….due to that damned kabob Inon gave me, that probably was laced w/garlic. It kept me awake at night. Even my Melatonin wouldn’t work. So by 2:30 when I was still awake in bed, I got up to take a friggin’ Sonata to sleep. Which made me sleep far too late to make it to shul in time for the 11 am Yizkor. And so, I just waited it out ‘till I went to Levi & Chaiky’s for a patio lunch. I got there late, even. But a swell lunch it was, and was great to see them again, plus Seth/Carrie/Sydney; Assi; Ruthi’s friend Devorie & Hubby Tzemach (& his 16 y.o. daughter!), plus Fraidy’s sister named something like Dava & her hot Italian husband & kids, plus Levi & Chaiky’s adorable kids. Later on came a brother of Levi’s I’d never met, who’s a diminutive but typically Nagel-attractive guy who came out here to work w/him at MSSB.

Once again, I’m thrust into the arena of a bunch of Chabad Hasids, in various forms of OTD, still on it, or not at all. And entirely comfortable, I might add. The gut level honesty of their conversation is so real; they don’t pull any punches. Brutally frank, spontaneously funny, warm and hospitable.  The opposite of the nicey-nice or groovily-hip my side of the world attempts to be. And I like it.

So glad I got my 2nd wind and went out Saturday night after all, for Shavuot midnight learning! Between Temple Beth Am’s 5 synagogue coalition and Happy Minyan’s lively Torah slam, it was a really special night. Wished I’d also made it to some of the other noteworthy learning sesh’s, like Nessah and SoLa. But I didn’t. Still, getting home at around 3 a.m. is nothing to scoff at! Problem was, I did what I wasn’t supposed to do as a result—which is exactly what the Israelites did that we try to avoid, by doing an all nighter—and that’s sleeping right through the (service the next day where they recite) the Ten Commandments.

And so, I did the next best thing: went to You Tube and found a few clips of it’s recitation.  One was a gorgeous female accapella version, sung in a medieval rendition. The other was a super cool animated version for kids with the theme of “doing it Old School!”

With all that under my belt I went to a special holiday lunch at the Chocron’s. It was nice to see her various guests, most of whom I knew but some I didn’t. Her maid made Pupusas and there was guacamole, Majadra, feta cheese, green salad, antipasti, and a pitcher of fabulous Lichee Mint Margarita, w/Cheremoyas in it as well. She really throws surprises into her menu each time, not to mention the healthy, organic ingredients she always uses. I was in a good mood from the drink, but got a little bored after it wore off. Eventually I extricated myself, which is SO HARD to do at these meals, when you go alone—b/c there’s no one telling you it’s time to go. So you have to find it within yourself to say “that’s it, I’m outta here!” and say your goodbyes, which often take too long. This time it was quick though, b/c no one there needed me to stay on! (Heck, it’d already been 3.5 to 4 hrs!) It was still gorgeously sunny when I left, and I ended up making it home in time to go to the 6 pm Restorative Yoga class at IYILA. Ahh, it sure was nice!

Once home, the Yemenite brood were getting started on their evening seuda, their 2nd barbeque of the day (their first being lunch). The entire neighborhood shtetl was entrenched in this 2 day holiday, back-to-back w/The Shabbos, so that meant 4 days in a row they had to adhere to the halacha of no work/lights/electricity/driving and cooking after Shabbos only from an existing flame.

I don’t think I could ever do it, but bless their hearts for pulling it off.

Last night I attended a pretty darn fab Shabbat dinner at my friend Mitch’s. It was a nice agregation of people, as these things go, about 2/3 of whom I already knew. We talked so late that I didn’t get home ‘till about 1:30 am!

A year ago on the Jewish Calendar, I was on the island of Rhodes as a side trip from Israel. I was not just a little bit pissed that I’d be away from the holy city of Jerusalem during this supremely holy holiday. I agreed to go as a consolation “prize” to my original plan, which was to go to Sinai. How much more befitting, than to go to the very foot of the mountain; the very location where Moses ascended to receive the torah from God Almighty his’sef! It would’ve been the icing on the cake of a visit to the coastal area abutting the red sea. But as luck would turn out, there was a terrorist threat, so my host told me we had to change our plans. He offered a trip to Rhodes through a vacation packager. I was mortified that we wouldn’t go to Sinai! But I wanted to be a good sport, so I agreed. 

Now, didn’t Greece have the image of being a sort of Sodom & Gomorrah? If so, I was going from the sacred to the profane. And just in time for Shavuot. I was happy to hear there would be Shavuot services for the Israelis who en masse took the same trip as us, in the base of our hotel. But very disillusioned when not a word of English was spoken. (How spoiled I was, staying in Ba’kah & going to their Chabad, which was all English-all-the-time!)

So anyway, here we are, one year later on the Jewish calendar, and what am I doing for Shavuot? Am I going to any of the plethora of study-marathons dotting my little corner of the world? No. Not yet at least. I have work to do. A Kaiser job booked, and it’s a sort of rush situation w/an impacted schedule of back-to-back double sessions. So we need all the prep time we can get. And this also happens to be a Memorial holiday w/e, so I’m  trying to take advantage, and prep as much as I can before the Big Tuesday (before our Wed/Thurs casting). 

If I get a 2nd wind, I’ll try to make an 11:45 pm lecture at a Bev Hills shul w/a visiting rabbi who’s going to speak on “Tower of Power - Decoding the Secrets of Babel”. 

Tomorrow, God willing, I’m at services and then a lunch at the Chocron’s, for what I hope will be a nice change. For the 2nd day of Shavuot, I’m invited to the Nagel’s for lunch—and hopefully I can get a Yizkor service under my belt beforehand.

Chag Sameach and Shavuah Tov, Kewl Jewz!

Not Goalies, not Godless, but Goal-less. That is the essence of my ineffectuality. I simply have never had a concrete goal of any sort, that I was committed to enough, to see it through. 

Hopes, dreams and aspirations? Fantasies? Imaginations? Yes, absolutely. I still do; to this (middle-aged) day. But goals? Other than getting a degree and buying a house, no. 

How I wish I had. How I wish I was trained or brought up in an atmosphere that emphasized goals and the fulfillment thereof. Perhaps because of my father’s premature death, we never had that chance to discuss them.

And perhaps the fact that my mother was a housewife, rendered her incapable of articulating their importance either. 

But if one were to believe that, then one should presume she’d at least emphasize to her offspring the importance of the goal of marriage and children; and position us to assume said goal.

Nope. She just hoped, wished and dreamed we would. 

But did she council us as to how? How could she. It was a new world now—the “free love movement” and sexual revolution of the 60’s—and all its permutations, be it pop psychology self-help tomes or uncommitted couples merely living together—had rendered her pre- and post World War II socialization tactics moot. 

Or, did they? After all, what’s so old-fashioned, or “un-current” about finding a mate and procreating?

Still, she hoped, wished and dreamed we would. 

(Like mother, like daughter?)

And my ineffectuality in this regard has robbed her of another chance at grandmotherhood; continuity of the Jewish people; the proverbial “unconditional love”; a mere…..legacy, and all that comes with that.

And so, when I leave this earth, that’s it. Lights out; snuffed. Kaput. No offspring to mourn me; no one to carry on my legacy.

Hmmm, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. After all, who needs a legacy of ineffectuality?

I dropped by my house a couple days ago, to see whether my gardener had cleared the weeds off the property yet, per the Fire Dept’s annual regulations each spring. He hadn’t. He also hadn’t trimmed the hedge, as I’d asked him to. I pulled a few weeds myself and had fun doing it, but it’s back-breaking work to do it on the sloped backyard.

Along comes a truck and it’s the neighbor’s gardener. We said hello. We got to talking and then I let him take a look at my property to give me an estimate on pulling all the weeds. He quoted me $100. Hmm, that’s $250 less than what my gardener, Efrain has charged me. I was blown away. But it came with a catch: I’d have to hire him for monthly service.

His fee for monthlies was $20 more per month at $80, than Efrain, at $60. However, Efrain rarely touched the backyard. He mostly just did the front yard to give it curb-appeal.

I realized that I’d be spending more money annually w/the new guy. But what I’d get would be his constant vigilance to keep the entire backyard slope maintained—not an easy feat in this semi-rural part of L.A. And that includes pulling the weeds as they come up, rather than just annually after they reach one foot height and more, for a lump sum of $350. Extras like Tree cutting and hedging would be additional—as it was with Efrain.

I’d had Efrain since almost the very beginning. That’s a good 12 years. I remember those days. I lived there both alone, or I’d lived there w/tenants in the downstairs apt. All along he’d come on Saturdays (since he had a full time job), when I was usually there, and rant to me about issues w/my house, or my tenants, or my landscaping. One day I was walking from my bedroom to my bathroom naked, looked outside the kitchen window, and there he was, looking in. He saw that I saw him and he ran off. I was pissed. But I suppose it was my fault. The audacity, to think I can walk around my house naked! 

Several months later I engaged in major exterior renovation. Included was demolishing its termite and dry/wet rotted balcony ‘catwalks’ that ran the entire length of the house, both upstairs and downstairs. The upstairs one conjoined with the carport, allowing entrance and egress into my kitchen’s back door or living room’s sliding door. I opted to remove a section of the section of the upper balcony that connected to the carport. Although a great convenience to myself, it was a major security breach, allowing easy public access to both friends and criminals alike. This was realized when the house was burglarized once after I bought it, but before I moved in. The louts entered went around the back, climbed through a large, low kitchen window, and exited through the carport door. Very simple for them! Soon after that, I installed double-paned, locking windows and a security system. When the money was made available to do further work (through a re-fi), I engaged in Remodel 2.0

By cutting off the catwalk’s contiguity w/the carport, I sacrificed a fabulous stretch of balcony, for my own safety and security against said criminals. In so doing, even those permitted on my property—like Efrain—were no longer able to walk by the massive bedroom, kitchen or living room windows, to look in and possibly see me in various states of undress.

That still didn’t stop him from pledging his love to me, and trying to kiss me once. That was unnerving. I was told to get rid of him. At the time I checked another gardener’s rates, but he was unfriendly, uncaring, and quoted much more. It was then that I realized that Efrain had been giving me a below-market deal at $60/month, b/c he dug me! I kept him on due to budget issues. 

Eventually I moved out. It’s now completely rented and I rent elsewhere. Keeping Efrain on was no longer a problem I felt, b/c I wouldn’t have to encounter him. I’d just pay him monthly through online auto bill-pay.

But this time, I was frustrated that he still hadn’t done the fire-dept. required pre-burn-season land-clearance. How long would it take him to answer or return my calls, let alone drop by and do his work. Those auto-payments spoiled him. He wasn’t showing up enough! Given the unexpected opportunity of the neighbor’s gardener dropping by as I’m weeding, I finally decided to branch out and try someone else.

To get the new gardener to clear the land as early as the next day (a Saturday; the day Efrain was expected—and yet it was to be Cinqo de Mayo, a day of celebration that might have precluded Efrain’s showing up. But still; the call had to be made just in case he showed), I’d have to sever his services on Friday. A tough call to make, but I had to go forward. I was just pissed as hell that after all this time and despite my pleas, he couldn’t get it through his head to do my backyard. So maybe he wasn’t so under-market after all. 

Fortunately he was agreeable. However he stuck me with a $300 bill to cover the tree-cutting he said he and his brother did 3 or 4 months ago. I asked why he never billed me before. He said he knew he would, eventually. I told him he usually charged me $150 to cut the trees. This time he explained that he payed his brother $100, the dump $85, leaving just about $100 for himself. I was aghast. We arranged for him to drop off the laundry room key in a mailbox, so I can transfer it to the new guy. Then I tell him that if the other guy doesn’t work out, I’ll let him know, and he was okay with that. 

Then he tells me he loves me. I said, “what?” He said yes. I said, “Efrain, come on! After all these years, you STILL love me???” He repeats his “yes”. And continues on, “I think about you all the time. Just yesterday I did.”

I was a little shocked. But then again, why should I be? Locked in an unhappy marriage, I suppose he held on to his fantasy of further romance with that image he saw darting across the room from his balcony/kitchen-window vantage point, which must have etched itself on his brain. In his romance-laden latin life, he must have thought he’d one day, have a chance at it.

And me? Well, I can’t say it’s not nice to be loved. I’ll opt to soldier on and find it elsewhere, however.

Great sociological observations and commentary on the frum aesthetic vis a vis the B.T. world, by one Yochanan Lavie (a nom de guere I’d think), on 4/27/12:

“Isn’t it nice to know how welcoming and receptive the frummies are to Baalei Teshuveh? Lying to them about what a “high madragah” they’re on, for repenting, then laughing at them behind their backs? Not marrying them (unless they come from wealthy families). What kind of club is it, if you’re derided as a “loser” for joining? Maybe the Frummies know deep down inside who the original losers are.

(Note: Modern Orthodox FFB’s sometimes do marry BT’s and are not as hypocritical as right-wing MOs and Chareidim/Chassidim).”

We now revert back to what I suppose has become my life’s mission, however fleeting that may be: finding a spouse. The other night, I told a friend about a promising prospect (despite his living clear on the other side of the continent) who had initiated contact w/me through a marriage-minded website I’m on. Pursuant to that conversation, earlier today I wrote her this email, which should fill in many of the blanks:

“I finally had my 1st phone conv. w/Mr. _____ ____, last night. I was really looking forward to it. And yet I’m sad to say that wow, is he ever a boring conversationalist. Yes, he injected some humor. But it wasn’t my brand of humor. And his voice was so monotoned; he came off so dull. Nothing to cling to. Hmm, no ‘klippah’!

The phone is a difficult instrument to commence a relationship on, granted. But come on—work with it, is I guess my M.O. Use those vocal peaks and valleys to convey your personality! 

I was so disappointed and bored, that I was ready to just throw in the towel. I mean, there were literally voids of silence. This never happens with me! I’m personable enough to easily fill in those blanks. But this time I just let them ride. I wanted to see what would happen, and didn’t feel like being the one to patch them up.

And then it came: his questions about my experiences using online dating. Why? Again: what business is it of his?

[Editor’s note: As I’ve stated to this friend before, men have a tendency to want to compare mutual online dating experiences. But that conversation does nothing to enhance any relationship that’s about to commence. In fact, I posit that it can only hurt things. Better to keep these experiences to your g/f’s, not potential mates. Instead, what’s at issue is us, and our desires and goals; not our misadventures dating others. Sure, that stuff may come up later in a relationship; it’s practically inevitable. But what’s at stake here is trying to get THIS relationship off the ground, not harping on those that didn’t.]

He wanted to remark about his various experiences. I had no such interest. When pressed, I mentioned the one that I’m okay with, b/c it’s kind of funny or charming: how I met a previous boyfriend online, only to find out he lived on my street!

But I’m loathe to drag previous dates (or myself) through the mud, for this or that reason. I guess those experiences are just tales from the frontlines; the kind a Veteran won’t discuss with his kids. In this case they’re not so much violent or degrading, but rather just pedestrian, shocking, embarrassing, or yes, even humiliating. And so, its discussion can be self-incriminating too, and we don’t want to compromise ourselves that way.

He perked up a little in the end, so whereas I was ready to call the whole thing off, when he asked if he could call me, I said yes. Who knows? He may not. After all, didn’t I tell you that online dating was rife with spontaneous rejection at the whim of either party? ;-)”

OK, knowing my blog is searchable I’ll have to tread carefully here. When I was in high school, an extremely charismatic, exotically handsome albeit cunning scumbag stole a fabulous gold and opal ring my parents got for me. I never said a word b/c I felt the incident would self-incriminate me for even being intrigued with this student, who came from nowhere (possibly Inglewood, but to us that may as well have been “nowhere”, or “tha ghetto” in today’s euphemistic terms) to “transfer” to my school, Taft High. For decades I never mentioned the ring’s absence to anyone. My mother only brought it up once a couple years later, in the context of, “…you probably lost that ring, didn’t you…?” or something.

Somehow last night my brain landed on that whole scary incident, where he and his friend paid me a visit one day when my brother was home, but parents and sisters were out. Those two had a whole scheme—my innocent self figured out later—where one distracted me outside in the backyard, while the scum in question pored through a jewelry box in my bedroom. 

Several years ago I did an online search on him and it came up with nothing. This time, I’d search again. With information so much more available, there’d have to be something on the jerk. 

I was right. There’s not a lot by any stretch. But enough for me to have found out his entire name (hmm, so he was going by his middle name all this time!), his residence addresses for the past several years (yes, he’s still in Los Angeles), the fact that there are others out there with his illustrious but unusual name, and the motherload: a picture. The photo was taken at a Soul Train reunion party held by the editor of that era’s gossip rag, “Right On” magazine. Although like me he’s much older, his looks held up. By today’s standards he’d still be considered extraordinary looking. So whereas the others at that reunion looked bloated and aged, he stayed in shape and his face’s bone structured was chiseled. That he was wearing what appeared to be a cheap knock-off of an already sleazy line of tee shirts, that being the renowned style of Christian Audigier threads embraced by the “douchebags” the world over, spoke volumes. 

But he was horrifically ugly to me. What a piece of cheap scum! I considered taking the option to pay the online investigation service to get a full report on the guy. I could find out his criminal record, marriages/divorces, jobs, etc. For only a fee. Absent that, however, his phone number was published on the site and I could call the sleaze. 

I thought about it. 

But what could I say? Perhaps he’d straightened out his act and was living harmoniously w/wife and family. That would be disruptive. Perhaps he’d taken turns for the worse, and was an angry abuser, however. He could turn the tables on me, research where I live and harm me. He could locate my property and vandalize it. 

I had to close the laptop and close the subject. If punishment is meted out to those who deserve it, by now he’s endured his share of misery. And I don’t need anymore. There’s no way I’d ever get that ring back, no matter how one could sweet talk the guy into a meeting. It’s long gone, either on some other girl’s finger, or melted and turned into something else. 

Strangely enough, however, our careers have overlapped in one small way: according to IMDB, he appeared in a 2009 film as a Bartender. But it must have been a total career one-off, however, b/c he has not one other credit. 

I suppose all I have in my defense are my words. I’ll come back later to print what I’d have to say to him—were he, his friends, family or his descendants to search his name on the web—in a subsequent post.

I never thought this blog would be searchable. I truly thought that like my last blog on eblogger, it’d get buried so deep into the ether that no one could locate it even if using full-on quotes. Well I just noticed it IS searchable. Therefore, I had to change the names of certain individuals or company names, to protect either them, or myself—should they come running after me! 

Hello Imaginary Friends,

It’s Sunday after the week that was, once again. My days were pretty mundane as usual (worked some each day from home; jogged or took a yoga class, attended to my responsibilities, went to my local Farmer’s Market, tried to keep my tiny apt decluttered, but that’s an ongoing battle when you don’t have much space to hide a lifetime’s worth of stuff in.)

But there were a few highlights by night:

Last Saturday, 2/11: Mom, Morley and I went to Amy’s to celebrate her 2/13 birthday. I brought a plethora of gourmet appetizers & Mom & Morley brought Zankou Chicken as dinner entree. The kids were adorably wonderful as usual. As the party got under way, Rick announced what he’d just seen online: Whitney Houston died. Not a surprise, given her drugged out haze over the past decade, but shocking it happened then. Amy got another fabulous Salt Caramel cake from Lark bakery, and it was shared with and enjoyed by spontaneous visits by neighbors Kim & Steve Huffman and family, plus Dave and Jennie and family. The kids went wild playing with their friends, and we enjoyed the little performance they put on.

The sugar high I got from the cake gave me the wherewithal to  make it to the last few minutes of the fabulous Shag Animal Kingdom art opening at Corey Helford. After parking my car, I literally RAN to the gallery, where I got in by the skin of my teeth as the guard was about to close it off.

Free posters were given to the 1st 500 guests. There was a line around the block for that. But I happened to meet a super sweet young couple outside the now-closed gallery, and he told me he had scored two posters, from which he gave me one. How cool was that? We exchanged digits and now I’m FB friends w/the girl, in the hopes of attending more openings together, perhaps!

Sunday 2/12: Marie France’s 2/10 birthday was celebrated at her charming pied a terre, which is looking pretty fabulous after having finally purchased and furnished it. Lovely spread, terrific atmosphere, yummy food, nice guests—but not without some oddities, like the presence of her old dear friend Elliot, who seems to be afraid to say hi to me even though we went on one jdate together last year. What a freakazoid! I’m going to see her today for Shawn Pelofsky’s “Batthouse” event at the Comedy Store, so I’ll ask her what’s up with that.

People who behave like that, I must surmise, simply don’t like themselves. In this case, the reason is thus: He, an indy-film producer, doesn’t like that he was thrust into the position of having to use a service like that, and therefore, he doesn’t like that in me there’s a memory he had to resort to using that vehicle to meet women. My response? Get over it, dude. The internet is there. People use it. So suck it up and acknowledge that you had to, too!

Later Sunday Night, 2/12: Watched the Grammy Awards from home. Whitney Houston’s passing cast a pall over the whole thing, but they gave a tasteful tribute. There were so many performances, that very few awards were broadcast. In fact, 45 mins into the program, I think they gave out only 2! Adele swept all awards she was up for, bless her heart. Loved that I saw her at the Hollywood Bowl a year ago last summer.

Monday, 2/13: Amy’s official birthday. Wow, age 49! Felt like I was getting sick. Sooo sick. But I had a long awaited, long-canceled date w/one “Tony” that night, and if I’d have cancelled it, it’d have painted me as a flake. I so didn’t want that title, and I really did want to meet this guy who sounded so nice on the phone, so I grinned & beared it. He had me meet him at the Beverly Grill’s “Honor Bar” on Beverly Dr., which I’d never been to so I looked forward to this nearby jazz bar. 

When I walked in, there he was. A guy only a year older than me, which is rare these days b/c they all want someone younger. His face had character features (large nose, bugged out ears, eyelid surgery) but he had a warm, effusive smile, was well-groomed and put together. He’s thin, in shape from running, yoga and soccer. His manners were impeccable. In fact, it was the first time in years that I actually got butterflies in my stomach from a date, an internet date at that. The conversation flowed so easily that it was hard to converse without their renown burger in my mouth! The basil and cucumber martini was delicious. The jazz band playing sounded terrific. And the bar itself? Great design, terrific low-lighting and all around slick vibe. He said he loved the place, and went there often. 

In my now buzzed mind, I remember thinking, “well if this doesn’t work out, who gets the bar?” seeing as I envisioned myself making it a habitual stop. And also because I was getting messages he was enjoying my presence enough for it to continue. Finally ready to depart, he asked if I’d want to take a walk. That’s a sure sign they like you; they want to eek out the last drop of the evening w/you.

But it was as we exited The Honor Bar that he reiterated the notion of the walk, but this time, with this qualification, “so let’s walk…you to your car” that I sensed something different. He now had a goal: to get rid of me? Hmm. I wanted that walk to happen, to see if I could assess whether I was right or not. So, we walked, and I purposely passed the street my car was on. We walked some more, and chatted more, and he was sure nice. He then complimented the way I look; that it’s nice I’m athletic, and even went so far as to say I’m “statuesque”. I pointed out where my car was, and he walked to it. Feeling heady, I gave him a hug goodbye. But he was totally taken aback, and didn’t know how to respond. So, he gave me an uncomfortable peck on my cheek. I sensed his discomfort and apologized for being so “forward”. He said, “oh no, no, that’s okay.”

He looked forward to experiencing an inaugural indoor soccer game the next day, explaining that indoor soccer is so different from outdoor. I was intrigued as to the difference. He said he’d call to let me know how it was.

And he didn’t. Not the next day, nor the day after, nor anytime thereafter. So much for dating someone about your own age. Even at 54, they STILL think they qualify for someone younger/better, I suppose.

Tuesday, 2/14, Valentine’s Day. With no date (as usual; when am I ever dating someone come this holiday? The times I have, I was never happy with what they got me or where they took me. Chalk that one up to mismatched partners who have no clue what my tastes are) I had no plans. Until I got an email about another free wine tasting at the Cask on Pico. There’d be the owners of two Israeli wineries on board, and without plans, being around kosher folks on this gentile holiday, seemed like a great idea. I invited Shoshanna, but as religious as she is, she actually had a first time Valentine’s Day dinner date, herself! So I contacted friend Mitch to see if he wanted to drop by last minute, and he said he would.

It was a vibrant crowd. Lots of people, many bottles to taste between the two winery’s labels, and little or no food—which was great. B/C I didn’t have dinner, wanted to make it at home, and didn’t want to fill up on the fried fare they usually serve. So it was nothing but wine and cornnuts, the perfect combination for me for that time and place. 

It took seemingly forever for me to make it to the front to receive my “pour”. A couple stalwarts got their pours, but insisted on staying at the front to discuss things with the pourers. Soon a young guy poured for me—not the store or either vineyard owner, but a guy whose job it was to pour and discuss the wines. I asked him about what he was pouring for me, and he commenced his shpiel. But it wasn’t really traditional wine-speak. He used his own vocabulary, whether accurate or not. He looked me straight in the eye as he spoke; never getting distracted by someone more important or more male or perhaps more rich, in so doing. Of course he gave the same dedication to all his customers. Soon Mitch arrived. OMG what a nut! He wore a blanket over his shoulder! It made him look like an eccentric about to take a nap. WTF? He started chatting me up about anything and everything, and I just couldn’t get over this blanket—actually an authentic Mexican poncho, as it were, which I guess is very fashionable right now, but was the oddest thing on him b/c it was so thick it looked like it should be on his bed instead. Or maybe as a rug on his floor! Soon I pulled away from him long enough to say I wanted to try the next one, at which point he joined in to get his first pour. He made a comment about needing to watch his weight, using the cliche “my girlish figure”. He then looked at the guy pouring and said something like, “which is something you don’t need to worry about!” The guy responded with a self-effacing comment and somehow I just thought, “hey, that’s MY pourer you’re talking to!” Suddenly I found myself caught between a friend I wanted to disown due to his eccentricity, and the pourer who was 2 generations younger. I filled the rest of the time chatting with Dahlia, a woman I met at the last tasting, meeting her daughter w/two piercings between her eyebrows, and her Beverly Hills based Israeli mother. I texted Shoshanna and chatted some more with the pourer. Along the way, he gave me his card.  ”I like that name, Eden”. Jeez that wine was making me uninhibited and confident. But I would never have been so, if he hadn’t fed into it. I chatted somemore w/Mitch, who finally retired the blanket to a seat back. He told me how great it was that I knew about so many things going on; would I go to his Shabbat dinner that Friday night, and how can he find out all the things to do in town. Oh, and I like art? Well he just bought about 11 paintings from a gallery that features Jewish art. “The Michael Hittleman Gallery?” I asked. Yes, he answered. Had I heard of Jacob Steinhardt? Yes, I responded. We talked about his field of computer science/programming vs. the world of arts and culture, in terms of it being my forte. He wanted to know more about it but I said I was impressed w/his world and wish I could program. He said it was easier than it seemed, and could show me how. Hmm, interesting!

As he wandered outside the tasting room to the store, Eden poured me more selections. It was getting later, the crowd was dispersing, so there was less noise to distract him. He explained each one. This time, using descriptives like “sexy”. I said I liked his choice of adjectives; not the standard ones, like fruit-forward, nice nose, long finish, etc. Then came the last one. What’s this like? I asked. “It’s sensual” he said with the sheer confidence that I’m right there with him. Hmmm. We now graduated to sensual. And I’m liking the attention! This kid was horny, thought I. But who cares? Everyone’s horny at some point. And he was elegant in his gray suit, huge blue eyes and flawless skin. I’m not known to be attracted to blondes, but many rules are eventually broken.

We continued to chat about all kinds of things, like him asking if I was going to tomorrow’s Intl. Food and Wine Fest, which I’d planned to but didn’t formalize it yet. We talked about the “Foodie” biz, food blogging, restaurants, their Tierra del Sur restaurant, and so forth. Early on I remembered that I’d met a member of the Herzog clan, the family who own Regal Wine Corp. That guy was goofy, but his large eyes were similar to Eden’s. So I was sure they were related. (It was later established there is no relation.)

The Cask was closing, as the store owner, pourers, and vineyard owners had a dinner rsvtn. at Shiloh. But I had one more wine to try! Eden had to leave, but ran back to pour it for me. That’s dedication! Now snackered, Mitch showed back up. Fully decked out in his pancho and now a beanie on his head that looked torn, he appeared as if to be homeless! I said, “wow, what a character you are, Mitch!” He walked me to my car in the back, and we bade goodbye. I drove the few blocks home and made dinner. Yum. 

Mid-dinner, I realized I’d better go online to acquire a ticket for tomorrow’s foodie event. My heart dropped to my stomach when it stated none were left. Quick! Find his card. Yes! His cell is listed. I texted him my SOS: “Hi Eden. Jane here….” and told him the problem. 40 mins later, a response: “well the good new is…I made a call and there will be tickets for sale at the door! I wouldn’t want….you to miss out.” 

Not the response I wanted to hear exactly. Freebie would’ve been nicer. But that was obviously the best he could do, so I went with it. I’d go tomorrow. I continued my dinner, had a little more wine, and….continued to text with the guy till about 11:35 pm. He was getting a little randy, so I ended it at his last comment. 

Wednesday, 2/15: Hung over from all that wine, dammit! Yuck. And that cold I thought I was catching Monday night? It went away. But I was feeling so yucky that I made coffee to pick myself up. Then I got jittery. I ate a salad. Then I felt nauscious! Was it another bout of food poisoning or something, from the new sprouts I got last week at the farmer’s mkt? Yuck. It was getting late. Now it was after 6, the festival’s start time. Shoshanna texted she wasn’t going to spring for the entry fee, and I felt like shit, so I had to let it slide. Wasn’t gonna say anything to Eden, but inevitably decided to text him what was going on; that I wouldn’t be making it. He wrote back saying how amazing it was; how much fun it would’ve been if I were there, etc. But that it would all end at 9 pm. Eventually, around 8:20 I was feeling better, but pointless to go there then. Happy to have gotten better though; sooo hate food poisoning!

He wanted to get together at some other point and asked when I wanted to meetup. Love how he used that word. Has “meetup” crept into parlance due to the website meetup.com, or vice-versa? Anyway I asked if he was Shomer Shabbat, which he said yes to, which made me realize we can’t get together on a Fri or Sat, so I suggested Thursday. He said he had another wine tasting at The Cask til 8; would after that be too late? I said not if my Friday work schedule permitted, and I’d find that out Thursday day. 

Thursday, 2/16: By mid-morning I received the email invite to the tasting, and promptly forwarded it to Shoshanna or Ilan to see if they wanted to go. Ilan had plans; Shoshi said she might be able to. There would now be a dilemma about what to do after the tasting if Shoshi was there and I departed to “meetup” with Eden. But I was willing to deal with it, in order to have someone with me at the tasting, so I wouldn’t be alone. And I certainly did NOT want it to be unpredictable Mitch!

After working on our new project (to cast a mere Stunt Guy & Body Double for Patrick Dempsey on another L’Oreal), I felt that horribly familiar scratchy throat and sneezes, which could only mean that THIS TIME I was getting sick for sure. No allergy this time; I was getting sick. Dammit! Was just about to screw the wine tasting, when I went for a jog and wouldn’t you know it, Shoshanna texted me to say she’d make it to the tasting by 7. I texted he back I couldn’t be there before then. In other words, she twisted my arm to show. But I knew I needed to rush to get there on time, cold symptoms and all. That girl has such a way of motivating me to do something I’m on the fence about doing. Good for her; bad for me!

So I rushed as much as I could and probably got there by 7:15. There were way more parking slots available than on Tuesday night. I pulled into one in the back, and there was a guy who came outside to talk on his phone. I got out of the car and saw it was Eden. He was so sweet, welcoming me so sincerely; not like the jerks I’ve met before who flirt w/you one day and forget you another. We chatted a bit, but I wanted to rush in to see if Shoshi was there so she wouldn’t be alone. She wasn’t. Not yet, dammit! I texted her, but she was still en route home from a rehearsal or shoot.

There were about 5 pours this time. All were nice, one called “Appelation” stuck out to me as the best of the lot. There was another kid pouring there; Eden was instead either mingling w/the crowd or frantically trying to find out where the absentee vineyard owners were. He sat down w/me at the bar as we each sipped some wine, at which point I told him that when I was ready to leave, I wasn’t gonna publicly say anything about “meetcha at Playa in a few minutes” or anything like that but rather that I’d just leave and see him there.

At 8:00 Shoshi texted she’d be ready to come down but I told her it was closing. She asked me to have them hold it open, but no such luck. I told her I was off to have drinks at Playa, which is where I chose to meet this Eden after the tasting. She asked if she could come or if it was a date. By then Eden called to ask “Fedora, or no Fedora?” which was cute I was asked. I said to wear it, b/c I figured he’d be wearing his (nice, dark velvet) kippah, and wanted to camoflage it. At that point I asked him what he thought about her joining us. I simply reiterated her question. He opted to not have her come. I texted her back that it was a “sort-of date”. 

So I walked into Playa, scratchy throat and all, and my head was spinning enough to the point where I asked myself why I needed another drink after that wine made me so woozy. I sooo did not want another hangover! But by the time Eden arrived and we sat, ordered and got our drinks, the wooziness diminished. So now we got to sit down side by side and finally make these words that we’d been texting for pages, come alive. And many more words. Poor kid has colitis and had to alter his diet by eliminating out fruit, vegetables, sugars and gluten. So that restricted what drink he could order. He’s also a young divorcee who was married 1 1/2 years, no kids. We were done and the place was cleared out pretty much, by 10:25. He still had energy, but didn’t want to join his friends who texted him a dessert invite at a local kosher restaurant. He hinted as to what was next but I figured I’d just go home. Finally I said “what do you feel like doing?” not meaning me w/him, but just wondering what he wanted. I think he said he wanted more wine or something. I mean, the kid wanted to linger. Somewhere. I remembered Mr. C, that newly and stunningly renovated hotel on Pico and Beverwil and suggested that. He’d been there before and dug it enough to go for it. But I asked we do it in one car, so we drove to my house, dropped off my car and I got in his. 2 minutes later we’re at the oh-so-local newest boutique hotel in L.A. with mafia-like lineage (Cipriani’s). We meandered around the ground floor, took a look at the bar and restaurant, saw the semi-hip, important looking folks lingering, and took a seat in the lounge. He got us each waters, cuz that’s all I could handle at that point. We chatted about this or that, mostly about the hotel’s appointments and aesthetics. We were in agreement that they did a terrific job. This kid is admittedly tactile, which is a trait I share. He’s got good aesthetics too. In fact, perhaps he’s a metrosexual, which I think is cool—b/c most the guys I end up on 1st (and last) dates with have no sense of tastes. Why it mattered w/him I don’t know though, b/c he’s just a kid and isn’t going to be my b/f ever, let alone husband. But maybe it matters b/c I have to stare at he who I’m with, so that’s that!

We finally exited into a cold wind that kicked up. Got in his Honda and he drove me home. Once there, he hinted again about wine and I told him I had some but didn’t want to open a new bottle b/c I wasn’t sober enough to enjoy let alone finish it. Just then it occured to me I had something fun: chocolate liqueur! “Shmerling’s?” he asked. Yes. “It’s ours.” Cool, so now I could offer him something of his own. 

I so didn’t want him to come to my property, what with the Israeli landlord in the front house and the Israeli neighbor in the bottom apt; I just didn’t need them to see me with a young, blond orthodox stud. But WTF I did. It’s Thursday night, and around Inon’s house, that means they prepare for Shabbat by cooking up a storm. And now that the matriarch of their shul, the very controlling Yona had pretty much set up digs in the room that his niece Daphna vacated by taking a break from her UCLA studies, there was bound to be some activity going on there, even this late. But their window blinds were all shut tight, which was perfect! So there ya have it, Mr. Eden is now entering my apt.

He liked it a lot. Loved the design, thought it was cozy and warm. I showed off the heater, a subject of an earlier conversation as he complained his doesn’t really work. I drifted into hostess mode, as I struggled to find something to offer him that fit into his diet. It was impossible! And he claimed he didn’t want to eat anything and hated when people doted on him. I had so many wonderful items from that day’s farmer’s market, but his diet wouldn’t allow him to enjoy any of them. He was happy with just the Chocolate stuff. I really didn’t need the caffeine chocolate has in it but I drank a little anyway just to join in, which he seemed to require. 

All along, this kid was so sweet, and kind, and mild-mannered. He never said a negative word about anyone, really. Except the wine-guys who stood him up at the tasting. He didn’t seem to forgive that, and I appreciate his conviction. Other than that, he complimented my turquoise jewelry, loved the concha belt, tried it on—and looked very cool in it! Why, the guy has great hips I noticed! His black blazer’s fabric was a firm cotton ticking. It said “Zara Man” inside it, which I guess means it didn’t cost a bundle, but was on-trend. And it was made fine; not cheaply at all. His pants were slim-lined, which I loved not just for the look, but the fact that he had the kind of legs that could pull the look off. There was some interest going on at the front pockets that I wasn’t too into—maybe a pleat. Oh well, no one’s perfect. Difficult not to notice, however, I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge, coming from this sweet, sincere mensch-like kid. (Pls note I use the word “kid” as an exaggeration; he’s indeed well into adulthood.) And that was…..well, his package. It just sort of seemed like he had it goin’ on, know what ahm sayin’? But even though he was in my house, and it was after a date, and it was late, I still felt it disrespectful to touch on the subject. Certainly not to touch the subject either, in that case!)

But after the belt-fitting incident, I sort of had to walk away b/c I got a tad shy. I must have fussed around with putting stuff away or the restroom, or what not. But the apt. looked so overlit so I toned it down by igniting bathroom candles, dimming the lights, and lighting the cool red ones and a sparkly one. Voila, instant atmosphere. 

Eden revisited a complaint about how he’d been on his feet all day for 3 days in a row and his knee was hurting him. As he tried to assuage the pain with a self-massage, he explained to me about the tendons that surround and support the knee, and how one can induce therapy by massaging a certain area. He then demonstrated on me, and wow, he was right. It felt good. 

Earlier in the night, he explained that he was really into doing and learning massage. He found a sight where massage students can practice on each other, or “barter” their skills as they learn the craft. This all sounds so hokey in writing, but the subject came up when he saw me sort of writhing in my backless bar-chair at Playa. I tolerated it for the first hour, but after that, the discomfort took hold, and my lower back started hurting, going down my left thigh even. He noticed it as soon as I rubbed my back, and called me on it. That’s maybe when he launched into the massage discussion. He didn’t want to be a pro; he seemed just really entranced at the notion. Again, this sounds real cliched. But when you realize where he comes from—that being a yeshivish upbringing in an orthodox Jewish family of 10 (yes! he’s the 7th!) kids, which is a lifestyle that condemns intra-gender touching, let alone sex, before marriage—you can understand why, perhaps, the notion of something as standard as massage is a sheer novelty. But again, he stated and repeated in a the most sincere way, that he truly derives benefit from knowing that the other person is enjoying it. 

Of course, then Jane riffs on that subject, comparing the new trend of walk-in foot massage places, how they’re cheap but you have no privacy; how the competitors must be pissed they even entered the market, let alone whether they’re legal (do their practitioners even have licenses? I never see them on display!)

OK, so now that his instant knee therapy made me all but putty in his hands, I was seduced. I accepted his offer for a full massage. How could I turn that down??? My body is nothing if not a walking ache. Whether it’s ballet to blame or genes, scoliosis and bad discs and consequent surgery have left me in chronic discomfort. Thank God it’s not excruciating the way it was just prior to surgery, but it’s there. 

And because there’s no chance this ol’ dame is gonna marry that young cat, what’s the point of worrying about tznius, or playing the shomer negiah game? It’s pointless. It’s not me. And this ol’ aching back wanted deliverance!

So I plopped (fully clothed, in the long dress and hoseiry) onto my bed. But it felt weird. So I admitted I was wearing the wrong clothes and he advocated I put on something more comfortable. I jumped at the chance and switched into clean light drawstring lounge pants and a tank top. Yay! Mood lighting ablaze, Brazilian Bossa Nova on Pandora, and we were ready!

What followed turned out to be massage within a modest framework: fully clothed, albeit with light fabrics, never even bordering on those erotic-massages we hear or see ads about. He did it with a hand for anatomical therapeutics. Like someone authentically interested in assuaging my very aches. We talked a lot of the time, about the very subject. Generous w/his time, he must have spent 1/2 hour working on my  backside, about 20 minutes on the front, and then maybe another 1/2 hour on the back. And NEVER asked for me to do the same. That’s rare. They usually work their magic and then exploit your physical weakness and/or arousal to take it further. Not this kid. Of course I was so aroused I might’ve welcomed that, but thankfully it didn’t happen b/c that would probably be a “conversation ender”. 

We did embrace thereafter, cuddling cozily into each other’s folds, as he came down from what I now realized took a toll on him: his heart was speed-beating. I mean, the guy didn’t just sleepwalk through it, he worked it during this exercise!

Eventually he left. It was probably pushing 4 am by then. Perfectly enough, he seemed to have averted an upheaval at the front house, even though sensored-lights illuminate and a security camera is known to broadcast movement (which I advised him how to dodge). “Hashgacha Pratis” realized itself another way as well: my downstairs neighbor arrived home not 5 minutes after Eden left. So he never heard the noise nor saw the evidence!

Friday, 2/17: Pre-prepped L’Oreal by day. Struggled to overcome lack of sleep and yes, a bit of a hangover. Not feelin’ good, in other words. Dammit! I was invited to 2 Shabbat dinners (Mitch and Ruthi) and wanted to see Fado singer Ana Moura perform at The Broad Stage. So three options that night! I had no ability to do any of them. So after work I went for a jog, showered, and stayed home. Only much later, during dinner, did I finally start to feel better.

Saturday, 2/18: Not a productive day. Read, wrote a lot in this here journal (as you can tell!), banged up JDate for a few minutes. “Met” a nice guy from Bev Hills who ichatted a date request for drinks at the Polo Lounge (?!?), then called me. What followed was a conversation that ran about a fucking hour, throughout which I realized he wasn’t for me, b/c he has little or no intention of getting married. So glad I got that out of him before I bothered to meet him. He tried to sway me by wording then re-wording his argument against it, but it didn’t work. Long story short: he has a jaded perspective on marriage and kids, based on what he sees and hears around him. Although he may be right, no need to self-reinforce it; there are examples of it working quite well all around, too.  If you read this blog, you’ll know that guys who feel that way are my pet peeve. Anyway I surmised that meeting him would be counterproductive to me since I’m seeking someone interested in marriage and that yes, they do exist. Sorry I had to miss my 2:30 yoga class to figure it all out, however.  

Went for a jog, and then got ready to go to Marie France’s house for our pre-show repast (lovely dinner of fabulous appetizers!) and then to The Comedy Store to see the Shawn Pelofsky’s terrific “Bathhouse” gay comedy show, featuring performers Wendy Ho and Julie Goldman, plus a few other creatively entertaining folks. What a hoot! I already love Shawn; Julie Goldman is ever-terrific, and newcomer in my book Wendy Ho is a sight and sound to behold. Wow, what a shtick she has! A blonde haired, blue-eyed white woman playing a ghetto fabulous black woman on the town in both song, dance and action—never, not once, breaking character! Julie’s routine is based on her butch lesbian image, against her east-coast Jewish upbringing. What a counterpoint those two make! I was so looking forward to hearing new material, but unfortunately she did pretty much the same show as when I last saw her. Oh well, Marie France got to hear it for the first time and LOVED it. I’m sooo glad of that too, b/c MF takes me everywhere, so finally I get to show HER a good time!

Sunday, 2/19: After staying up so late writing and reading last night, I woke up at 12:10 pm today. WTF? Whoa. 10 hours! Guess I needed it. It’s almost 2 pm and I still have coffee to drink. Happy Sunday folks; Happy President’s Day Weekend!