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With apologies to MAD Magazine
They only want the best for me.
There's nothing better than coming home from a bad date and shopping for someone else.
1. Return all emails. 2. Return phone calls 3. Follow up on all the guys I contacted . . .
Our heroine decides she has no choice but to return to online dating . . .
Amy Klein's 'confessions,' in graphic novel format. Illustrated by Amber Shields
If someone's life is not worth at least one page of Google search results, does that mean he hasn't accomplished or written anything of enough import to be broadcast online?
No more. The world has changed and so has dating. Today, when we date someone, it's no longer just the two of us. No. Now, it's always a threesome: you, him and that all-intrusive technology. It's what I call a "Menage a Tech."
Some relationships progress naturally and quickly. Others reach a certain point and plateau. Still others are forcibly stunted by the desire -- however long it lasts -- to keep things casual.
Maybe gay marriage is just what the world needs to make weddings sane.
Every year, as the third Sunday in June approaches, it happens: along with the ads for neckties and iPods come the endless conversations on single-mom blogs
and parenting sites about what to do on Father's Day with kids like mine who don't have fathers.
Invest in her interests, but sincerely. There is nothing more attractive than a man who gets to know the heart of a woman by investigating what is important to her
Joe Morris looks pretty good for a 79-year-old widower, his son Bob says in a new memoir. Despite the fact that Joe needs a hip replacement -- not to mention a dry cleaner for his yellow cardigan -- he has "smooth, tawny skin, silky silvery hair," is "fully conversant with the idea of happiness, especially his own," and, although it's only been a few months since his wife of 50 years died, he's about to start dating -- much to Bob's consternation
I think you made one faux pas, however. Religious Jews don't allow a razor to come in contact with their face when shaving, which is why Orthodox Jews use only electric shavers instead of razor blades.
I've been considering giving up on Israeli men, at least the purebred Israeli men, the sabras. What's painful is that I say this as someone who has made my home in Jerusalem, and I am hesitant to make harsh generalizations about Israeli bachelors, especially as Israel celebrates its 60th.
Local Students Lobby at the Capitol
A group of University Synagogue religious school students paid a springtime visit to Washington, D.C., where they
Status used to be about social hierarchy -- whether you made a good living or were born into the right family or had achieved prominence in your community. But these days, if you say the word "status" to Generation Single-and-Facebooking, you may be understood very differently
Parshat Acharey Mot (Leviticus 16:1-18:30)
From now on, I'll only go on dates in pajamas.
In an earlier column I talked about the differences between an "almost" and a "beshert," and how I will always have a special place in my heart for that "almost" who helped me to find myself and the person that I'm supposed to be with. What I realize now is that as time goes by, my "almost," just like nearly every memory of old friendships, is starting to fade in importance.
There's a time in every relationship when its strength gets tested. For God and Abraham, it was that whole sacrifice your son bit. For Esther and Ahasuerus, it
was the "please don't kill me and everyone I know" thing. For Mr. and Mrs. Zebra, it was are you coming on this cruise with me or do you want to stand in the rain all day and argue about it? For many couples, the not-so-shining moment is the NCAA basketball tournament
Sometimes I wonder if the SMS was created not to ease communication between people but to protect the egos of single men and women. By asking people out by text, they don't actually have to hear a blatant "no." And if the other side accepts the offer, SMS courtships already set low standards of communication.
I know how to handle men, but their mothers? An entirely different challenge. Until I moved to Los Angeles, I had never been "hit on" by women. Now women twice, thrice, even four times my age (I call them mothers-on-the-prowl) approach me nearly every Shabbat. Sometimes, they attack in the middle of the Amidah.
It's been three months since we called it a wrap. We'd become different people than we were and outgrew the priorities we used to share. To say I'll miss his sarcastic jabs, one-ups or whoops of victory when he opens a single paycheck worth half my yearly salary -- that would be a stretch. But the competition did push us to improve our craft, to excel, to outdo ourselves, along with each other.
Once, I went out with this guy who was really traditional -- not Jewishly, but when it came to dating. He believed in chivalry: If we drove somewhere, he would always run around to my side and open the door, even though it took longer and I was perfectly capable of opening it myself.
And the man who uses the pick-up line "let me rescue you from your early 30s neuroticism" is definitely the wrong man.
Israel may allow 1,400 additional Ethiopian Falash Mura to immigrate to Israel.
He saved a stub from Dec. 24.
I know this because I saw it on his desk.
After we'd broken up; when we shouldn't have been talking, and when I certainly shouldn't have been in his home.
Where are they? I doubt I just overlooked a giant pool of eligible men. I always notice talent. Is there some underground society of bachelors who are just waiting to spontaneously surface? That's what my friend Ann and I think. It's the only explanation. Somewhere there must be a secret clubhouse where all these good guys are hiding, where all the other fish are swimming.
As time passes, the memories that you built with your "almost" lose their tainted nature, and you can once again smile at them. Life changes, and before you know it, you walk around the corner and into the arms of your "beshert," and all you can wish for is that all of your "almosts" will find theirs as well. So while I'm sitting around with my family this Thanksgiving, I'll be sure to add a silent thank you to all of my "almosts," as they helped me find what I've been searching for.
But they can't give me credit -- only God can. It says if you make three successful shidduchim, three matches, you automatically go to heaven. And this High Holy Day season I was thinking that I'd really like an automatic pass. ("Go directly to heaven. Do not pass hell; do not collect $200.) Three should be easy enough. I meet so many guys who just because they aren't for me doesn't mean they wouldn't be good for someone. What if this is my purpose in life? What if the point of my meeting so many people is to serve as what Malcolm Gladwell, in his book, "The Tipping Point," calls "The connector?" I feel heady with possibilities.
I went on what was arguably the worst date ever. Thank God, it was neither tragic nor violent, but in the category of terribly disappointing, it was the worst.
It's the season to be sorry. It's that time of year when we go over all of our deeds, things we have done to others, to God, to ourselves and ask for forgiveness -- and grant it to those who need it from us.
Having now completed my unsuccessful world tour of bars, parties and weddings, I'm looking for new ways to meet new men.
The weird thing about mixed seating in synagogue is that sometimes couples are all over each other. Inappropriate during prayer time for sure, but somewhat more distracting when one half of that couple happens to be a guy you once dated.
A Jerusalem rabbi once told me that when we're born, God whispers the name of our beshert -- our soulmate or destiny. The cleft above our lips, he said, is where God places a finger, to silence our ability to reveal the secret.
The mantra had jump-started the two-day workshop for women titled "Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women," which I attended not long ago at a conference room in a hotel near LAX. The program was created by a woman named Allison Armstrong, a self-professed expert on men, and it promised to foster better communication, understanding and respect between the sexes.
We all remember the buddy system from grade school. When you'd go to the ocean, you'd have a buddy. When you'd go to the museum, you'd have a buddy. And now that you're old enough to hit the bar scene, you should still have a buddy.
In the last year, my younger brother has been asking for and taking my dating advice on an almost daily basis. It's a fact that continues to astound me. This isn't to say I don't have anything worthwhile to say on the topic, despite the fact that I'm married now and raising two kids. It's more that I've simply never had this kind of relationship with him before.
Our first date was a wonderful six-hour meander. It started with dinner, then an inspiring speech by the half-Jewish feminist Gloria Steinem, followed by more food, dessert and decaf. En route back to my car, he finally unburdened himself: He wanted to be a Jew.
During a Shabbat dinner, I blurted out the idea that maybe we ought to "marry first and date later." Not literally, of course, but in terms of how we approach both dating and marriage.
Men are the scapegoat for lost and neurotic twentysomethings. Men and women and the dating scene really are the ill topic of choice for so many of my otherwise smart friends.
I met "Mr. Nice Guy" more than three years ago, and I cherish our special connection -- he's affectionate, understanding, a good listener, open-minded, practical ...
I had been on more than 200 first dates in Los Angeles.
I'd learned exactly what I was not looking for.
I'm an accomplished exec. I worked hard to get here. I work hard for the money. But work never gets in the way of dating, and dating never gets in the way of work.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Rabbi Aryeh Pamensky holds the secret to your incredible, unbelievable and unparalleled happiness," announces the emcee in a dimly lit nightspot where hundreds of Jews are gathered, each hoping to attain what half of Americans find unattainable: a happy marriage."
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Parshat Vayigash (Genesis 44:18-47:27): It was brief. Jacob, head of the House of Israel, met with Pharaoh, King of Egypt
What else explains the collective amnesia on display?