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Wednesday, March 10, 2010


A few weeks ago, I met a rather persistent Jew. Within ten seconds of us being introduced, he asked me if I was married. When I said no, he asked me if I wanted to be, and he handed me his card. I admired his balls-out salesmanship, but I told him I was good. When he said he'd keep his eyes open for me anyway, I thanked him , walked away, and threw his perforated around the edges, straight out the inkjet business card into the closest trash can. I'll let a friend or relative set me up, but not the president of Moishe's Matchmaking. I don't want to have to buy his village a goat if I wind up marrying the woman.

I'm guessing this guy googled me and found an email address I sometimes use because he emailed me the day after we met. He wrote that he was "confident" he could find me someone, and he signed off asking this rather perplexing question: "Do you mind if a woman wears pants?" I re-read the question, wondering if perhaps I'd misunderstood what type of service I was being offered. Are pimps now wearing $49 suits from Sears and driving beat up station wagons? Will white suburban youth suddenly think it's cool to talk and dress like orthodox Jews from Brooklyn?

I thought maybe I'd been missing out all these years by refusing to use a matchmaker. Here I was wasting valuable time going out with fully-clothed woman after fully-clothed woman, when I could have been getting pants-less dates. How much easier could it be? My mother always tells me that I can't expect the woman of my dreams to come knocking on my door, but having her show up to a date in her underwear has to be the next best thing.

I quickly wrote back: "Between pants and no pants, I vote for no pants every time." I don't think Moishe got my joke and my passive aggressive blow-off because he emailed back saying, "Great! I have the perfect girl for you. What's your phone number?" I haven't written back because I'm afraid some half naked woman WILL come knocking on my door while Moishe waits in front of my building in his Buick Roadmaster, waiting for his pants-less ho to come back.


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