A ROOM FULL OF RACHELS

I don't like using the term "Jap" to describe that certain type of whiny, obnoxious woman with an overly exaggerated sense of entitlement. The word is offensive to Jews, Americans, and princesses - not to mention the Japanese. Instead, I've always referred to those Real Housewives of NYC wannabes as "Rachels." I'm not quite sure why, and I apologize to any women named Rachel who may be reading this, but the name seems to fit. When I think of the name Rachel, I see a mousy woman from Nassau County with a nose job, wearing sunglasses that cover her whole face, holding an overpriced designer handbag, trying to hail a cab in front of Saks, while yapping on her cell phone about the amazing shoes she just bought with daddy's credit card. Maybe I've been traumatized by all the "RACHELnycs," and the "RCHLINTHECITY77s" on Jdate, or maybe I was molested by a woman named Rachel and I've suppressed the memory and I now take it out on all other women named Rachel, but that's what I use to describe a woman who will demand a minimum six-carat diamond of her fiancee. Again, if your name is Rachel, sorry. It's not you, it's me.

So when my friend invited me to be his guest at some "Single Jews Who Like to Throw Their Money Around To Show How Much They Support Israel, But Are Really Just There To Hook Up" benefit, I was hesitant to go. I had no interest in standing in a room full of Rachels looking for their "Iras" - the guys who actually want to buy a woman a six-carat diamond. But I went anyway because I grew tired of my friend begging me to come just so he wouldn't have to go alone. As expected, I was surrounded by a group of Jewish Wall Streeters in search of their Rachels, and I spent most of the night playing with my cell phone, wishing I wasn't too cheap to get an iPhone so that I could have more to do with my phone than figure out what time it was in Helsinki.

I'd ordinarily have just chalked the evening up to a waste of my Tuesday night and of my friend's two-hundred-fifty bucks, but after my date with the Colombian last Saturday, I knew I'd gone to the benefit for a reason. I needed to learn to appreciate how amazing it is to be with a "non-Rachel" - someone so devoid of pretention that she suggested we go to the Guggenheim on Saturday afternoon during "Pay What You Wish" hours. Someone who actually picked up the phone when I called and didn't make me chase her. Someone who told me she doesn't understand women's obsessions with diamond rings, and that she'd wear a ring out of a Cracker-Jack box, if the right guy gave it to her. Someone whose ass I'll hopefully be sniffing real soon.

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