Have you ever found yourself frustrated while swimming in the dating pools overt at Match and eHarmony? Have you ever spend days scouring JDate for your dreamgirl but turning up your nose at all the olive skin and dark hair? Well, it seems your unasked prayers have been answered - April Gaede, the mother of the adorable white pride singing act Prussian Blue, is now launching her very own Aryans-only dating service. Via the white power website Stormfront (Hey guys! It's been like a whole week since you called any of our writers ugly Jews! Are you mad at us?), Gaede announced her services:

I am willing to act as a go between, researcher, matchmaker, older sister and guide for any WNs [white nationalists] who are looking for a WN spouse. Only email me if you are serious about finding a spouse or long term partner.

Since Gaede is new to the matchmaking circuit, how do we know she's any good? She offers her own story of sweet Aryan love up as an example of inspiration:

I was 37 with two children when my husband Mark [Harrington] and I met. In any other circumstances we might have been an unlikely pair, a city boy who plays hockey and a country girl who trained horses. But because of our ideological similarities and our mutual concern about the future of our race we have much more in common than the average couple today.

Sniff. It's all so beautiful. But wait - it turns out that Gaede's life wasn't always so happy before true love redeemed her. Before Mark, she was married to an Icelandic pole vaulter. They had two kids together, the famous twins Lynx and Lamb (who comprise Prussian Blue), but it didn't work out. She has but one regret:

..the many years that I lost in which I could have produced four to six more children with that ideal eugenic quality that [the twins] possess.

You see, all you lonelyhearts, April Gaede has been to heartbreak hotel too. But she lived to see another Aryan day. And you can too! Sign up now!

Finding myself single yet again, I've realized it's time to focus on self-improvement. This means both, as my sister put it, "not dressing like a lazy hooker" and returning to my favorite diet so I can get back down to my goal dating weight of 110 pounds (just at the weight limit where I can still be checked in as baggage on domestic flights).

Coming from a long line of giant fat people and a long history of a variety of eating disorders, it should come as no surprise that I have extensive experience with diets. Only one (aside from the anorexia/bulimia two-for-one special) has ever rendered halfway decent results, and thusly I plan on returning to this one immediately. 

My choice to opt for a rigid diet as opposed to just trying to eat well was prompted in part by a recent trip grocery shopping. Whenever I unpack a bag of groceries, I am forced to realize that I really only buy two categories of food: non-food and cry-for-help food. Non-food consists of Single Jewish Girl staples such as miso soup packets, celery, non-fat yogurt and diet soda. I usully get a good two to three bags of that stuff; it's food that allows you to go through the motions of eating without actually having to consume anything. Then I get a bag or two of cry-for-help food, which is essentially the stuff you eat when you get back from a horrible Jdate or have had a bit too much to drink and you're having a I-want-to-destroy-my-body-so-I'll-have-an-explanation-for-why-no-one-loves-me. This consists of... pretty much all the food I was raised on: ice cream, mac and cheese, deep fried lard wrapped in bacon dipped in sugar, etc. It gets hidden behind the non-food in the fridge in case people come over, of course.

It's depressing to purchase these items, and more importantly it's expensive. That's part of the beauty of my diet plan... it's entirely free (for me)! It's way cooler than Atkins and South Beach combined, and it's twice as effective! I call it... The J-Diet. It's a real breakthrough, and I ultimately plan on writing a book about it just as soon as I'm emaciated enough for the jacket photo.

What's so amazing and unique about The J-Diet is that you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want! The only stipulation is that someone you met on JDate buys it for you. Sound too good to be true? It isn't. I went on the J-diet for 4 months and lost 30 pounds! (This was back when I worked at Bergdorf's, where Russian aestheticians reminded me daily that "food is how the sadness gets in.).

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Yids of the faygele variety know there are better ways to pay tribute to history's most famous Jewish carpenter than with an order of deep fried cat from Peking Palace. It ruins all those hours spent at the gym competing for the attention of hairless, muscled goyim. And watching A Christmas Story (you know, the treyf tale of that boy Ralphie who whines for a full 90 minutes about wanting a rifle under the tree) for the 50^th time on AMC not only seems boring, it probably qualifies as sacrilegious at this point.

Enter: Jewbilee. It's New York City's answer to the straight-laced Matzo Ball enterprise, and the brainchild of the J-queer community's current king Jayson Littman. "If all the straight girls at the Matzo Ball were wondering where all the cute Jewish doctors, lawyers, and professionals were, they went to the Christmas Eve Gay Jewbilee. But better they didn't show since they may very well have bumped into someone they're currently dating!" says Littman.

For the last three years, the party has been run under Littman's self-run event promotion venture He'bro and served as a much needed midnight mass for gay Torah-toters. And the 2009 bash at Manhattan's barely one-and-a-half-year-old hotspot Hudson Terrace was the best attended yet. Reality TV revelers may remember the space from the fiery finale of The Real Housewives of New York City - fittingly catty conditions for the over 850 boys who turned out to get their hands on a slice of kosher beef. When you consider drink prices high enough to make South Beach look like a stroll down the liquor aisle at Wal-Mart, that's quite a feat.

The crowd was decidedly homo but far from homogeneous. Minus the small herd of lesbians and other sexual minorities, the almost sinful celebration (fun fact: an astonishingly low number of drug infractions were reported) was comprised of 99% men. And these male party players fall into seven distinct categories - each with their own corresponding probability of shacking up. 

1. Husband Hunter

He's single, his mother doesn't know why, and he yearns to stand under the chuppah with any boy as long as his last name is Goldberg. In varying degrees, most of the attendees belong here. Unfortunately, this guy ends the party by logging onto JDate from his iPhone as he takes a taxi home - alone.

 

2. Long Island Lolita

Hailing from Hewlett, the drunk d-bag is dressed in a cheesy Robert Graham button-down, True Religion jeans, and D&G dog tags. He could spare losing 15 pounds and thinks his shit doesn't smell. It does. But somehow, he still manages to get laid.

 

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Ever wondered why it's called "breaking up" and not "breaking down"? You'll get an idea from the new movie, Breaking Upwards, directed by Daryl Wein. In it, a couple decides that their relationship, while not unhappy, has reached its natural end. They then begin to come up with what some politicians might call "an exit strategy."

 

 

Breaking Upwards will be screening at the Manhattan JCC this winter. Click here for more details.

Barely before the Thanksgiving leftovers are in the fridge and that last dish is washed, Christmas invades the New York City like the traditional consumerism orgy that it has become.  Stores decorate garishly in glitter, tinsel and twinkly lights, people begging for money on the trains deliberately remind you “it's the season for giving,” and various street corners become miniature pine forests populated by burley Canadians with their fragrant evergreens available for ready money.

If you’ve ever been to New York in December, you’ve probably walked through one of these random street corners lined with trees wrapped in large hair nets and strings of bulbish lights precariously dangling from red wooden stakes.  Tucked within the trees is almost always a shabby little shack cobbled out of bits and pieces with perhaps a bit of heat to protect and provide comfort from the elements to these sentinel street vendors who indefatigably hock their wares.

Walking through these temporary showrooms can be a briefly transformative experience.  The street noise dampens slightly, the scent of pine sap gently assails your nostrils, and for a moment you don’t feel you are in a loud bustling city of eight million people.  Perhaps it was this feeling that sparked the romance.

Several years ago I had an ecologically conscientious roommate.   She cared about the environment so much that she never flushed the toilet.  Purportedly this omission of common courtesy was an effort to save water, but it only really resulted in pissing off her roommate who - with my own standards of sanitation - would flush twice.  That and her other earth-saving tricks made me conclude that she really would be much happier in life living in a cabin in the woods.  This conclusion was reinforced by her December fling – our Christmas Tree Guy.

Our neighborhood Christmas tree stand was only about a hundred yards from our apartment and directly in the path to our closest subway stop.  So it wasn’t uncommon to walk through the trees several times a day.  First it was, “oh, I’m just bringing the Christmas Tree Guy some coffee,” she’d giggle as she ran out the door with a travel mug in hand.  Then there was a dinner date.  Not too long after came the late night moans and the ecstatic rhythmic thuds of Christmas Tree Guy sex.

The next morning my walk to the subway was a vicarious walk of shame.  “Oh hi,” I bashfully managed, “you know, the walls in our apartment are really thin.”  But the Christmas Tree Guy turned out to be very sweet.  He was a forest ranger by trade, but during the winter makes good money by selling Christmas trees.  When we wasn’t on duty, he shared a tiny apartment with about 15 other guys.  He said people were generally friendly and welcoming, bringing him coffee and snacks, but even so I suspected my roommate was the only one providing carnal comforts.  The local street gang had dubbed him “Tree Guy” and helped protect his trees from petty theft.  The only trouble he said that he was having was with the bank at the street corner where his trees were set up.  They would argue about where he could place his wares and hassled the vendors until the Christmas Tree Guy posted a sign that said “***** Bank Hates Christmas.”  Christmas eventually won.

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There are a lot of Hanukkah songs out there, from "I Had a Little Dreidel" to Adam Sandler's "Hanukkah Song." Most of these songs stick with the basics - candles, presents, family, potato pancakes. However, the singer Chevonne has decided to make Hanukkah sexy. Specifically, she makes sex puns about holiday accoutrements. (Sample lyrics include "I'll hot oil you up and dance like a whore-a" and "Just like my menorah/you light me up for eight days at a time." Eight days? Sex is awesome, but that shit just sounds painful.)

If Sheena Easton had been a member of the tribe, she might have recorded this as a single.

 

 

I staggered home this morning from my local pub on Bograshov Street red eyed, wheezing and smelling like my seventy year-old chain smoking travel agent, Shoshana. The thing is, I don't even smoke. I am getting tired of having to toss my T-shirts in the wash after having barely worn them because they reek of secondhand smoke. Under normal circumstances I could get at least another 48 hours out of them. The problem is that I think I'm becoming dependent on secondhand smoke. It's gotten to the point that sometimes I start itching in anticipation of someone lighting up.

When the public smoking ban began to be enforced last year by the City Council, I was excited at the prospect of being able to spend a night on the town without having to worry about nicotine poisoning, but that ship sunk pretty much as soon as it sailed and I am unaware of a single smoke-free bar in Tel Aviv. If you know one, please let me know. A cigarette is usually lit post- coitus, but only in Tel Aviv does the smoking precede the sex.

Legislators in Israel passed the smoking ban as a means to reduce health risks and thereby the ever-increasing costs of health care. The success of reducing health risks through public smoking bans in other countries speak for themselves. The number of heart attacks in Ireland has fallen by about 11 percent since the smoking ban was introduced there in 2004, according to Irish researchers at a cardiology congress in Vienna. Similar results have followed in other places too. Scotland, for instance, had a 17 percent decrease in heart attacks. Pueblo, Colorado confirmed that heart attacks fell by almost 27 percent since its public smoking ban.

This got me thinking about why, in spite of the health risks, bar owners are so opposed to upholding the smoking ban. Obviously they must be taking their customers' best interests into account. I don't think it's too much to ask to request that customers smoke outside. I know it's not the harsh Mediterranean winter that's keeping them indoors. Scantily clad female smokers brave the rain, sleet and snow for a quick cigarette all over Europe without affecting the livelihood of bar owners. But having to brave the cold for a smoke doesn't seem to be the reason. There must be something else at work here. In Israel, where the anti-smoking lobby is comparatively weak compared with Western countries, smoking's sexy appeal still trumps its resulting shorter lifespan.

A cigarette on-hand isn't going to transform you into a dashing Humphrey Bogart or a stylish Marilyn Monroe, but its importance in restraining awkward hand gestures when you are in the process of courting a member of the fairer sex should not be overlooked. I usually rectify this problem by downing a couple shots of liquid confidence, putting out the vibes and leaning nonchalantly on the bar.

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Jewish Girls1. Move from New York City to Israel - Tel Aviv, to be exact. Board a bus driven by a bearded maniac; a wild-eyed, bearded maniac with hair sprouting uncontrollably from his knuckles.  He'll look like Mandy Patinkin, back when Mandy did a Yiddish album and grew a long beard for the cover photo...only hairier

2. Hairy Mandy will think it fun to race his accordion-style bus going 240 MPH down the tiny one-way streets of Tel Aviv. Yeah Mandy, that's fun. You have other ideas about what's fun - like making up words to The Daily Show theme song.

As the bus careens this way and that, struggle to keep your balance as you stand clutching a pole. All the while, eye a beautiful, curly-black-haired, dark-skinned local girl. Decide she looks like a Sagit, or maybe a Dorit, or perhaps a Galit...no, she's definitely a Hagit.

3. Hagit will smile at you as you lose your balance and slam into an elderly Russian babushka. Curse hairy Mandy left right and center as you fight to regain your own center.

4.  Ten minutes later, notice Hagit, still smiling. Wonder if she's just a girl that can't help but smile all the time or if she's flirting with you.

5. Think you're about to lose your lunch as the bus flies up to your stop. It will never actually stop, of course, but merely slow down just long enough for you to hop off. As you do so, notice Hagit getting off too. Get up the nerve to say "hi" as she comes up behind you. She'll hear your accent. "You're American?" she'll ask, like she's never actually seen one before.

6. Make small talk with Hagit. Learn her name is actually Sagit. When she asks what you do for a living, accidentally tell her that you're a professional napkin. When she laughs, explain that your Hebrew sucks and switch to English

7. Be taken aback for a moment when Hagit beats you to the punch and asks for your number. Take hers too and enter it into your cell phone. If you don't have a cell phone, you're not living in Israel. Go back to #1 and repeat until you get it right.

8. After a couple years, move back to New York. That is, after you've dated at least six of the IT variations -- Ashrit, Irit, Shulamit, Idit, Nurit, and Kalanit. The language barrier, you've concluded, while cute, can't be overcome. (Once you asked Nurit, wait - was it Sarit? -- what she was doing in the bathroom and she said, "washing my tooth.")

9. Aside from the new Anne Taylor store on Madison and 47th, New York won't have changed one bit. Be happy for the stability. Take long walks through Greenwich Village. Pass a film crew doing a movie shoot in Washington Square Park. Hope that some gaffer, grip or other minor pass-wielding hipster will notice you and ask you to be Ben Stiller's double. Better yet, fantasize about being Ben Stiller's double and doing such a wonderful job that you're noticed and asked to play your own part in the film. Take it one step further. You're at the Academy Awards. Now you're accepting an Oscar: thank your parents, your best friend, your agent, but not God. Well, perhaps God, but use the word Ha-shem instead. People will think you're cool, like when Madonna went and got all Kabala on everyone.

10. Leave the park and head south toward Tribeca. Stop in a small 'mom and pop' type book shop (the kind that you saw everywhere in the early 90s - before Barnes & Global moved in). Notice hot chicks browsing the stacks. Many will have blonde hair. You like blondes, but have decided to date only Jewish girls after a long tumultuous affair seven years ago with a girl from the Czech Republic who used to throw dishware around the room during fights.

11. Notice a really cute girl thumbing through a copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day. Wonder if the cute girl is Jewish. Her midriff will be showing and this will turn you on. Start to plan your introductory line. "So," you rehearse in your head, "I see you like Sedaris. Who isn't Jewish, by the way...are you?" Scrap that idea. Remember that the high holidays are approaching. Formulate a new opening line. "Excuse me, I couldn't help noticing that you're reading that Sedaris book. Just wondering...do you fast on Yom Kippur?" Realize the non sequitur might throw her for a loop. Scrap that line, too. Silently wish there were a badge Jews were required to wear in order to single them out in New York.

12. Suddenly she'll notice you looking at her.  Look away, and pull a book off the shelf quickly. Never mind that it's How to Win Friends and Influence People, by Dale Carnegie. Look back over at the blonde. Get up the courage to speak to her.

13. Say, "Sedaris, huh?" She'll say, "Yeah. He's the queen of comedy." Laugh. She'll laugh too. Crack; the ice is broken. Make small talk about the book. Tell her how much you liked Naked too. She'll agree and tell you how she wishes she could meet a straight guy even half as clever as Sedaris. Say, "Right. I know what you mean." Then ask if she ever walked by a movie shoot and wished that someone would notice her and ask her to be in the film. She'll have no idea what you're talking about. Switch the subject back to Sedaris.

14. Tell her that you've just come back from a couple years abroad and how refreshing it is to speak about the nitty gritty rat-a-tat of a book written in English. When you use the colloquial, "nitty gritty rat-a-tat", relish the fact that you now don't have to translate its meaning. She'll pretend to understand. Ask her if she'd ever consider living in a place far away, say, Israel, for example. She'll say, "I don't think so. I mean I'm not Jewish or anything." Smile and say, "Well, I don't think you have to be Jewish to live in Israel. I mean there are lots of Christians living in Jerusalem," but as you're saying this, start eying another hottie in "Religion" with dark curly hair.

15. Leave the book store and start to walk home. Begin to formulate a set of rules that all single girls in New York must live by:

A) All Shiksas will be required to wear necklaces with crucifixes. They must be easily seen by the naked eye, not tucked into shirts or worn backwards. They can be gold, silver, diamond, 14K-plated, wooden, or better yet, those really large metal ones that can be seen from the far end of a subway car.

B) Any Shiksa caught without said necklace must be willing to put out on the first date  open to converting on her own volition.

C) Any Shiksa caught without said necklace and not open to converting by her own volition must be willing to put out on the first date to apologize for misguiding you when you approach her at the bus stop and say, "Excuse me, but you look so familiar. Haven't I seen you on JDate with the screen name PUT-UP-THE-CHUPAH?"

I am completely fortunate that my whole life my parents encouraged me to marry for love. Not money, not religion, not security, just love. As a product of a middle class Jewish household, it is mildly surprising that I received little to no pressure to marry for love AND Judaism. There may have been a small ongoing threat that if I married a Jew, I would inherit my great-grandmothers candlesticks (heavy, silver, carried on her person from Poland) and if I didn't marry a Jew, I would be hit over the head with them. That threat was not often repeated over the years, especially after I fell in love with an amazing Jewish man - a man whom I found without the aid of JDate, blind dates, speed dates or any other system other than pure good fortune. So when the seemingly impossible happened, both families were ecstatic, and mine breathed a sigh of relief that the candlesticks would not have to be used as a weapon. But before the happily ever after could begin, the wedding needed to be planned. And by wedding, I mean weddings. See, this most amazing man is not just Jewish, but Israeli. Enter the main character in this story: conflict. Not conflict between my husband and me or our families, but between our cultures. Jewish translates in many ways from state to state and even across oceans but when it comes to wedding planning, Jewish is a whole other story. Thus begins the saga of wedding number one.

The American wedding was a celebration of values, tradition, love and, of course, an open bar. With my fiancé across an ocean somewhere due north of Tel Aviv, the initial planning was left to me...and my mother. There were many things easily pinned down: save the date cards (designed using a Mac and sent electronically); the venue (a platinum LEED certified non-profit/art space); the music (DJ, no line dances, minimal slow songs); the food (locally raised, vegetarian grub); the wedding party (none - less muss, less fuss); the rabbi (friend of mine from LA, woman, awesome). But somewhere between harpists and broken glass lay the rub.

Not only do Israelis plan weddings in roughly three days, they have much less to worry about: no flights (usually), no hotels, and no welcome bags or information sheets for the weekend-long festivities because Israel is a "celebrate and sleep in your own bed" kind of country. I also excluded all the pre-wedding American Jewish cultural uniqueness from registries and wedding showers to bachelorette parties and something blue. Try explaining over Skype to your mother-in-law-to-be that it's considered normal to sign up for things you want people to buy you and then kill trees in order to thank the people who buy you said things. The whole process of wedding planning is full of long standing traditions and rules that sometimes offer wisdom and logic and other times offer complication in multiple shades of taffeta. Fortunately, we successfully navigated this process in just four short months.

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"It's always easier to apologize than to ask permission." - Grace Hopper

I love the High Holidays, and have since I started practicing Judaism. Sure, I always grumble and moan about making it through a whole day of fasting on Yom Kippur, but I find great joy and strength in the Days of Awe. Not coincidentally, a lot of that has to do with the fact that the High Holidays are always around my birthday (which is today, FYI). Birthdays are a natural time of year for reflection, so tying that in with the Jewish calendar is a beautiful way to gather my thoughts and set new priorities for the year to come.

One hallmark of the Days of Awe is, of course, atonement. I don't think it's inappropriate to apologize via email - that is how we communicate now, and as long as the intention is genuine, I don't think it is a big deal what form the apology comes in. That said, a few years ago I received an apology via email that I refused to accept.

Here's the quick and dirty story behind said apology: a few years ago, I dated a man we'll call "Lior." Although Lior and I only dated for a few months, we'd known each other for a long time beforehand and had many mutual friends. That was why I found it particularly surprising when Lior left a message on my voicemail one afternoon breaking up with me. Afterward, I found out a few less-than-savory details about his extracurricular activities that effectively ruined any residual goodwill I had toward him. Fast forward a couple of months, and it was almost Yom Kippur. One day, I saw an email from Lior in my inbox. It was the first time I'd had any contact with him since the aforementioned voicemail.

Dear Lilit, it read. Voicemail was kind of shitty, huh? Sorry about everything. Hope you're doing OK. Happy holidays.

That was it, except for his name at the end.

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We just noticed that there is a Craigslist missed connection from the Saturday night Hidden Melodies Revealed performance in San Francisco. Rather than let this poor lovebird go on possibly unnoticed, we of the Jdub (and now Jewcy!) ilk are going to help by posting his plea on our blog. Can you help M. find his beloved?

We made eye contact several times outside Emanu-El on Saturday night. I wanted to tell you that you were so cute and looked amazing in that dress... I wish I would have. I saw you dancing with your friend during the concert, and I thought you were adorable.

I was wearing brown, and I have glasses and a short beard. If you think you remember me, let me know. I'd love to take you out!
- M

Are blind dates dead? Is the matchmaking industry going the way of the American automakers?

I was doing Google girl searches for a long time before it became acceptable to admit this. Back before Google became an official verb, I would do this, but it had to be kept secret. The one time I assumed the girl was relaxed enough to hear that I found her profile on Onlysimchas.com but was disappointed to find no picture she demanded to know how I had found the profile. I told her that I Googled her and she went berserk, like I was some freak for wanting to know more than what our mutual friend had told me, because everyone who wants you to go out with their friend switches to "sales mode" when talking about their friend's attributes.

Around the same time that Facebook opened its doors to tweens and preteens it became acceptable to conduct extensive back round checks on the internet of potential dates. Facebook is basically inviting you to look for dirt and thanks to my favorite feature - tagged pictures - the girl you are researching can't just hide her true figure behind a well placed column and a thinning black skirt. You would be surprised to see how different people look in their profile pictures versus their tagged pictures.

Blind dating has its virtues. For me it was a rush of sorts, kind of like playing the lottery: you never knew what was going to happen, although I mostly assumed it be crappy until I would win once in a while. I do wonder if I will miss the joy of haggling with the neighborhood shadchan and finding subtle ways to reject the dating offerings from my Charedi cousins in Monsey?

Although Googling and Facebooking potential dates can be a lot of fun and informative, one should keep an open mind. People are too quick to judge folks based on their friends, half-naked drunken pictures taken from their spring break in Cancun and whether or not they are a Yankees fan. There is more to people than what they put on their Facebook profiles, although if you find their blog you can pretty much assume it is describing their alter ego and what they wish they were but never will be.

Although I am not a believer in gods myself, I do have many religious friends from many different faiths. We who live in Western countries have the luxury of choosing our own level of observance. For the most part, we decide individually how strictly we want to adhere to any religious tradition--we can choose from any of them or make up our own, and in my case, we can even abjure these things completely. This isn't a liberty to take lightly. In many other parts of the world (and throughout human history) this kind of freedom seems absurd and wrong. In fact, I think there are many parts of this country where people think there is too much religious freedom in America (you'll have to check the comments section). Being able to freely choose a religion doesn't mean that all religions are choices, however, or that everyone is being entirely honest about why they chose one.

To put it bluntly, are some people pretending to be more religious than they are to get laid? Or in larger, sociological terms, how many people are just going through the motions in order to belong to a group? (All of them, says the cynic). It's what I think about if I'm ever at a religious ritual or ceremony. I know what the Hebrew prayers mean because I happen to have gone to a yeshivah when I was young, but I think most people who sing along at services don't know what they're actually saying, but they do have it memorized.

When I was an activist helping organize anti-government protests with thousands of people in attendance, I definitely met guys who showed up at the rallies to meet girls, and vice versa. When I was a student I met people who got involved with extracurricular activities for the same reasons. I know people who have moved, taken jobs, changed careers, renounced their families, and so forth to in order to belong somewhere, to meet the kind of people they always wanted to meet and join the circles they've always wanted to be part of. Many of us still recall the great wave of women who came to Manhattan in the last decade intending to re-enact Sex and the City or the crowds of hippies from across the country who flocked to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. The urge to join and be part of something greater than yourself is natural. So how much of it plays into the reality of religious practice? Does it matter if your religious journey ends up at a popular resort, or does everyone have to hike through the woods?

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I'm the 26 year old punk rock singer for Can!!Can, an observant Jew with three tattoos, host of PunkTorah.com and gainfully employed by an online Judaica store. 

Basically, I'm one big fucking contradiction.

On one hand, I cover my head. On the other, I daven with the Reconstructionists. I eat biblically kosher at home, but all bets are off if I'm out or at someone's house. My favorite rock stars are David Wolpe and Kurt Cobain. I'm typing this on Shabbat, but I pray from the Koren Sacks Orthodox Siddur.

And I'm single. And it sucks ass.

I've never dated a Jewish girl, but now I consider it imperative. I'm getting older, and not that I want to get married and have kids anytime soon, but I would like to know that if I did choose to knock up my beshert, I wouldn't have to deal with a church wedding and Santa Claus.

New to the whole "Jewish Singles" scene, I've put myself out there and discovered I am looking for a woman that essentially doesn't exist.

Sure, there are plenty of Gefilte-Fish-In-The-Sea, but I'm getting picky. I've boiled my soulmate to a very specific, bordering on psychotic, JDate Nazi-esque list of characteristics:

 

Age: 25-31 (I like older women but do give a 1-year exception)

Location: somewhere in the Confederacy

Tattoos: mostly Hebrew with some girlie floral stuff and possibly a chest-piece that pokes lovingly out of halter tops

Education: bachelors degree in something super practical from a pussy liberal state college

Boobs: proportional and large enough to give me hands full of fun

Musical Taste: '77 punk/garage rock, grunge, early metal, experimental in the vein of Velvet Underground/Brian Eno, early Americana and folk, lo-fi art pop

Hobbies: anything artsy, blogging, volunteering for apolitical non-profits, possibly plays the drums, visiting her kick ass grandmother who was the director of a feminist co-op in the 60's and makes really good brisket, fixing cars and other manly things, as I cannot do most "dude" stuff and really need the help

Life Goals: to start her own gender egalitarian Aleph Havurah and open a used clothing store/coffee shop

Spirituality: kicks my ass to be more observant

 

Most likely, I won't find a girl who loves the Ramones and considers shul and a trip to the Adult Superstore an awesome Shabbat experience. But that won't stop me from trying.

I am not sure I believe in the institution of marriage. I think most people go into it for religious or romantic reasons, not fathoming in the slightest that it is in actuality a business partnership. Additionally, I believe that marriage changes a relationship. Sometimes for the better, but often a sense of ownership is instilled. Men feel emasculated. Women feel entitled. The whole dynamic shifts. And on top of all of that it is an institution that creates a false sense of security. Marriage is no guarantee your partner won't leave you. It just means it's going to be a longer and more costly break-up.

So, with that vision of marriage in my mind, why would I want to get married? Societal and cultural brainwashing. Since I was a little girl I've dreamed of the white dress, the veil, the flowers and cake. And as a grown woman what do I really want? The ring. My whole life, my society and culture have been telling me that one day I'd grow up to be that princess in the white dress, that if my man really loved me he'd give me a big shiny diamond.

All understanding of societal and cultural brainwashing fully considered, when it comes to marriage, I want that ring. I want that party. I want to get married. Not because I want the institution, but because I stand no chance after 29 years of societal and cultural brainwashing of not wanting those things.

So, I try to navigate my way through a world of falsehoods that are created by others. And I think about what I really want. OK, I really want the ring. I do. Why? Because it means someone wants to marry me! I'm not quite as concerned with actually getting married as I am with knowing that someone wants to marry me. So I'm willing to start with the ring and navigate from there. I'm alright with the idea of a perpetual engagement. I'll have the ring, people will see it sparkle and know that someone has asked me to marry him. That, in and of itself, might be enough for me.

And if it's not? Well then, I have a plethora of alternatives available to me. I could actually get married (mostly for the tax benefits) but enter into a rock-solid prenup that is essentially a means to a hassle-free divorce. A prenup that enables both of us to walk away from the marriage without having to give each other anything, a prenup that treats our divorce like any other non-marital break-up.

There's also the option of a commitment ceremony. A handfasting. Jumping the broom. An outdoor barefoot party under the chuppah, overseen by a lesbian rabbi, with no legal ramifications attached.

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I recently became single. Yeah, sad, I know. But it happens.

So even though I'm looking forward to being Mr. Man On The Town during the 2009 CAN!!CAN/PunkTorah Tour, I thought it might be fun to check out JDate* and see what it is all about. Plus, Tu B'Av (Jewish Valentine's Day) is coming up, and it would be nice to not feel like a loser.

I don't know about you, but after ten minutes of being on the Golden-Calf-of-Cyber-Yentas, I can safely say that JDate is the epitome of boring ass, gaywad Jewish crap.

JDate exists in the same realm that suburban JCCs, "young professionals groups" and Temple Singles Clubs inhabit: "we're trying to be hip and edgy, but it takes gallons of fruit-flavored flourescent martinis, the latest Crackberry and shopping trips to Banana Republic to get us there."

To top it off, JDate costs a shit ton of money. Sure, it's free to get a profile. But that's like someone giving you a brand new Iphone...only without a screen. No self respecting bohemian Jew would do JDate because $40.00 to look at pictures of people you went to summer camp with is just not worth it. You can buy weed for that!

I decided that JDate needed to be hacked. I needed to see if it was possible to get around paying a billion dollars a month to talk to twenty-nine year old corporate paper pushers who enjoy jalapeno poppers at Chili's and going to the outlet mall on Sundays.

Here's what I tried:

Test #1: Simply put your email address in the profile (duh!)

Conclusion: Fail! The second you put a Yahoo, Gmail or whatever, the darn robots get ya! Try as you might with Y.A.H.OOs or gee-mail, but they'll find you out.

Test #2: Browse the photos of your Hebrew Hotties. Once you find a potential love/lust interest, you just remember what they look like and find them on the Facebook Jewster ap.

Conclusion: Moderate fail! The theory works. You can look at someone's age/location/Jewish background and use that criteria to search for them on Jewster. Problem is, Jewster just isn't that popular. I did have luck finding one girl who lives near me, but there's thousands of Jews in my area so one-out-of-a-billion is not a success ratio worth getting excited over.

Test #3: Make your profile name on the site the same as your Twitter name. Then, write your ad in all lowercase letters, except the letters that spell out the secret message "FIND ME ON TWITTER @".

Conclusion: After a few days, it looked like the JDate robots hadn't discovered my little technique. So I tried rewriting my profile and making it more obvious. Another day later, and it's still up!

I deserve some kind of award for figuring that out. If they catch me (which they will if they see this article), then I'll just find a new way.

 

*Full Disclosure: I'm not a virgin to the JDate thing. I actually asked the parent company of JDate to sponsor my band's tour. They respectfully declined and said, "maybe in the future". I think the Moshiach will come before then.

Seeing that I've been dating someone for a respectable amount of time now, and that things have been going rather well, it was recently decided that I should probably meet the other woman in his life – his mother.  It made sense because a few weeks ago I had convinced him that the 12-hour train ride to meet my Christian family in rural Pennsylvania was going to be fun.  And I even took it to be a good sign that he didn’t break up with me immediately upon returning to Brooklyn.  In fact, shortly thereafter he mentioned that his mother was coming to town and perhaps I should meet her.

I had met previous boyfriend’s parents before, but only once since I had decided to convert to Judaism.  I had been dating a wayward young man who had been raised in a strict Orthodox family.  My Conservative conversion was never going to be good enough for his family – which was clearly articulated to me through him prior to any actual familial introduction.  When I finally met that boyfriend's mother her first question was, “Well, are you going to miss Christmas?”  Yikes!  I will say that for all of the “you must break up with the shiksa” telephone conversations I occasionally overheard him have with his parents, his family was always kind or at least passably indifferent to my face.

Fortunately, in my current relationship, I was not aware of any prejudices against me arising from my Christian upbringing.  My boyfriend did say that his mother asked if our relationship was serious.  To which he responded, “No ma, it’s not serious, we tell jokes all the time.”

All joking aside, I do care about him a great deal, but who knows if years from now I will be looking back reminiscing about this weekend as the time I met my mother-in-law.  Truth be told we’ve only been together since Purim, so there was no sense in getting the cart before the horse.  But I was still nervous anyway about meeting his mother.

One of the ways I alleviate stress is by cooking, but since I’m without easy access to my own kitchen I resorted to my other nervous tic – cleaning.  My boyfriend really hates change and is not the meticulously neat and tidy (or crazy) person I am, so I knew I would have to trick him into my stress-reduction plan to clean his apartment.  When we talking out our weekend plans, I worked in trips to his place to pick up dirty laundry around trips to my place where I have laundry in my building.  I even snuck out early one morning to pick up bagels – and a new shower curtain.

When the appointed day arrived, my boyfriend found me scrubbing the bathroom floor wondering aloud if we should replace the shabby (and ugly) bathroom rugs. “No, my mom bought them for me,” which made me glad I hadn’t already pitched them out.  But we got her call earlier than we expected that she had landed and was on her way to get a cab.  I was still at his place nervously tidying up.  One of the first things she noticed was how clean the place was.  “This is not my son’s apartment,” she said eyeing the small vase of flowers in the bathroom.  I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.  

The next night over dinner I again found myself nervous and talking up a storm.  But this was where we got it out in the open – my Christian family and my conversion.  To my relief she appeared rather curious about why anyone would choose to be Jewish, and what exactly was the process I was going through.  “Ah, you probably know more about Judaism than most Jews!” she declared.  Our only potential sticking point was our conflicting views on Israel (I recently took part in the New Israel Fund’s video Love, Hate and the Jewish State expressing opinions I would gather from our conversation she would disagree with) but I wisely kept my mouth shut.

So, as I hope my relationship with my boyfriend continues to grow, so will my relationship with his mother.  I find it such a relief that my family history does not appear at all problematic to her – and, in fact, she seems pleased her son has found a nice Jewish girl.

I met someone special at Purim this past year.  It wasn’t love at first sight, not at all (after all, I was wearing a mask when we met). And it took some persistent and clever wooing on his part, but I am now very smitten.

It’s been a few months now, but my heart still races whenever I see him.  I get this big goofy grin on my face when I am with him.  He makes me want to be a better person.  In the past I’ve described myself as a conscientious omnivore, but he really challenges me (in good ways) to think about my food choices.   Needless to say things were going quite well.   We had gotten to the point in our relationship where he offered me some space in his apartment to keep some of my personal items, like a toothbrush and some clothes, stuff like that.

And that was just around the same time my lease in my apartment was up – so I moved.  Downsized along with the economy.  But what had been an hour-long commute between our separate boroughs, now became a 10-minute walk (shorter by bike).  And in my new place I would have a garden for the first time – all good things that somewhat made up for the fact that the apartment I was moving into was significantly smaller than my last one.  Whereas over the last two years I’ve been able to host 30-person sit-down dinners, Passover seders and other fun foodie events, the new place did not offer such accommodations.

But I didn’t despair since my new roommates appeared accommodating and understanding that I had lots of kitchen stuff and welcomed me to put it to good use in our dollhouse-like space.  That was until my stuff arrived crammed into my tiny U-Haul and seeing box after box fill this tiny new apartment brought dread to the dollhouse residents.

Storage seemed like the only plausible solution, but not having access to my kitchen tools seemed like an unfortunate punishment.  After talking to my boyfriend and his roommates, they offered me space in their comparably palatial kitchen.  I, in turn offered to cook for them to express my gratitude.  I seemed like a good deal, until I began to move myself in.

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Doing a book signing is not at all unlike a date.  It either went wonderful and left you glowing afterwards (and perhaps smiling for a day or two to come) or it skidded and awkwardly jerked along until, at the end, you said to yourself, "Thank God!  It's over!" and then you ruminated for the rest of the evening about all the things that went wrong.

The good news is that, of the half-dozen or so "Supergirls Speak Out" events I've done so far, only one was a borderline-flop.  The other five were great events where lots of people came, I sold lots of books, and it was totally worth the makeup!  But I couldn't get over just how much my poorly-attended event felt like being on a bad date!  After an "intimate" reading at a bookstore, I stopped at a cafe and got some pie, laid in bed, and watched Beerfest in the hopes of salvaging my night.

(Although... bad dates sometimes require three slices of pie to remedy.)

Luckily, it's not just me.  The majority of the first-time authors I know have drawn skimpy crowds to events, and it's something that happens that we all accept.  But the lack of attendance at book readings and signings has me worried about Generation Y, and whether we're less literary of a generation than our predecessors. After all, celebrities draw jostling crowds to Virgin Megastores any day of the week... but I don't think that most Gen Y-ers could point out a bestselling author in a crowd.  Admittedly, I'm talking about two very different kinds of celebrity here, but I'm starting to wonder whether free literary events are uninteresting or irrelevant to the mainstream of Gen Y, and it worries me!

What do you think?

Jason Mesnick, the single father from Seattle, won over female hearts all across America last spring on The Bachelorette when he lost to the surprise pick, snowboarder and walking fashion-faux pas (pink shoelaces, anyone?) Jesse Csincsak. It was clear, to me at least, that Bachelorette DeAnna Pappas was not really looking for a nice guy to settle down with, but rather a fun, adventurous dude. Granted, DeAnna was a Greek Orthodox girl from Georgia, but, in my mind I was wondering how she could pass up the nice Jewish father.

The outpouring of female interest in Jason led to hundreds of women calling into ABC to request that he be made the next Bachelor. And it worked: on January 5^th all of the many adoring and mostly female fans got their wish. Jason started off with 25 beautiful women, many of whom had watched Jason get his heart broken by DeAnna and felt like they knew him already. Take, for example, stalker Shannon who seemed more enthralled by getting to meet a pseudo-celebrity then actually developing a genuine and organic bond with the man himself. She, along with many of the other women, seemed to come on too strong (there was one woman who admitted she'd made an Oprah-inspired "vision board" covered with pictures of Jason so that she could visualize their life together). There was also my initial favorite Jillian, a bubbly brunette from Canada who caught Jason's attention with her theory on how you can tell everything about a man by what condiments he puts on his hot dog.

But, in the end, there were only two women left standing hoping to get that final rose. In one corner stood Molly, an initial front-runner who shared the first overnight date with Jason in a tent early on in the season. It was clear Jason was digging her. She was extremely confident and poised seeming always to be reciting words she had memorized from a "How to Win the Bachelor" handbook, rather than speaking from the heart. In the other corner stood Melissa, a former Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader who laid her heart on the line and admitted to always being the "dumpee." Melissa was cute and petite and seemed to be the most genuine and least psychotic of all of the women.  Most viewers seemed to be rooting for Melissa - myself included.

Now what happens next is all a blur. ABC chose to make a few very strategic - and in my opinion, very selfish  and inappropriate - choices all in the name of drumming up viewers.

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To say that my love life has had its ups and downs is probably an understatement.  But with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, it seems like a good enough time to reflect on my romantic situations (kind-of like a Aseret Yemei Teshuvah on my love life) to see what I’ve learned from the people I dated in the past year.

This time last year I was flirting with a handful of guys, but not really dating anyone special.  I had broken up with my boyfriend over New Year’s and by February I had several new suitors.  Each had their positives as well as their negatives, but no one really stood out.  However it was the Episcopalian and the Guy-Who-Taught-Me-The-Word-Nebbish who both demonstrated why I ought to be more cautious with men still pining over their ex-girlfriends.  It was also during this time of causal dating that I got very good at clearly articulating expectations during the non-date date.

Spring rolled around as did a few friends who set me up with their Nice Jewish Boys.  My favorite was Appendicitis Boy who missed our first date on account of having his appendix removed (you only get to use that excuse once).  He was sweet, far more intellectual than he cared to admit, had terribly unhealthy habits (like smoking, drinking too much, and chili dogs) and a caring person if emotionally unavailable.  The only marriage prospects he offered would have been a quickie Las Vegas drive-through wedding with the promise of subsequent annulment.  I'm not a big fan of Vegas.

The summer was hot and sultry and during one steamy rooftop concert, I met a man who would have been perfect – if only he didn’t have a cat.  We went on several dates and everything was going fine until he mentioned the orange fur ball waiting for him at home.  Not only am I not a cat person, but I’m terribly allergic – making Fluffy an instant dealbreaker.  

But then I started looking for a new job and decided to put dating on the back burner for a while.  Interviews and first dates have a lot in common, but I needed to focus my energy on jump-starting my stalled career instead of chasing/being chased by boys.  Which of course meant  I met a guy.  Ari was wonderful even if he and I didn’t share the same tastes in food, and he really broke my heart when he ended things.  So I became even more determined not to date while looking for a job.  Since I was single, I ended up taking very good friend as my date to my sister’s wedding.  It was terrific to have such a great friend fly out to Tucson with me, but even so I was sharply aware that I didn’t have someone special of my own while surrounded by my family.

Winter began and as others began coupling, I continued to dodge the dating bullet and focused on my career prospects.  But my resolve weakened after the tremendous response to a post I had written wrenched me out of my dating hiatus.  New Year’s found me home sick on the couch with a new boyfriend and a No Reservations marathon.  However, Bike Boy and I were clearly not right for each other and by the end of January I was over both the cold and the boy.

So what did I learn?  That I seem to be spending a lot of time with Mr. Wrong and have no real prospect on finding Mr. Right. (but it hasn't been for lack of trying!)  I still haven't yet made my big career move. (not for the lack of trying either!)  But I'm not sure whether or not I should get back in the dating saddle.  I know that I want to be with someone who appreciates good food, has a sense of humor (particularly one compatible with my own) is emotionally available, intellectually curious, who doesn't have any cats and might actually want to get married someday.  This person would also get big bonus points if he were Jewish.

Now, why is that so hard to find?

Let's face it: Valentine's Day-the day which supposedly celebrates romance, and love and cupid's delights--is a scam.

February 14 - an arbitrary date - has morphed from a debatable legend about Saint Valentine's martyrdom into a gluttonous, competitive, commercialized day whose focus has nothing to do with true romance. Rather, V-Day promotes the purchase of an image: of fancy chocolates, overpriced roses, silly teddy bears, mylar balloon, and "special" dinners.

Silly may it be, like everything American and commercial, the "holiday's" (and I use that term lightly) potency is tangible. There's been "backlash" by singles--those who feel empowered by their own singledom, and party promoters looking to capitalize off of other people's manufactured loneliness to throw bashes and bar crawls. And apparently, according to some skilled googling, the day has also become SAD-Singles Awareness Day. As if, as a single person, you weren't aware of this every other day of the year.

Now personally--and I like chocolate, teddy bears and flowers--I've always been confused by the "holiday." On the one hand, while my nieces send me little love notes, and offices have secret valentines, Victoria's Secret also showcases a ridiculous number of red and heart-printed borderline-skanky lingerie for the holiday.

Valentine's Day, to me, just doesn't jive. In fact, it sorta gives me the heebie jeebies.

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• Nihilist Guy, 1997. "I don't really get why you care about this so much."
  
  He was an actor. After we broke up I got the lead role in The Diary of Anne Frank. I was pretty sure it was because I was the only Jewish girl at my high school, or at least the only one in the theater department.
• Unitarian Guy, 2002. "No, don't worry, my parents will love you, you're not really Jewish."
• Reform Guy, 2004. To him, Judaism was neither a cultural identity nor a religion; it was an intellectual tradition. He gave me books: Hannah Arendt, Leon Uris, Gertrude Stein. They all had his notes in the margins, disagreements with the texts. He liked Yiddish because he thought it was full of jokes. We only kissed once. I kept all the books.
• Secular Guy, 2005. He told me he was a Buddhist, despite the fact that he'd never taken any courses in or read any books about the religion. I took him to a meditation class. I signed him up for a Daily Buddhist Quote newsletter. He told me I was too religious for him. He's married now. She's not Jewish. I believe they had a civil ceremony. I have no idea if he still tells people he's a Buddhist.
• Conservadox Guy, 2006. I cannot prove this, of course, but I am pretty sure that he hated Judaism. He wasn't a self-hating Jew, he just didn't really care much for the rituals of religion. Yet he did them anyway, using a block of wood to divide his sink into a fleyshig and milshig side. He used the religion he couldn't stop making fun of to his advantage when he needed to: because he wanted to leave the office early on Friday afternoons, he kept up the ruse of being observant. He kept a kippah in his back pocket and put it on his head just before he walked into the office and took it back off as soon as he left for the day. Sometimes on Friday afternoons we went to MOMA or the park. We never went to shul.
  
  On Saturdays he made me carry his money for him because there wasn't an eruv around his building and he couldn't bear the thought of violating the Sabbath, even though it was 'stupid' and 'a relic.' He was thrilled that I didn't adhere as closely to the rules as he inexplicably did. I realized he was using me as his very own Jewish Shabbos Goy. I should have realized something was wrong when he refused to stop calling me "Lilith," because I wasn't good enough for Hebrew pronunciation of my name.
  
  He's married now. She's Orthodox.

• Culturally Jewish Guy, 2008. "I always wanted to fall in love with an Israeli girl."
  
  I had to break it to him that while my name was Israeli, I wasn't. But he stayed. And so I told him the story of how I got my name (and how my name got me). He stayed longer. And kept staying.

The last time my husband and I had sex after we separated, I wore a Chai pendant necklace and he had on a Saint-somebody necklace.

We were doing it missionary-style and his Saint was dangling next to my Chai. I didn’t want to point out the ridiculousness of our new necklaces, and the fact that we NEVER wore these when we were married. The fact that I am a Jew and he a Christian became painfully obvious.

“We’re both wearing our necklaces,” he said. “Yep," I responded, trying not to think about it. I was trying to just get off and not pay attention to possibly why we didn't work. I didn’t ask him what the Saint stood for. I didn’t want to know. He knew what the Chai was because I talked about it a lot while making my Jewish calendar. But he never talked about Saints. He talked about Christmas but he didn’t believe in God, and yet somehow I drove him to need a Saint? I guess I can’t complain, I also needed something holy after our separation.

One of the last questions our couples therapist asked was, “Did you have a problem with her being Jewish?” To be honest, I don’t think that was our essential problem, but it was a major difference. It wasn’t a God thing. It was a family and cultural thing. When we were happy our religious beliefs were never the issue. We were both reform in our religious ideas and politically very liberal, but when things got bad, I had " the loud Jewish family,” and his family was “white trash.” Yes, not healthy.

If someone pinned me down and forced me to tell them what I thought about his family Christmas, I would blurt out "I fucking hated it!" But I wouldn’t admit that in public. I hated going to West Virginia during Hanukkah and pretending it didn’t matter. I hated buying $500 worth of presents and opening them on Christmas Day. I hated Christmas cookies and Christmas decorations, and I hated being away from my family’s Chinese food and movie night. I wanted to be the Jewish girlfriend and Jewish wife who was “cool” with the holiday that made everyone happy and giving. But I wasn’t, and I couldn’t admit it.

I dreaded that trip to West Virginia. We always got into a big fight before. It wasn’t Christmas per se, as I actually have never dated a Jewish man, but it was his Christmas. It was the fact that I felt excluded from the fun cause I was Jewish.

Do I think it would be easier if I married someone Jewish? Yes, possibly.

Will I? I don’t know. I’m dating both Jews and non-Jews and I like them all. As a Reform Jew, I walk a line in modern society. I am religiously defined, but I also am an assimilated liberal American. I fear losing someone I really love because he’s not Jewish, but when I’m really honest, I can say that I want my children to be Jewish, and that there is a indescribable cultural understanding when I meet a Jewish man.

I’m curious what will happen. I’ll let you know. I have date tomorrow with a Jewish man.

We all know that “in a relationship” status on Facebook doesn’t guarantee a ‘Happily Ever After.’   Just because a Nice Jewish Girl is dating a Nice Jewish Boy doesn’t mean that they are automatically right for each other, as I discovered with Bike Boy.  Although our relationship started sweetly enough, we ended it with a mutual understanding we really were not a good match.

Unfortunately, I haven’t always gone through such amicable splits – like the guy who dumped me a few days after we put a $500 deposit on my credit card for our vacation in Sonoma or the guy who told me after several weeks of, um...intimacy that not only was he not over his ex-girlfriend, but if he was he would rather be dating someone else (how low on this list was I?).  Okay, so I’ve never been dumped by post-it note or text message, but I know that my boys have trolled on-line dating sites before we ended things and have been cheated on more times than I’d care to admit (on the bright side two of my exes eventually married and had children with the women they were cheating on me with).

So what does Judaism say about breakup etiquette?  Isn’t the Ketubah just a pre-nuptial agreement that states that the husband must provide food, clothing and marital relations to his wife, and that he will pay a specified sum of money if he divorces her?  It sounds pretty good until you consider the misogynistic process of a traditional Jewish divorce and how her ex-husband can refuse to grant a Get, thus denying her the ability to remarry.

But what are Nice Jewish Boys and Girls taught about dating?  Since I’m thinking about casting my lot exclusively within the Tribe I’m curious about what I could come to expect among the yids.  Anyone have any breakup tales to share?

You have to give the federation controlled "independent" NY Jewish Week credit. Most Jewish periodicals bitch and whine like Amy Klein about Jewish "stereotypes." But the Jewish Week,  which broadly services the entire NY Jewish community all the way from the Conservadox on the Left to the Left-Wing Modern Orthodox on the Right, is comfortable operating within such...expectations.

Offering advice on how to date cheaply, Alan Zeitlin writes of one poor soul,

On the third date, if he really liked a woman, he used to take her take to dinner and a Broadway show, but now he can only afford dinner.

The hardship of our community has hit a new level of suffering. I had heard rumors of settling for off-Broadway shows on third dates, but the continued economic crisis is much worse than even I realized.

“When the bill comes, you’ve got to have a poker face,” he said. “I’ve seen guys recently who suddenly forget they’re on a date and itemize things on the bill and look disturbed. They look like they’re in physical pain and here they went to all this trouble and they end up not looking very attractive.

Speaking from experience, it may not be the bill. I can tell you that this is most common if you find out at the last minute that your date is a vegetarian, or keeps a modifed kosher existence and only eats "dairy out." Gentlemen, when dating a Jewish Week type of woman, always, always have lactaid pills on hand. It's far more likely you will need that pill than you will a condom. Be realistic.

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"I know this girl, and she'd be perfect for you," I said to a single man-friend, "except, she has a cat." Normally, I'd never include such information, but I've wised up and realize today's man, as eager as he might seem to settle down, is still full of excuses not to.

"What do you mean she'd be perfect for me? If she owns a cat, that's impossible. Even if she were willing to send the cat back where it came from, like Hades, the fact that she took it in to begin with, says enough." That she has a big heart and loves to cuddle? "It says she's not for me, or any other normal guy. A guy who admits to liking cats is just not right in the head."

"Robert De Niro, in that Ben Stiller movie, you know Focker."

"'Meet the Parents,' and let me stop you there. That was a line in a movie. He was paid to say that crap about cats making you work for their affections, that dogs are easy. The truth is, cats are stuck up and have a sense of entitlement, and the people who like them are worse. And I don't believe those people who say they love both. If they have a cat and dog in their house, it's always because the spouse forced them into the cat. It's like those people who like cilantro. It's just one of those things. Either you love it, or you hate it. There's no middle ground."

"Forget it then. I don't know what I was thinking. I bet she takes baths, too." I knew this would really set him off.

"I bet she has incense in her house, and one of those holders for it, like mini skis."

"And she listens to Sade on repeat and puts too many pillows on the bed. And she's into needlepoint. I get it."

"She better have incense. Cat litter and all."

"Seriously, you really don't want to meet her just because she has a cat?!"

"You just don't get it, do you? It's because you're a chick. Women with cats are their own kind of crazy. It's like you half-Jews. Yeah, yeah, I know, you were raised Jewish, can read Hebrew. But you know what? Every single halvesy I know is nuts, but they're all good in bed, so you can put the knife down."

"Oh, are we?"

"It's just my experience, but I always know when a chick's Jewish in bed. She always swallows."

"Come on..."

"It's true. Jewish women hate to clean."

"..."

You're either a bath person or a shower person. That, I get. But always swallow, always spit, I'm not buying it. Besides, I'm technically half-Jewish, which acording to his logic means I don't mind some light housework. The point is, you might do either. I shower out of necessity, even though I might favor a bath. I'm not much of a bath girl, but I love the idea of soaps, of soaking the dead skin off, rolling it from beneath my nails as I scrape it off. Push back cuticles and grate all your calluses off. The big ideas come in the bath.

The night after the conversation with my friend, I took a bath. I didn't light a candle or play music, but liquid soap was invited. I watched the runnels of cloudy water, streams, really. They looked like a village, the kind you see from up above, or in a video game, where you'll soon need to pick your best players and armor to fight a Cyclopes.  Then the water looked like ocean cream, and the peak of my breast poking out was an iceberg, the great mass of me underneath the water, unforeseeable. It's nice to sometimes see yourself that way, as a ringer. When I dried off, I dialed my friend. "I didn't mention that she's quite stacked." I expected that he'd say, "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Instead he replied, "It's like I told you, it doesn't matter how much she's got going for her. It's too much to handle a woman with two pussies."

Then I took a shower.

Stephanie Klein, author of Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp, is guest blogging on Jewcy, and she'll be here all week. Stay tuned.

If you put a bunch of Jews in a room with a bunch of free alcohol, what do you get? Drunk.

Well, that, and some potential new pairings to start the year off right. Considering my second career as a shadchan, I'm happy to report a couple of hookups that resulted from the Very Jewcy Holiday Party, with (some) names changed to protect the guilty. It's in bullet-point format because it helps me indulge my fantasy of being the Jewish Cindy Adams.

• Jewcy blogger Mia Rut, who is doing pretty well in the Jewish dating department despite some initial uncertainties, met her now-boyfriend at our holiday party. He's a Jewcy commenter, but we'll just call him Bike Boy.
• The roommate of a Jewcy staffer made a love connection with a guy who randomly showed up to the Jewcy party without having any idea what it was. He's not Jewish, but we're OK with that. And, more importantly, so is the roommate.
• Another Jewcy blogger, the ubiquitous Max Gross, was offered at least two phone numbers by comely young lasses in attendance.
• My boyfriend's friend "S" and my friend "E" were not looking to meet anyone at the Jewcy party, but three dates and several racy text message conversations later, I think it's safe to call them a couple.
• Jewcy contributor Patrice "The Assimilated Negro" Evans may or may not have been successfully set up with someone I may or may not have forced to come to the party just to meet him.

...and these are only the unions we know about. If you a) met someone at the Jewcy party and want to tell your story, b) have already broken up with the person you met at the Jewcy party and want to make sure the whole internet knows about it, or c) want to come to the next party (which is on January 22nd, for all you kids who were cool enough to make it to the end of this post) and figure you should start laying the groundwork for your potential hookup now, you can post about it in the comments.

Writing for Jewcy has really spiced up my dating life. A few weeks ago some guy asked me out after I contemplated Jewish dating and I blogged the date.  But things never went any further and in fact I met someone new at the Jewcy Holiday Party.

Getting to know this new guy, we’ll call him Bike Boy, only proves what a small small Jewish world we live (and date) in.  During the initial stages of the “getting to know you” dance we both realized we were active in the organization Hazon although he was into the biking and I’m just there for the food.  And we discovered it was possible we could have run into each other before – in fact we realized we were at the same Purim party last year.

Having so much in common as well as a few mutual friends (as we would later discover through Facebook) really made me quickly feel comfortable with Bike Boy.  And as we discovered on our first date, we had a lot to say to one another (which ended around 1:00am when he finally looked at his watch and commented, “you are not going to believe how late it is!”)  A second and third date quickly followed - so lets just say things have been going very well.

However, I couldn’t help notice the other day that his Facebook profile proudly proclaimed that he was – single.  Okay, I realize it has only been a few weeks but we never really discussed what our relationship really was.  We’ve done plenty of things that could be easily identifiable as dates, but I have never really heard him refer to me as his girlfriend even though I’m pretty sure he is not dating anyone else.  We talk endlessly about food and current events and he even spent New Year’s Eve sitting on the sofa with me, a box of tissues, some Theraflu - although I was asleep by 11:00pm.  (It wasn't the most exciting of New Year's Eves, but it was sweet of him to stay with me when I was sick.) 

So how do you begin the are-we-ready-to-move-into-the-“in a relationship” Facebook status conversation?  I’m usually pretty upfront with these things, but he seems to duck the personal “what are we doing” conversations.  And I’m not sure I want to spring my thoughts on our relationship on him through a Facebook relationship update request (although probably blogging about it isn’t too subtle either).