Tu B’Av is upon us. If you don’t know all about the glorious holiday that is Tu B’Av, allow me save you a Google search and spare you from an embarrassing moment in which the nearest hot Israeli man asks you to be his Tu B’Av date, and mistake it for something shawarma-related.

So, apparently, Tu B’Av is one of the lighter Jewish holidays, which is refreshing, because constantly having to celebrate not having been annihilated, can get emotionally exhausting (except for Hanukkah, because I love latkes and have always been a bit of a pyromaniac). Anyway, we celebrate Tu B’Av for numerous reasons, a few being that: (1) God forgave the Jewish people for the sin of the spies, ending a plague (not going to explain what the sin of the spies was because, believe it or not, I’m not a Jewish history teacher or R.I.T., aka rebbetzin in training); (2) guards were removed from the roads leading to Jerusalem, allowing the Jewish people to resume making pilgrimages to Jerusalem; and (3) the ban of not being able to marry outside of one’s tribe was lifted.

Reason #3 was the first real merging of the tribes, which women were happy about since there were some eligible Jewish bachelors with the last names Cohen and Levy that they could now get their paws on. #biblicaltimesgolddigging. And so, the woman went out, “dressed in white, and danced in the vineyards.”
The point is, Tu B’Av has since become a Jewish/Israeli Valentine’s Day of sorts, but it is also a day dedicated to commitment. Oh my god, commitment? OK yes, but DON’T PANIC.

It is universally accepted that committing to anything is scary, the Camel Crush cigarette and the Arnold Palmer beverage being solid evidence to support my claim. Oh, I’m sorry that you can’t commit to a regular cigarette so you need the option of “crushing” your cigarette to turn it into a menthol cigarette halfway. God forbid we should commit to ordering an ice tea, regret it, and wish we ordered the lemonade instead. Well, don’t worry, there’s the Arnold Palmer, a half lemonade/half ice tea drink, to the rescue! Clearly, our society enables not committing to things, and I totally get that. When I first moved to LA, I definitely drove around in a rental car for nine long months because I refused to admit to myself that I wasn’t just visiting. Delusional. The point is that if I would rather drive around in a white Hyundai with manual roll down windows than commit to living in LA, then it makes sense that people would have a difficult time committing to relationships.

For what it’s worth, it seems to me like there are only two miserable paths in pursuit of obtaining a commitment that one can take these days: either be the person in what one of my friends calls a “nonrelationship-relationship;” or be the person whose full-time job is laboring desperately in an attempt to get engaged.

The “nonrelationship-relationship” refers to a relationship where you are probably hanging out with the other person a couple of times a week, maybe sleeping with them, and they may or may not text you when they’re in traffic, on the toilet, or when something borderline-funny happens. Let’s be clear though, in a “nonrelationship-relationship,” you are NOT exclusively dating or officially “boyfriend/girlfriend.” So, in other words, in my humble opinion, the guy is getting all the perks without having to commit to you.

Another thing that sucks about the “nonrelationship-relationship” is that the girl sometimes tricks herself into thinking that because she and this guy are not actually “boyfriend/girlfriend,” she can’t get hurt (or she won’t care that much when it’s over because it was never anything to begin with), but, unfortunately, that’s biggest myth propagated since the rumor that people on Facebook can tell when you’ve looked at their profiles. It just can’t happen. Everyone is always sad and disappointed when their “nonrelationship-relationships” ends, and it takes about as long as a committed relationship to get over, so what’s the point?!

I’m personally way too self-centered for the “nonrelationship-relationship” because I like to be committed to, all day, everyday … and also, told that I’m pretty … often. The “nonrelationship-relationship” turns me into Britney circa 2003 (aka crazytown), so I just don’t do it.

However, I’ve been dangerously close to being in “my full-time job is striving to get engaged” mode. The “full-time jobbers” are committing all over town! They basically end up marrying people they kind of, sort of like because the person sounds good on paper. Essentially, if the guy graduated high school and doesn’t have the Tay Sachs gene, he’s beshert worthy! The “full-time jobber’s” desperation for commitment and security, probably caused by being in one too many “nonrelationship-relationships,” leads to people jumping into lame relationships.

Tu B’Av has gotten me thinking—there has to be a middle ground when it comes to commitment. I think the compromise must consist of only dating people who like you so much that they can’t imagine losing you, so naturally, have to commit to you, but also being fulfilled enough within yourself that you have the confidence to be happily single until that special person does come around. What better day than Tu B’Av to give this a shot? Worst comes to worst, you can always put on a white dress and dance in the vineyards!

(Image via Shutterstock)

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Like Yom Kippur, Valentine’s Day is a time to take stock and reflect on one’s love life. Both important Jewish holidays encourage you to reconsider your food intake while atoning for the mistakes you’ve made this year and hoping you don’t make the same ones drunkenly in the year to come. Just like the emotions one feels on Kol Nidre night while listening to the cantor’s voice as he begs for mercy from God, such is the level of intensity I feel upon hearing Adele’s “Someone Like You” on the radio today. Both could bring even the most emotionally stable individual to tears, effective immediately.

I realized this striking resemblance as I was beating my chest last Yom Kippur and reciting uplifting phrases like “I am just a withering flower compared to your greatness” and “I am nothing but a spec of dust,” I had this strange déjà vu to how I often feel about myself on Valentine’s Day. My mind started to wander about how much time I’ve spent thinking about this guy … and then that guy … and how many hours I’ve spent listening to my friends talk about their boy drama. These poor girls feel like their love lives “began as dust and will end as dust,” that their proverbial fruit will dry up for all eternity.

I know everyone says this about their own friends, kind of like how every parent thinks they’re baby is beautiful even if she has a unibrow, but my friends really are dimes. Tens! They are beautiful inside and out, and shouldn’t have to deal with all this heartache! Yes, girls are dramatic, but boys, especially the Jewish boys I’m dealing with, have their own shtick they could use a few therapy sessions to smooth out.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Jewish boys. I wouldn’t dream of a marriage to anyone other than a guy with a name starting with a J. Don’t worry Jewish Day School teachers of my youth, Jeremy, Joseph, and Jonathan are the only boys I have eyes for. I don’t even know who Ryan Gosling is … but I do know who Jesse Eisenberg is.

According to Sex and the City and other well-respected news sources, Jewish men “make the best husbands.” After all, “Jewish men love their mothers, so of course they know how to treat a girl!” So what’s the problem? That, my friend, IS the problem. They love their mothers too much! What girl can ever compete with how much these boys’ mothers love them? Probably only Natalie Portman post Black Swan Oscar, because Jewish sons are like a more prized possession than truffle oil, blood diamonds, and non-freckled red heads combined. These sons have literally been told that they are God’s gift to this world since they were eight days old. After being spoiled by the love and cooking of their mothers for twenty-something years, what girl is going to measure up and deserves the honor of being with the prince?

OK, I will admit I am the daughter of two psychologists, so the words “mommy issues” and “daddy issues” roll right off my tongue. As the heiress to the Freudian throne, naturally, I am qualified to say Jewish boys have mommy issues. Listen, I know Italian boys have it too, and I’m sure Ahmed, Jose, and Patrick have all uttered their own version of “no one makes Shabbat dinner like my mom,” but Jewish boys might need to kick it down a notch. Obviously, boys are supposed to love their mothers and we girls definitely want to find one that does, but no, your mother cannot be your Valentine. Just stop that. There need to be limits!

It’s not all their fault though, I’m realizing. They get it from they mama! Some mothers enable their sons to think they are so smart, so good looking, and so freaking special that obviously the boys are going to have issues separating from them, and then probably have issues committing to a girl in the future. I realized this partially because I sometimes playfully refer to my best friend’s mother, who I love more than gefilte fish on a hot summer day, as “The Enabler.”

My best friend’s brother, aka the son of “The Enabler,” is a strapping 27-year-old whose got looks like a young Elijah Wood and game sharper than Obama in the first election, so of course he is getting jiggy with it all over the tri-state area, the continental U.S., and parts of Europe. I get that, I do, but he was talking about some girl who he kind of likes, but she wants a commitment after only six months. I don’t know about you, but her desires and “complaints” sounded pretty standard and NORMAL to little old me. His mom walks into the room and chimes in saying he doesn’t need to be pinned down if he doesn’t want to be, like insinuating that this girl must be so high maintenance. I’m sitting there and thinking to myself “Is this a sick joke? I could be this girl he’s talking about. I’ve been this girl like three or four times. All my friends are this girl. If it were me telling the other side of the story, she would be telling me to dump this guy and get someone who can commit to being exclusive with me!”

I actually once overheard the mom of someone I was dating say to her son that if he walked me all the way home, he would catch a cold and it would be my fault. “It’s going to be her fault that you get sick.” I see how it is. It would be better that I get mugged on the streets of New York, than your son catch a cold. God forbid. We all know she’d have a field day feeding him chicken soup after he caught that infamous cold, so I’m not sure what she was whining about.

Another good one was when I was making lunch and the guy I was dating at the time said he had to go home to eat because he was really in the mood for what his mom was making that day. Like do you get what I’m dealing with? However my absolute fave was the story my cousin told me about the guy who took her out on a date and he didn’t know the address of where he was going, so he called his mom while out on the date so she could give him the address! A) get a smartphone B) do your homework C) don’t you have a friend you could call for the address? Don’t call your mother for the love of God!

This is all a day in the life. These really high functioning, successful Jewish guys are a bunch of mamas boys, which is good, I guess, because that means they are more sensitive than the average guy, and will probably get you and their mother the same, very thoughtful, Valentine’s Day present.

But like Yom Kippur, let’s not forget that Valentine’s Day is also a day of hope. During Ne’ila, the ending of the Yom Kippur service, the gates of heaven are closing, and on Feb. 14, as the Walgreens Valentine’s Day card section empties out, we are left hoping that this year will be better than the previous one. And I do have hope because I recently started dating this nice, Jewish lawya who I like a lot and who I think might not have crippling emotional issues related to his mother. He only talks to her on the phone three or four times a day tops. Phew. Oedipal, shmedipal, right? So that is really all I can ask for on this Valentine’s Day, except of course that we celebrate the next one in Jerusalem!

A version of this post originally appeared on Another Day in Paradise.

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My friend Meredith and I were standing in line at Starbucks when she mentioned she would like to get lunch at Chick-fil-A to which I obviously responded “I can’t eat there because it’s not Kosher.” Marriage material, I know. It was then that the guy in front of me turned around and butt in with a “Wow. You keep Kosher STILL.” Um … STILL? I’m sorry, were you at my fifth birthday party at the ceramics center? Do I know you? He then barked out another weirdly worded question. “Have you lived in Israel YET?” This guy had bizarre grammar choices. Meredith was taken a back by this freak, but not me. As someone who exudes more Jewishness than Barbara Streisand in Yentl, I’m used to people trying to “bagel” with me. Yup, I said “Bagel,” you know, when someone tries to bond with you by awkwardly and sometimes not so subtly by letting you in on the fact that they’re Jewish.

I can’t take credit for the term, but it is brilliant. Lord knows we had a bageler on our hands, but this bageler was an amateur. Upon noticing a fellow Jew in line at the supermarket, a tasteful, professional bageler would break out the good ol’ “Oh, I forgot the challah!” It works like a charm. Less is more. I felt bad for this guy so I helped him out, “Judging from your hair, I see you too are part of the tribe.” Of course he had a massive Jew fro. “Yes,” he responded in a highly socially awkward way. Good talk. Glad we did this.

We finally got up to the register and the barista asked the bageler what his name was so they could write it on his cup. “Neil,” he said, and then turns around and looks me dead in the eye and says “I mean Nachhhhhmann.” Oh, boy. Sweet Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Why do we feel the need to bagel? Is it because being Jewish is special and we all want to reach out to our fellow Jewish brothers and sisters to establish a sense of community no matter where we are … OR … is it because we need to scout out who is Jewish at all times just in case there’s a pogrom or something? Or is that just me? Either way, why do I have to be bageled all the time, sometimes I want to bagel too! And so I will admit I have been guilty of bageling others, and not just regular bageling, but competitive bageling. The absolute worst kind.

I was doing some work in Starbucks when a young man wearing a yarmulke sat down across from me at the table and started studying Talmud. I must mention that 99 percent of all bageling happens at Starbucks. That is a REAL statistic. The young man was deep into his Talmud studies and this was my time to shine. I wanted to be slick but still let Talmud Kid know he was in the presence of a big Jew. I let out a few subtle “oy veys” and kept it classy. All of a sudden this other kid across the table, let’s call him “Moses” just for the hell of it, popped up out of nowhere with a “What mesechta (volume) are you learning?” Oh screw you, Moses. What do you know? I knew it was Talmud too! Moses and Talmud Kid carried on with a very Jewish related conversation until I self consciously butt in with “Yeah I learned Talmud too because I went to a Jewish day school.” Silence. I was desperate and had hit an all time low. I was being competitive with Moses because I wanted Talmud Kid’s approval of my Jewishness and I wanted it NOW. To my disappointment, he was completely unimpressed by all the bageling.

A few minutes later, I had to go outside to make a phone call so I asked Talmud Kid and Moses to watch my laptop. “I trust you,” I said while I dazzled them with my bageling eyes. They got the picture. Clear as day. We were all Jews and could therefore leave our laptops with one another worry-free. Bageling at it’s finest.

(Art by Margarita Korol)

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Anyway, I decided to join JDate for a few reasons. 1. My dad said he would pay me to do it although I have yet to see that money direct deposited into my account. 2. My roommate from college met her now fiancé on it (although when she joined we all made fun of her NON STOP). Now the bitch is laughing all the way to the chuppah. In addition, everyone’s cousin, including my own, has met their wife on JDate, so I realized I gotta keep up with the times. I don’t have an Instagram so the least I could do is keep up in other ways. The last straw came when I read a quote from Robert Frost or JFK or someone and it said, “Your destiny is not something to wait for, it’s something to be achieved.” Clearly, he was talking about JDate. Or the Cold War. Whatever.

So I made a sexually appealing profile and let me tell you, I found so many people who I know in real life and would never expect to see on the site. The problem is instead of looking for new guys, I just sit there and send sexual messages to the people I already know (both male and female) because I find it humorous. I just imagine them thinking they got a message from some hot bitch, and it’s just little old me sexually harassing them … usually in Hebrew. My roommates will often call me from their rooms and say “what are you doing?” I answer with a simple “Ohhhh, nothin. Just JDating in the living room.” It’s my new favorite verb and lately, I’m constantly tempted to put a J before everything. Whenever I use the word J-Walking I laugh to myself.

So … there are a few guys worth mentioning. One is the guy who messaged me and the subject of his email was “NINNNNJJJJJJAAAA.” ENOUGH SAID. Then there was the gem whose personality profile is fine but looks like the spitting image of The Craigslist Killer. Too much, too soon. My favorite was a guy from New York who could not have been better looking. His profile seemed cool and I was starting to think he might be my other half when I noticed that he may or may not have been 5’5’’. That isn’t just short, that’s minuscule. Really rude of God to do to him. If he was an Atheist, I would get that. Last but not least, came “Dimitry.” Dimitry had a name that immediately gave away that he was a Ruski. Ever since my Russian ballet teacher had no sympathy for me—the poor child with a red, hand-me-down leotard when everyone else had a regal pink tutu—I just haven’t been able to connect with Russians. Sue me.

Anyway, Dimitry looked identical to my ex boyfriend, so logically, I wanted to give him a try. Always a healthy decision. So he seemed cool, we messaged back and forth a little and then he asked for my number. I gave it to him with the rationale that Time Warner and the Gas company have my social security number, so what’s one more asshole knowing my personal info. He texted me right away. Like within 5 minutes. Eh. We chatted and then the convo was over and I said bye … and after my bye … he sent A SMILEY. No, no, no. It was over. Long story short, he left me a voicemail the next day. Let’s just say his voice was at an octave I don’t think Susan Boyle could reach. So high pitched. My soul mate doesn’t have a mouse voice. He just doesn’t.

The point is I’m gonna J-Wait and see if there are any gem stones for me to meet on JDate because that’s what my look-a-like Gisele would do … if she wasn’t married to Tom fucking Brady.

A version of this post originally appeared on Another Day in Paradise on May 31, 2012.

Gabriela Marcus graduated NYU Tisch School of the Arts a few years ago with a degree in drama. She is an aspiring actress and writer living in Los Angeles. If you want to know how that’s going, you can read her blog.

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