Two weeks ago, somewhere in our nation’s capital, seven young Jewish men and seven young Jewish women got together for a Shabbat dinner. But it wasn’t just any dinner—it was the now infamous Craigslist Shabbat dinner, organized by seven very confident young Jews who took to the ultimate online personals section to find their besherts. We spoke with Elissa*, one of the seven lucky “chosen” female attendees, about her experience.

So, you’re a chosen ‘chosen one’—mazel tov. How did you find the Craigslist ad? And why did you decide to apply?

I honestly thought the entire thing was a joke. I’m fairly incompetent using the Internet (I just found out that there were articles written about this before it happened), and when my former college roommate posted this on my Facebook wall, I thought, ‘How ridiculous.’ He (ah, liberal arts education) and I decided to apply purely out of curiosity and because we thought it would be hilarious. Never did I ever think this would actually take place, that I would be invited to join, or that I would go. I’ve never met anybody on the Internet (I meet enough creeps in real life), I’ve never been on a blind date, and I’ve never dated an American Jew. So this was way out of my comfort zone.

How long did you spend on your application? Did you take it seriously or just fire something off?

It probably took me longer to read the posting than to write a response. My ‘application’ began with “Dear circumcised gentlemen” and ended with “Pick me and make my bubbe kvell.” I used Maimonides and Zach Braff in the same sentence and told them they better not be schmucks. They asked for a picture so I sent one of me at a prayerbook vending machine in Jerusalem. 

How did you find out you were selected?

A few days later, I got the ‘acceptance’ email:

Following strip bingo night with the local Hadassah chapter, we carefully reviewed your application, engaged in Talmudic discussion over the merits of your presence at our Shabbat dinner table, and Googled the hell out of you.

On behalf of Seven White Single Jewish Males, I’d like to stomp on a glass and wish you a Mazel Tov! You are officially one of the seven chosen people.

The challah is practically in the oven, the gefilte fish are swimming about, the Manischewitz is on ice, and you’ll want to give up your birthright for this lentil soup. We just need to know by noon tomorrow, how much herring to cover in wine sauce.

Also, if you have any food allergies or dietary restrictions, please let us know too. For the sake of inclusion, all food will be kosher.

We also trust that you will use your discretion, and keep this in the family (of 14).

This invitation is non-transferrable, unless you are transferring it to Bar Refaeli or Elena Kagan.

David Ben Gurion

Clearly, I’m not keeping this in ‘the family’ (that’s how Jewish genetic diseases started, after all), but this whole experience was too absurd not to share.

So how did the actual event go down?

I love a good story and routinely get myself into strange predicaments, but I truly didn’t know how to handle this and was debating whether or not I should go. It started to get even more surreal as the plans were being made. The guys were extremely vague and secretive in their communication with us. They continued using the alias David Ben Gurion and waited until the last minute to provide us with an address (they were contacted by several media sources and were understandably worried about guests showing up to the dinner unwelcome), and I started to get freaked out.
 
I demanded that they meet me in a public place first (it turned out that I was the only one with this requirement), and established a “safe word” with a friend who, if I called or texted, would either come to my rescue or notify the authorities. Not to be outdone, the father of one of the chosen Jewesses even hired a bodyguard to be on call a few blocks from our location. I was still extremely anxious (it’s part of my heritage, okay?), although the guys did their best to quell my fears before the event. Their mothers clearly raised them right.
 
The dinner took place at a very nice apartment, and at first we just sat around having drinks and discussing the absurdity of the situation. Our hosts admitted they sifted through hundreds of responses to the ad—one enthusiastic woman offered to fly in from the Midwest and a group of “Protestant Princesses” even reached out to them. It was kind of a hilarious ego boost, except that I learned just how much they gleaned from a simple Google search of my name. Excuse me while I reconsider my relationship with the Internet.

According to the ad, the group of male hosts included five good-looking guys and two ugly guys. Was that true?

Well, disappointingly, there were only five guys there—two of them ended up not being able to make it—and six of us Jewesses (one bailed at the last minute). We joked that it was the ugly guys who had dropped out. One particular guy and I had our differences: he made a joke early on about it being good that we had all met on “Craigslist and not Schindler’s list,” to which I responded, “Too soon.” From that moment on, he seemed to openly dislike me. Oh well.
 
The quality of the company overall ended up being quite enjoyable, though, and I think that’s what counts the most. No one was remarkably schlubby or nebbishy, though the fresh babka was the biggest turn-on for me. Yum.
 
Tell us a little about the dinner. How was the food? How were the other chosen ladies?
 
The dinner itself was surprisingly comfortable. The guys cooked and served a delightful multi-course meal, the wine was flowing, and the people were funny and interesting. I was honestly shocked. I don’t have many Jewish friends and am not yet part of a Jewish community here in D.C., so it was refreshing to be around people with shared backgrounds and experiences.
 
And the other girls were lovely. We all engaged each other and it never felt like one of those catty reality shows where the women are competing for the men or vice-versa. Having gone into this half-expecting to be murdered by a serial killer (and yet I went, sigh) or be so bored that I’d try to gouge my eyeballs out with a Shabbat candle, I was pleasantly surprised. It’s not often that a bunch of guys cook, clean, and entertain a group of ladies completely of their own accord. Note to gentlemen everywhere: this should be done more often.
 
The evening was so “normal” in fact, that during dessert we joked that we needed to do something to spice it up, like perform an impromptu brit milah at the dinner table.

So, did you hit it off with any of the guys? Was your beshert at the dinner?

The dinner ended up lasting more than five hours, at which point us Jewesses all left together (we’re all still in touch and actually got another dinner party invitation—so, to be continued!). Interestingly, no phone numbers were exchanged across the genders at the actual event, though three of the girls were later contacted by three guys and are seeing each other again. Yentl the matchmaker would be so proud!
 
Personally, I did not find my beshert that night (and later met up with a French goy I’ve been casually dating…oops. My mother would be so disappointed). While I met some great people, my first foray into Jewish dating didn’t end up successful in the traditional sense. I guess it’s back to the land of the uncircumcised for me for now. Oy.
 
That weekend (after Shabbos ended, of course), I sent the guys an email thanking them for not being serial killers and for hosting a lovely evening, and they sent the chosen few a “shaynem dank” email:

Thank you for indulging our Shabbat fantasies. It was the ultimate double mitzvah. We had a great time hosting you, and may these experiences be fruitful and multiply. Never forget.

*Last name omitted so her mother never finds out.

(image via Shutterstock)

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For many Americans, Christmas Eve can be a time to go to church, sing carols, and be with loved ones. But, Dec. 24 also marks a lesser known, but just as memorable time of year for the Jewish singles of New York: The Ball, a time to squeeze into cleavage-baring cocktail dresses, do shots of flavored vodka, and hook up with other members of the Tribe.

Organized by LetMyPeopleGo (yup, that’s the real name), The Ball is billed as “the nation’s largest Jewish singles event.” Not to be confused with the Matzo Ball or the myriad others singles events for Jews that are held on Christmas and Christmas Eve, The Ball is its own unique set of debauchery for the youngest People of the Book, as well as the largest in the New York area. When I bought my first ticket to it, my mother beamed at the thought of me mingling with clean-cut, eligible Jewish bachelors. Little did she—or, at that time, I—know that The Ball is arguably the sloppiest gathering of Jewish singles looking to get some outside of an AEPi formal.
  


That first encounter was in 2010, one month after my 21st birthday. I was halfway through my senior year of college, and I was very ready for my first taste of the future post-college world of dating. Of course, that’s because I assumed it would be just like Sex and the City—complete with handsome older (Jewish) men, witty banter, and fabulously delicious cocktails that I’d never have to pay for.  



Yes, my expectations were fantastically, unrealistically high for a Jewish singles event, but it wasn’t as if I had expected to find my beshert, my destined Jewish soulmate, there. Okay, maybe a small part of me was hoping I’d find him. Like most of my Jewish friends, we prioritized dating a member of the tribe over anyone else, and a club on Christmas Eve seemed like it offered the best odds.



However, as we piled into the cab to Marquee, I quickly realized that nobody was expecting to find her beloved that evening—or do much talking. One friend announced that the girl who made out with someone first earned free drinks from the rest of us. Her co-worker added the same went for whoever hooked up with the most guys. There was a bounty on heads; apparently, we were going to be the New Orleans Saints of the Jewish singles scene.



Everyone had wised up to the fact that a giant Jewish singles event is the last place on Earth where you’d actually experience love at first sight. It was too loud and too crowded to even find the dear friends you came with. In this environment, you wouldn’t recognize your beshert if he fell from the sky and landed right in front of you stomping on a wine glass.



Within minutes of entering the club, I was standing alone as my fellow Jewesses had dispersed to flirt. I felt like I lost my voice and could only squeak against the blare of “Bottoms Up.” At that moment, I realized this was survival of the fittest; I was scared, lonely, and vulnerable. Switching my focus from romance to competition seemed like the best strategy for surviving the evening.



Minutes later, I was kissing the first guy who wrapped his arm around my waist. You could offer me a million dollars and a date with Andy Samberg to tell you his name or a single fact about him, and I still couldn’t. The same goes for the second guy I hooked up with that night. I can recall more identifiable features of the guard yelling at me for making out on the leather couches than my fleeting partner in crime.



And I didn’t, and still don’t, have, any regrets about my random make-outs. It was fun; I felt grown-up, sexy (yes, to my goody-two-shoes self, that was sexy), and most importantly, I felt emotionally unscathed. 



By my second year of The Ball, I was happy that hookups rather than romance were the only thing in store for in the evening. I was a few months into New York’s Jewish dating scene, and it left me with the desire to shield myself from failed expectations. I hadn’t ventured into JDate, but only because I couldn’t imagine paying a fee to engage in intra-Tribe dating when it already disappointed me so much. Unreturned texts, promising first dates that never led to seconds, and overwhelmingly crowded Shabbat onegs had only frustrated me. The right Jewish guy seemed too precious and, therefore, impossible to find in any of the five boroughs, let alone at The Ball.



So, to dampen any hopes for love, I treated the night as a game. I cooled my desires with competition, as I had learned the safest skill in romantic survival was to expect nothing great and nothing permanent. My second year proceeded much as the first, with the biggest difference being Artichoke Basille’s replacing McDonald’s as our post-Ball meal.



Yet over the course of the following year, I became more aware of how The Ball mentality was impacting my approach to dating. I was overly pessimistic and distant toward romantic prospects. I spoke about relationships as if it were implausible for their shelf lives to last longer than a week. A friend who’s attended The Ball with me every year called me out on this behavior. “It’s one thing to have a cautious mentality,” she said, “but yours is apocalyptic.”

It is with her words ringing in my ears that I contemplate buying a ticket for my third consecutive trip to The Ball. I looked forward to it every year, and not just because I enjoy the random, PG-13 hookups. The ritual of embracing my identity as a single Jewish woman, of owning an aspect of my life that the rest of the time I find myself either trying to change or having to justify, is liberating. At the same time, I wonder if another year is good for me. The ironic distant I cultivate at an event like The Ball isn’t so healthy to have year-round. And maybe now, I need to let my guard down a bit. 



My first time at The Ball taught me how to protect myself against the disappointments of dating and armor myself from the pain of attachments. Perhaps by abstaining from it this year I can undo just the right amount of that learning.

The post Finding Love, Or Just Another Makeout, at a Rowdy Jewish Singles Party appeared first on Jewcy.

Meet Yenta. It’s a new Jewish dating service (could you guess?) that brings a little something different to the online dating scene. The New York Post reports:

Somewhat similar to the gay application Grindr, the free mobile dating service uses GPS technology to allow users to peruse the profiles of nearby Jews.

The profile asks questions like “How Jewish are you?” “What’s your shtick?” and “What will impress your mother?”

According to the Post, the site has 10,000 users so far. Will you be joining? They’re offing a free ‘gold membership’ while they test the site. I’m not so sure I trust a dating site that sells ‘Shtup the Chef’ aprons, but that’s just me.

(image via Shutterstock)

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