All the Casanovas open with some killer line.
I stick my foot into my mouth every single time.
If I were a great artist, I would use my expertise,
Turn this foolish scene into my brilliant masterpiece. -- Don Conoscenti
That's the chorus of a song by a singer-songwriter I stumbled upon while trying to think of something to say to a girl in a music club in Kentucky.
In the midst of wishing I knew what to say, I listened to this troubadour with a whole song about wishing he could know what to say.
In a few weeks I'll turn 33 and, sadly, I realize I'm long past being anything "for my age." I'm no longer cute for my age, talented for my age, a good reader for my age. All qualifications and special considerations have long passed. There's nothing I can get away with now because, "After all, your honor, he's only 33."
A lot of people my age feel pressure from their families to get married, but I think my not being married is the only thing keeping my grandmother alive. Bebe often tells me she just wants to live long enough to see my wedding. I'll say "I do" and then she'll immediately keel over. It's a lot to bear.
Bebe likes to pretend she's open-minded and doesn't care if I date non-Jewish women. I should point out that I am technically Jewish -- both my parents were born Jews. I never went to Hebrew school but we did celebrate Chanukah -- until the year we couldn't find the menorah. Then that was that: Bring on Christmas!