I’m busy writing. I thought of a chick lit trilogy and have been busily working on it. Here is a little bit of what I’ve written so far. I’d LOVE feedback, it would be greatly appreciated!!
The working title is Single
With a disgustedly frustrated grunt, I throw my jacket on the floor of the hall closet in the foyer of my condo. I pitifully drag myself over to my overstuffed chenille couch where I could comfortably sink into deep despair. It was the perfect couch for sinking and despairing, also for making out, which is why I bought it.
Another craptastic first date from Hell which, by now, has become the story of my life and the theme of my blog. My life in dating Hell. It was time to feel sorry for myself again.
This one, Marcus, couldn’t even carry on a conversation to save his life. He interjected my thirty five and a half minute monologue, because basically I spent the longest thirty five and a half minute date of my life talking to myself, with an occasional and well thought out “Um, yeah.” or “Um, no.”
He had me meet him at a popular sushi place. At 6:30. On a Saturday night. I should have been alerted by that blaringly obvious red flag but,I chose to be obliviously color blind. I also should have known that his conversation skills were lacking because of our single phone conversation, which was exactly like our one non-hit wonder date. I did all the talking and he did a lot of grunting. I always try to keep in mind that some people just are not great phone conversationalists. I’ve always been a phone talker, I had a ton of practice back in my high school days and it’s been a constant, non-stop talk a thon since. I’m also a very in-person talker. I can’t help it, I’m very outgoing. I used to be super shy but I got sick of clinging to my mothers skirt. By the time I was 8 or 9, I could work a crowd like no ones business. I was the beautiful, charming daughter. Everyone expected great things from me, or at least to be in a successful marriage, the very vocal arm piece to a business man or doctor.
Don’t even get me started on the fact that his profile picture from the dating site looked absolutely nothing like the guy who sat like a statue next to me at the sushi joint. What is up with that, if you’re going to join a dating site, use a picture that wasn’t taken from your trip to Europe in your senior year of college. We are ten years out, at least. Thankfully it wasn’t a busy time of night and there wasn’t a familiar soul in the place, mostly cool old farts getting in a quick bite before hitting the 7pm show. Mortified wouldn’t have begun to describe how I would have surely felt if I had been seen here, with him. Snobby, perhaps. I probably to quit being like that but I’ve seen what’s out there, it’s not exactly promising.
My cell phone alerts me of an incoming text from my best friend, Amanda. She’s married and is about to pop with twins. Her husband is fabulous and she’s probably the luckiest person I know. I hope to be her someday, when I grow up.
I call her back because I hate texting, I’m so old fashioned, I’d rather do this thing called talk. “Manda, hey.”
“Hey Josie. So?”
“Ugh. Serious ugh. There is absolutely no one out there for me. All the good ones have definitely been taken. And even the good looking bad ones have found some poor woman to make miserable.”
“Aw c’mon Jos, that bad?”
“Dude, you have no idea. The guy didn’t talk. It was like he was completely incapable of saying anything other than um. This date physically hurt me. I feel sick.”
“Well, think of it this way, blog fodder.”
“It’s getting to the point where it’s not even worth it anymore. I’d quit blogging in a second if my handsome, smart, awesome conversationalist, and very wealthy potential husband were to show up instead of these duds I’ve been wasting my time with. In. A. Second.” That’s a very big and telling statement from me because I write a very successful blog called Single which, obviously, is about being single. I entertain and amuse almost 200,000 visitors a week, bring in a decent income and completely am in love with what I do. “I don’t think I can take this anymore. Ugh, I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to get a post up while it’s fresh. Call me with the baby news tomorrow!”
Amanda was hoping to get her membranes stripped at her OB appointment tomorrow. She was told by another one of our friends, who has a one year old, to have her doctor do that because it brings on labor faster. Well, that and sex which she insists isn’t happening with her mountain of a stomach.
“It’ll happen Jos. Somehow, it always does. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“You sound like my mother. Night Manda.”
I sit and stare at the television which isn’t on. Actually, I’m not a big television viewer, I’m online too often. I keep trying to get into all the shows that everyone talks about on Twitter and Facebook but I can’t seem to get off of Twitter and Facebook to actually pay attention to these shows so they end up just being background noise. I think my dog Oscar is into Glee though.
I open up my laptop, stare at the blinking cursor and think about what I took away from my date tonight, hoping that I can translate my thoughts into a semi entertaining and relatable blog post.
Men use old and outdated pictures of themselves just as often as women do. Naw, that’s a given, everyone already knows that. Except me apparently. Because it never ceases to shock me when I’m sitting across from a guy who weighs AT LEAST 20 pounds more and 1/2 the amount of hair than the profile picture boasted.
Maybe mute guy knew about my blog (not to brag but it’s been featured in all our local newspapers and news channels) and was sure he’d end up as a story, thus becoming silent and intimidated. Yes, that was it for sure and the next woman he goes out with will find out how interesting he is which will surely make him better looking, one would hope.
Post done and published, I hop on Twitter to see what’s going on. Really, not much is ever going on there. It’s probably more boring on Twitter than sitting in a beauty shop listening to old grannies brag about their grandkids.
I decide to check out a couple of the dating sites that I’m a member of. Just in case some new hottie who meets all my criteria happens to have just signed up. Although, I have alerts set so that when that DOES happen, I receive an email so that I can hook myself up. And also? It seems that true hotties don’t use online dating, they have too many real life matchmakers working for them, sisters, friends, friends of friends.
I’m a pro at online dating. I’m 32 years old and am one of the original members at FindLove.com, the most successful online matchmaking in existence. I’m their failure story. It seems that, once a guy goes out with me, he marries the next woman he meets. I’m lucky for them and unlucky for me.
My mom thinks the reason I can’t find someone to marry is because of her. I’m not sure how that’s possible but somehow everything ends up being about her. It must be such a burden, poor woman. She also blames herself for my sisters marriage issues, which I’m truthfully not sure if she’s even having any. Somehow she has singlehandedly screwed us up and tarnished us from having any type of normal relationship, or so she firmly believes. She’s so convinced that she’s made both my sister and me crazy when it comes to having functional relationships that I actually, for a time, believed her and started seeing a shrink.
After a few months of my weekly sessions with Dr. Jacobson and gut-spilling sessions on her butter smooth, tan leather couches–and finding fodder for my blog in all this, she declared me extremely emotionally fit and in touch with myself and strongly suggested that I stop listening to my mother, who sounds like she’s the one who could use heavy doses of butter smooth couches and gut spilling sessions.
Done and done.
I wake up around 10 with my dog standing on my stomach, panting hot breath in my face. I am still on the couch in my clothes from disastrous date number 5789.
I jump up, I hate when this happens. I almost feel like I need to take off these clothes and put on pajamas so that I can enjoy my morning coffee as I normal would. So I do.
I sit on the stool at the breakfast bar and stare. I’m really good at that, the whole stare into nothingness thing. I wonder if most writers are. It throws people off when I start doing my “focus stare”, I think they must imagine I’m in the throes of thinking up the next fabulous Oprahs reading list story, which seems to be a bigger deal than the NY Times Bestseller list. Oprah can make or break someone. I wish I had that kind of super power, I’d use it for the power of good.
I decide that, while I drink my cuppa, I should once again peruse the personals. Maybe this time, go against what I believe and expand my religious horizons. My luck with my tribal members has been zilch, it was time to move onto the goyim. Make my mother proud. My parents have always told my sister and me, since childhood, we could only marry Jews. Anyone else and good luck paying for a wedding. I figure, if worse comes to worse, I’ll elope.
My landline rings and I figure it’s my mother so I answer it with a fake yawn.
“Josie?” the voice is familiar, I can’t quite place it and I was on the one phone in my place that didn’t have working caller id.
“HI! Long time, my friend! It’s Laurie Stein.”
“Laurie, Hi!” I hope that doesn’t sound as fake as it felt. I haven’t talked to her in months. No other reason other than I was super flaming annoyed that she uninvited me to stand up in her wedding. I mean, how do you do that to someone you’ve been friends with since the first day of your sophomore year in high school? One minute you’re asking someone to be a bridesmaid and the next, you’re unasking them? I guess I shouldn’t be mad anymore, I didn’t have to buy a hideous dress. And wow, were her bridesmaid dresses hellacious. I got to wear a slinky little black Juicy number with a plunging back and cowl neck front. I ended up having sex in my car with Lauries sister Julies date. I was drunk, I don’t normally do those types of things. Well, on very, very rare occasions, I might. He was gorgeous though, I couldn’t help myself. Apparently, neither could he. I should look him up, if only I could remember his name. Oh, that sounds so bad.
“Listen, I know you are still mad at me, I know how you get. But honey, I have a fantastic guy to fix you up with.”
My ears perked and my forgiveness was overwhelming in it’s generosity.
“Mad? At you? No, don’t be silly. I got over it AGES ago. In fact, I’ve been meaning to call you but I’ve been crazed with conferences and writing. How’s married life, Laurie?”
“It’s wonderful! I’m so in love. I’m so happy…” I stopped listening. I mean, I’m really glad that she found someone who can stand being around her for longer than short term because really, she’s one of those small dose type of friends. Anything longer than short and I want to punch myself in the face. But we’ve been friends forever and will probably continue to be.
“So now. Tell me about this strapping young feller.” I interrupt. She’s happily married off, living the dream. Let’s focus on the pressing matter at hand–me. No, I’m not normally that selfish but I’m getting old and desperate and much farther into my prime that I’d like to admit.
“Honey, keep an open mind, OK?”
I wince, she can’t see me though so it’s fine. When anyone has to sell someone like that, it’s not a good sign.
“Um…OK.” I sounded like last nights date from Hades.
“He has his own congregation. He was married but she was cheating on him so he kicked her out. Married less that 5 years, no kids. Divorced over a year. He’s perfect for you.”
“Wait, what? What do you mean by him having his own congregation? He’s a RABBI?”
“Yeah. He’s a rabbi. And he’s hot. Smoking.” she giggled. It was kind of disturbing for the word rabbi and smoking to be said in the same sentence. I tried briefly to imagine what it would be like to have sex with a rabbi. How would I be able to face G-D during Yom Kippur? How would I be able to gossip with my friends,”You know the rabbi at that Synagogue? Yeah, I gave him a blow job.” I mean, I’d probably go to Hell, if us Jews even believe in that sort of stuff.
“Laurie? A rabbi? I’m like the worse Jew possible. I can’t even remember which comes first, Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashana, which I can’t even spell right. How am I going to go out with a rabbi? What if he tests me on my Jewish knowledge? Can you even have sex with a rabbi if you aren’t married?”
“I’m giving him your number. You’re gonna love him. I promise.”
“OK, fine. Fine. I’ll go out with your rabbi. Wait though, is he Reform or really Jewish?”
“Conservative. But he doesn’t care if you aren’t, as long as you’re born Jewish.”
“You’ve met my mother, I was born to a Jewish mother.”
“His name is Roberto, he’s from South America. He’ll be calling sometime later today. Gotta run honey. Let’s get together for coffee next week, would love to catch up.”
“Thank you Laurie, for thinking of me! Bye!” Oy, what did she get me into? A rabbi?
My mother is going to be so excited. I’ll bet a doctor and a rabbi are equal in fantabulousness to her, she’d kvell if I ended up with either one. Oy, the bragging she’d do. I can hear her now, my son in law, the rabbi. I don’t think I’ll tell her. She’d start pushing it without knowing if he is even my type and that’s just the kiss of death for any potential relationship. Most likely, he won’t be my type. Seems that, sigh, no one is.