Mama Needs A Hanukkah Miracle!

It’s the same thing every year. The oil that was supposed to last one day was eked out to eight. The Jewish people were delivered. A fried potato craze was born.

But as a single Jewish girl in New York, how is this existential miracle supposed to help me now? So deep into the 21st century that when a guy talks about drawing his sword, let’s just say he falls short of earning the “Hammer” nickname Judah Maccabee did.

So where is my Hanukkah miracle now? Today’s batch of feeble warriors have less heroism than a Hellenic Greek hiding under his mother’s loincloth, and they’re more slick than the oil heirs to our original Hanukkah miracle – crude oil, mostly. It wasn’t that hard for Mattisyahu to capture Jerusalem – so why does it feel so impossible for one of his descendants to capture my heart? I can’t afford to play dreidel with my very love life. The Hanukkah candles may burn brightly, but so does that UTI that I developed while with that creepy JDate dude. I’m not wrestling with my religion here – I’m wrestling with the fact that the next time I have sex, it’s definitely going to be with a recently-separated urologist so he can treat my UTI immediately.

But like all of this noshable deep-frying, are my relationship patterns starting to look unhealthy? Do you know how many times I’ve been burned? At least eight times what any human is thought to be capable of enduring. With so many conflicting thoughts swirling in my head, it feels like it has a “Made in Gaza” label on it that warns this thing is about to explode. But the real Hanukkah miracle I’m waiting for is a worthy bethrothal – my own Judah Maccabee (with a Merrill paycheck as his badge of honor). Is my Hanukkah wish-list for the right guy as fruitless as Nancy Reagan conducting a séance to channel Ronnie from beyond? Only time will tell.

Here, a modest proposal of my top eight Hanukkah dating miracles that I’d like to see materialize, however improbably, like the burning of the oil :

Miracle #1: Someone who won’t invariably address me as “Mr. Scrooge” for the whole month of December, affecting that grating Tiny Tim Cockney accent without abatement just because I’m “withholding sex” from him against the backdrop of the “romantic glow” of the electric menorah.

Miracle #2: A guy who won’t lure me into crashing the White House Hanukkah party by donning a loincloth to seamlessly blend – and then being splashed across Al Jazeera for land-grabbing.

Miracle #3: For once, maybe someone would get me a menorah that’s not edible. Every year without fail, a guy buys me a chocolate menorah that I wind up scarfing during weak pre-menstrual moments.

Miracle #4: Guy who won’t steal my $200 turbo hair straightener après breakup, like my last faux ’fro ex-beau. So he dumped me and now he’s going to have sleeker hair than me!? Follicular manslaughter in the first degree!

Miracle #5: No men with wingtipped Nikes who use the line, “Babe – you know I love you too much to be with you!” and me actually falling for it.

Miracle #6: A guy who doesn’t whisper sweet, sweet nothings in my ear during special moments: “Hummus Tits,” for your information, is not a term of endearment.

Miracle #7: No one who’ll take me to “his special place” called “El Cheapo” – and then at the end of the evening conveniently ‘forgets to bring his wallet’

Miracle #8: A guy who won’t demand we reenact the struggle, and pour the sacrificial oils all over our bodies.