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.