bar. I went to give Tom a hug and he remarked, "Hilary said even though you were 30 you looked in your early-20’s… Oh well." Tom and I were off to a rousing start.

We grabbed a booth and from there he proceeded to agure politics with me. Mind you, I worked for Uncle Sugar for seven years, so I actually know a thing or two about politics. Tom insulted my dining choices, my college and just about every other piece of conversation I offered. Not to mention, he spoke to our American/Thai waiter like he was a complete and total moron: "I WILL HAVE THE PAD THAIIIIII."

The bill took so long to arrive I actually felt my eggs going bad. I didn't even reach for my wallet; I figured I earned this dinner.

We left the restaurant and Tom said earnestly, "So you want to do this again?"

I remarked, "Nooo, I never want to do this again… ever. Let me look at my calendar. I am available never… Does never work for you?"

Tom said, "Is it because I have a colostomy bag?"

As much as I wanted to say, "Look Tom, I want to be the only one in relationship that accessorizes," I didn't. I said, "No Tom, it's actually because you're an asshole."

He replied, "Huh, yeah I was hoping you were going to say it was cause of the bag.”

I drove home with the relief that I would never have to go out with ColosTommy again.

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Oh my gawd, if I hear another cliché of another “toad kissing” scenario I will scream in that voice that only dogs can hear. I had possibly the crappiest date with bald (Perfect on Paper) POP guy who maligned me for having a pissy attitude on our date. So being slightly Hester Prinn-esque I called this J-dater with whom I had been flirting on my way back from the crappy date. The J-dater invited me over. It’s not what you think. He invited me to come over to his condo and then we’d walk to a local bar…

I arrive at new boy’s abode, oh and did I mention he is a stand up comic? I love humor; it is the biggest turn on. If Eric Stoltz’s character in Mask could tell I joke, I would have tapped his red-headed ass. His picture on J-date was sort of Rat Packy, but in a total heeb way. I am intrigued and pleasantly surprised when he opens the door to his apartment.

I was concerned that a stand up wouldn’t be able to care for our children, but his place was fairly posh. Do stand-ups make money? Or better yet…is he a stand-up with an inheritance. Stand-Up (call him SU) and I immediately hit it off. He is funny and offers to make me a drink. My red flag went up half-mast and I demurred the cocktail. SU was not hitting second base this evening.

We ended up sitting on his couch and literally we chatted and laughed for hours. He is a bit older then I, which is fine. I tend to like older men. I will only date guys who remember when the Challenger blew up but cannot remember when Kennedy was shot. He is closer to the Kennedy side, late 30’s.

Anyway, the date ended sort of sweetly. He did a funny Dustin Hoffman impression that garnered a spit take and kissed me sweetly. I don’t know…maybe he’ll get second or – dare I risk it – a third date.

I drove home with an actual smile on my face. I feel a lil whorey having had two dates in one night, but I earned it. I needed a good date to erase the image of POP from my head. I have a date in a couple of days with a friend of a friend. The guy is a total New York writer with an acid tongue. For some reason I am looking forward to this date, too. I feel the cynic tide turning in my life. I am gaining optimism and seeing the light.

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Do you ever wish you had a playbook for your life? You could be on a date or in the fetal stages of a relationship and take just a peak ahead. You'd find out if the guy was a total perve, a hidden asshole or had some type of quirk like collecting stuffed animals (i.e. my last date) but I guess that would take the fun, if you can call it that, out of the journey. 

I went out with Perfect on Paper (POP) and I knew I should feel something, anything for him.  We met through the dating hellscape of J-Date.  I have a love hate relationship with this online monster.  While it generates lots of dating potential, the majority of these men are such duds that it's making me debate an alternative lifestyle choice.  With my luck I would find the one lesbian who also collected stuffed animals, itemized a bill, or even listened to Jesus music at full blast.  But I digress.

POP and I chatted for a week before the actual date. While I am a total sucker for deep conversation or even decent conversation from a guy in the early stages, I should have sensed something was maybe a wee bit awry.  He shared all the stories that a woman in her early thirties (so early that I am clinging to 30 with a death grip) would want to hear.  POP has a great family, wants to get married, likes to travel, is a lawyer; all those things that make your brain and heart do a little waltz. But as much as I wanted to feel head over heels over heart…I just didn't. 

He picked me up and I had the sense that I was dating my father, not because he was so old, but just because he was so not young.  He was trying desperately to be hip and fabulous which made the whole experience a bit sad. He was only 37 but he made Regis Philbin look like a regular hipster

He took me to one of favorite haunts, The Hungry Cat and we sat at the bar ate and shared stories.  At the bar, this is when his alter ego, Octopus Man emerged and like Houdini I had hands appearing everywhere touching my back, my arm, my thigh.  I hadn't been touched this much since my last OB/GYN appointment.  That said, the conversation wasn't bad and I have no idea why I felt the need, the desire to give him another chance. I was faking it. I faked the first date.

In the car he pulled out his Blackberry and said "I know this sounds a bit rushed but I would love to take you to out to dinner next week with my very best friends.  As if I had Tourettes I blurted out "Okay."  WHY DID I DO THAT?

The week that followed involved me competing in the Olympic sport of call screening. I had to gear myself up for chatting with him. His conversations displayed his many, many, years of therapy and his desire to show how grounded he was.  This man had so much baggage I could shop him instead of the Samsonsite store.  Yet I couldn't cancel the dinner. On every call he enthused about me, and about how excited he was to share me with his best friends and I just wasn't sure what to do.  As much as I do love being the center of attention, he was gushing like a fountain. I wanted to throw a coin at him and make a wish. I was drowning in complement…it was too much too soon.  

Do I cancel on him after the buildup or do I go and give him a chance over a lovely expensive meal?

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Anyway yesterday was my second date with my Tolstoy scholar. Dr. Tolstoy (he has a PHD is Russian Theater) and I had a fabulous first date. Not only is he brilliant, but the man has been on Oprah! In my family, appearing on Oprah is the equivalent of marrying a doctor. 

For our second date, Dr. T invited me to his apartment for dinner and Netflix. Normally, I would never go to a boy’s home on the second date, but this was my Tolstoy. At this point, in my head, our children are named, china patterns are chosen, and I already know which of my bitchy cousins I am not inviting to the wedding. So clearly, I wanted to see his place. I wanted him to whisper sweet Russian nothings in my ear. I swear if he had said “dah” or “borsht” he could probably have had me naked in 4.5 seconds.

When I showed up at Dr. T’s apartment he greeted me with a Harlequin, Fabio-esque kiss. Good start. Then he gave me the customary tour-of-the-apartment: living room – very nice, bathroom: seat down – bonus points. Then we reached the bedroom.

I don’t know quite how to describe the sight of his bedroom. No, there wasn’t porn around. At this point, that would have been a welcome sight. No. What I saw before me, on his bed, was – not one, not two, but a mound of stuffed animals. Now, when I say mound, I mean something that explorers would climb and mount. I think it had a base camp. I just stared at Tolstoy and stammered. There were elephants with chintz jumpers. Teddy bears holding giant hearts, dressed in gingham. There was a monkey in a diaper. Stuffed animals. Apparently FAO Schwartz’s Going-Out-of-Business sale found a home in his bedroom. All I could think was “Oh my god. He isn’t Tolstoy. He’s Borat.”

He saw my utter shock and said “Uhhh, my ex-girlfriend gave me one of those.”

“And your Ob/GYN gave you the other 4 dozen?” I asked. The animals were dressed and accessorized! Frankly, I am the only one in a relationship who should accessorize. I needed to escape. I just turned and said, “I have to… uh, go… I have pink eye …and cramps …and my prostate is bad …and ….” 

Now, I was in “special gym” when I was a little girl, you know, for the less gifted. But I took PE class from an evil lesbian teacher who taught me how to run. I gave a contribution at Temple in the name of that PE teacher because I have never run quite so fast. I think all Tolstoy saw was my elbows and ass as I bolted through the door. I don’t even remember actually opening the door. I think I probably exited like the Hi-C pitcher guy.

Tolstoy called me today and left some stumbling message on my machine. I guess I’ll call him back – and plan our third date to get our bikini’s waxed. Chalk one more up for my sister-in-law.

Next week is my date with my new actor. I don’t think I have ever been so thrilled to go out with someone without health insurance.

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I could totally be a rabbi’s wife and after that first shockingly clever, sweet and almost perfect first e-mail, from Rabbi-in-Training (R.I.T), I was ready to get hitched and host my first sisterhood brunch. Naturally, I re-read (4 times) his profile as all varsity J-daters do, and he appears to pass:

Mid-thirties: check.

Employed or potential to be employed: check.

Sense of humor: check.

Love of the theater: check mate….and decidedly un-gay.

Having just had an OB/GYN J-date etch a drawing of my uterus, I’ve been a little gun shy with boys, but I’m going to give R.I.T. the benefit of the doubt. Actually, I gave him more then the benefit. On the second e-mail exchange I did the J-date unthinkable and gave him my phone number. After hitting send, I had a tsunami surge of e-mailer’s remorse and thought I was waaay too forward. Giving my number, unasked, had to make me the Hester Prinn of J-date. After convincing myself that I was a total whore and branding myself with a Scarlet “J,” the phone rang and it was him: R.I.T.

We talked for over and hour, and made plans to meet for drinks, but now I have a major problem? . What does one wear to meet a R.I.T? Do I go sexy or Amish? I decide for a happy medium. (Ass jeans and a shirt that safely covers the twins.)

Skipping ahead to date night…

So I’m staring at the bar door waiting for my Knight in Rabbinic armor to arrive, and I see a banker, probable doctor, a stoner, a slacker and look, there’s Gollum! But Gollum looks sort of like my R.I.T…he can’t be searching for me, he has to be looking for the ring. OHHHH NOOO. NOOOO. He is so NOT my R.I.T, he’s only 5’1. Quickly, I think back to his profile and remember seeing “Height” 5’10.” There was a zero at the end. I know there was a zero. I didn’t want to say anything lest I be smited by a man of G-d in Training. But, he’s the Mayor of Munchkinland. He can’t ride the rides at Disney. He would need a booster seat. I felt like I was rubbernecking on my own date-wreck. If only I could call Triple “J” to get me out of this crash.

He hoisted himself up on the bar stool and we made stupid awkward conversation which was a total and a complete blur. I only remember is him saying, “I guess you noticed that I accidentally added a zero at the end of the 5’1 on my profile.” At that point I was a bit confused. I wasn’t sure if I should be more pissed that he lied or thought I was a complete idiot and would believe his lie. You don’t mistakenly place zeros anywhere! Needless to say, the date was short (no pun intended.)

I’m sure he thinks the reason I won’t go out with him again is his height, the reason I won’t go out with him is because he’s a LIAR. (Truly, I could care less about his height.)

On a much much more positive note, I’ve been sort of kind of seeing this sweet lil’ stock broker and he’s coming over this week for dinner and to watch Season 1 of Entourage. Sweet banker sent me roses to wish me luck on my first day at the new job, so he can’t be that bad.

[For more of Emily's dating columns, click here.]

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The Creepy OB/GYN

I could totally be a Rabbi’s wife and after that first shockingly clever, sweet and almost perfect first e-mail, from Rabbi-in-Training (R.I.T), I was ready to get hitched and host my first sisterhood brunch. Naturally, I re-read (4 times) his profile as all varsity J-daters do, and he appears to pass:

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