by Suri Rosen
Alright, in case you’re thinking this is bizarre, here are a few other things you should know:
More Rules for Dating in My Community
#4. It’s possible to know as early as the first date that the match is going to work.
#5. It’s not unheard of to get engaged within a week or two of meeting each other.
#6. Dating has one purpose and one ultimate prize — marriage.
Okay, so I know Number 5 sounds really crazy but my mother has seen it happen many times in her matchmaking experience. People meet and know right away that they’ve found their soul mates.
“This is so great,” I said to Tamara. Her eyes were dancing and a huge dippy grin spread across her delicate face. It had been a while since I’d earned a smile like that. From anyone.
“Let’s get together,” she said. “Should we try the library again?”
“Well …” I said. “How would you feel about getting together at this professor’s house on Wednesday?” Fortified by Tamara, the visit to the professor might not be as awkward. “I’m delivering a meal for my aunt and I’d appreciate having someone else there to talk to him. Plus he doesn’t mind me using his computer. I can start responding to all those people who are asking for matches.” With that I gave her a knowing nudge.
“I’m still so sorry that happened,” she said with a sober expression. “Rebecca begged me for Matchmaven’s email address. She swore she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
I shrugged. It was too late now. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The email account is anonymous.”
“Absolutely. Now just tell me where to go.”
“Wednesday night,” I said, scribbling Professor Kellman’s address on the back of my transfer.
“Wednesday night it is,” she said as she pocketed the number. She pointed to my knapsack. “Now it’s time for some math.”
I groaned and pulled out my textbook.
chapter 10
Looks like George Clooney
Professor K. clapped his hands together and grinned at us.
“Come in, come in,” he said. “I’m delighted you’re here.” He wore a zippered black cardigan over an ash-coloured shirt that looked oddly stylish on his older frame. Though slightly confusing, these kinds of happy fashion accidents are known to randomly occur.
“I can’t believe I forgot to bring a flashlight,” I whispered to Tamara as we followed him to the tiny kitchen. I placed the aluminum pan filled with slices of roast beef and baked potatoes on the laminate counter.
He lifted the foil and sniffed the contents. “Delicious. Your Aunt Mira is a wonderful cook.” He pointed to the vinyl chairs. “Please, sit, sit. Would you like some fresh juice? I have a juicer. I insist.”
Tamara smiled at him. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
“What’ll it be then?” he said. “Celery? Kohlrabi?”
I stifled a groan. “Do you maybe have some oranges?”
“Carrots, I’ll make you some nice orange carrot juice.”
Why? Why the resistance to fruit?
He scurried to the fridge, bent down, and pulled out an unrecognizable vegetable.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.
She looked down at him. “I’m Tamara Greenberg.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling.
As he fed the vegetables through the juicer, I leaned over the table to Tamara.
“Sooo?” I said to her.
Tamara rested her face in her hands; elbows on the table. Her green eyes were so luminous they looked like they were powered by an internal battery pack. She had an air of contentment — she radiated marriage. “Honestly, Rain? I feel that we’re destined to spend the rest of our lives together.”
I could probably do a cartwheel of awesome right now, except for two things. And they were both guilt. The fact was that Leah was languishing and not dating. And the tension between us was slowly gnawing its way through me.
“Well, ladies, I have some delicious juice for you,” Professor K. said.
He handed me a glass filled with a strange slimy substance. It wasn’t really clear to me if it was liquid or gas. I can tell you this much though. If you bottled the sweaty air on a sealed Number 7 bus, you’d almost certainly get something that looked like the contents of this glass. I needed a diversion because there was no way I was going to actually put that stuff inside my body.
“Hey Professor K., did you write all those books in your living room?” I asked. I gently shook the glass, swirling the contents.
“One or two,” he said. “Would you like to see some of my work?”
We marched single file to the living room, and what followed was a guided tour of Planet Kellman. I shot a glance at the droopy ficus plant that stood near a tiny crack of light next to the brown velour drapes. I inched over and furtively dumped the bio-concoction in the soil. As Professor K. continued pointing out books to Tamara that were penned by his late wife, I settled into the taped-up seat in front of his computer and opened my email account.
It had happened again. Messages from another twelve people requesting matches filled my inbox.
Tamara sidled over and glanced over my shoulder. “Wow. Maybe just set up an automatic response that you’re not doing matches.”
I crossed my arms and stared at the screen. My legend was growing by the day. That’s because they didn’t know that as many people as I had brought together (two), I had broken up (two). In fact, maybe Tamara was a fluke. Her cell phone rang. As she yanked it from her purse, Professor K. wandered to the kitchen.
“Anybody want a tea?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said, not so interested in risking a zucchini or broccoli blend. I opened another message.
Dear Matchmaven,
I’ve heard amazing things about you and I’m hoping you can help me. I’m thirty-two and a paralegal. I’m physically fit, have a great relationship with my family and friends, am a fantastic baker, and spend a lot of time helping out my elderly grandfather. My friends say that I’m cute looking. I’ve had no luck with internet dating and I just don’t meet the right kind of men. Maven, I’m so ready to get married. Is it too late for me to find Mr. Right and actually have a family? I want it so badly. Can you help me?
Thanks so much,
Ilana Rosenthal
Tamara reappeared in the living room, leaning into her cell phone, deep in conversation. Jeremy, obviously. Professor K. puttered around the kitchen, seemingly happy just to have people in his house.
“You already got the flight reservations?” she asked, as she dropped onto the plastic-encased couch.
I opened up the next email.
Dear Matchmaven,
I’m looking for a highly intelligent woman under the age of thirty who is accomplished, gorgeous, modest, kind, giving, financially stable, has a good relationship with her parents, is supportive, volunteers, is well travelled, reads, enjoys the theatre and fine kosher dining. She must love children, be outgoing, have a good sense of humour, and want to have a large family. Oh, and walks on the beach too. I’m a consultant who looks like George Clooney.
Jonathan Sandler
Was George asking me out?
“I’ll call my parents right away to let them know that we’re coming,” Tamara was saying.
I looked up. Tamara was biting her lower lip and nodding vigorously. Her eyes shone and she rocked side-to-side in a kind of couch jig as she breathed into her phone. I mouthed, “What’s up?” and Tamara pointed to the empty ring finger on her left hand, then crossed her fingers and grinned. I hooted and patted her on her shoulder. It sounded like a proposal was in the pipes! The scent of chamomile announced Professor K.’s return to the living room. He shuffled into the dining room and sat down.
“I think she finally may have met the man of
her dreams,” I murmured.
“Okay, Jeremy,” Tamara said. “Talk to you later.”
After a brief pause, she said, “Me too,” in a soft voice and then hung up.
I grasped the plastic arms of the desk chair and rolled forward. “Sooo …” I said.
“Jeremy wants to go out to Vancouver on Sunday to meet my family!” she yelped and then lowered her voice. “This sounds very promising. I think he’s going to propose!” I flew to the couch and grabbed her in a bear hug. “My fingers are crossed too,” I said.
Professor K. clapped his hands with delight.
Now that he was part of the inner circle, of course.
chapter 11
I’m Not Exactly a Dog
While Tamara and Jeremy were off in Vancouver, the emails kept rolling in.
Dear Matchmaven,
I heard that you can do amazing matches for people in the community. I’m so frustrated I simply don’t know what to do anymore. I’m a thirty-nine-year-old pediatric surgeon who also does cellular research and have published in numerous journals. I love children and enjoy helping people; I volunteer as a medical clown for the kids in the hospital. I’m no movie star but I’m not exactly a dog either.
Maven, you cannot believe how awful I present on dates. I get so nervous I’m reduced to a puddle of terror and laugh in a weird and crazy way. I don’t have time to meet anyone on my own and I could use some tips on how to do this right. I’m dying to get married to a girl who keeps kosher and Shabbos.
Could you help me?
Best regards,
Reuben Kahn
I began to consider sending out a form email out announcing my resignation. I mean, it was a short and meteoric career with a 100 percent success rate after all, so why not retire on a high note?
But it was the next one that made something catch in my throat.
Dear Matchmaven,
I haven’t heard from you so I thought I’d give it another shot. I’m a little worried that my last email to you was a bit on the negative side. My fiancé broke off our engagement two months before the wedding. And then I was disappointed when this really cute lawyer who hangs out at my aunt’s house started going out with someone else, and now they’re serious.
Matchmaven, I’m feeling so awful. I’ll be honest — I’m considered on the pretty side. I can be an incredibly loyal and loving friend. My family is great. Even my immature sister can be sweet sometimes. I’m so incredibly lonely and hopeless now and wondering if I’ll ever get married and have a family.
Please will you help me find my mate?
Leah Resnick
I closed my eyes and willed my heartbeat to slow down to a reasonable rate.
The pain of Leah’s description of me (“immature”) was overshadowed by her affirmation of me (“sweet”), which was overshadowed by her misery (“hopeless”).
What we had here was an extra-large serving of over-shadows. I had caused her even more despair by bringing Jeremy and Tamara together. I racked my brain, wondering who else would have the influence to get Ben to give Leah another chance, but I came up blank.
An achy feeling tugged on my stomach. I had no choice in the matter.
Ben was over and done with and now I was going to have to use all these emails for Leah’s benefit. I was going to find Leah a husband!
And I mean really. How hard could it be to make another match?
Okay, I take that back. It was impossible to make a match. I didn’t even know how to begin. All thoughts of homework or review completely vanished as I attempted to sort through the matchmaking requests. At 10 p.m. I was still sitting at my desk poring over the emails but my cell phone just wasn’t sufficient for the task.
I bounced downstairs to the empty kitchen to check out the privacy situation. Glancing at the hospice schedule hanging on the wall, I got good news. Leah was on a shift. Mira, Eli, and Bubby were all in bed for the night. Perfect.
I plopped down at the desk, my hope booting up the computer.
The first thing I did was open MazelTovNation. Nothing new was doing there.
The next step was to scan the roster of emails in Matchmaven’s inbox. Somewhere in this list of letters was a dynamite man, searching for his Leah Resnick. I may have blown it with Ben, but I now had a second chance.
I scrolled through the messages and counted thirty-three people. I set up a table in Word with separate columns for men (nineteen), women (fourteen), age, and preferences.
I wasn’t quite sure of what to do next. There were ten men in their mid to late twenties. Excellent. I carefully examined their letters. Were they financially stable? Polished? Good-looking? Normal?
I considered establishing a Nerd Index for the really challenging cases from a scale of one to five. A one would go to a person who appeared normal and had only slightly annoying habits like inappropriate laughter. A five would apply to someone with mastery of Klingon or an addiction to the Weather Channel.
I studied the emails of the ten men but without CliffsNotes to interpret what they were really saying, I wasn’t certain what kind of people they were. If someone describes himself as good-looking, is that less reliable than “others say that I’m good-looking”? It seemed that more of the men were concerned with physical appearances than women. Was that a coincidence?
Aaron was a math person, so he and Leah had the sciencey thing in common. She’d done her first undergraduate degree in chemistry, thinking she’d become a pharmacist, but decided that she preferred working directly with patients. Daniel was quirky, but he sounded solid. There really wasn’t an ideal mate for Leah. She was fragile now. One bad date and she’d be more discouraged. Can you really take two less ideally matched people and make it work? Maybe Tamara and Jeremy really were just a lucky accident. Most people present themselves as perfect, although my clients, for whatever reasons, trusted me with their flaws.
That’s when I got the idea.
I’d do a practice match! Try to assist some of the souls who were begging for my help. And then I’d really know what I was doing. Two names jumped out at me, Ilana and George Clooney. He was a real catch. At thirty-two, she was slightly older than his preferred age range, but I didn’t think it was that important. She was cute and he was good-looking. She was close with her grandfather and was a giving person.
I clicked onto George’s email again and it definitely looked like a match. My mom always said that some people had the knack for making a match, and it looked like I might possibly be one of those people after all.
“What are you doing?” a voice said behind my shoulder.
I spun around in my chair. Leah stood behind me in a grey sweat top and a long slinky skirt that hugged her slender frame.
“I, I, I’m working on a paper.” My heart pounded as I maniacally tapped the sign-out button on the Matchmaven account. “I thought you were at work at the hospice.”
“I changed shifts,” she said. “Can I get the computer for a second? I need the printer.”
“Sure.” I nodded. “Let me just exit.”
The email account finally closed, bringing up MazelTovNation. I glanced at the most recent announcements.
Jeremy Koenig and Tamara Greenberg were engaged!
“Yes!” I said as I punched the air.
It was too late. Leah’s face fell. “I didn’t know you were so close to Jeremy.” My mouth gaped open. Think fast!
“He just seems. I don’t know. Um, lonely?”
Leah stared down at her hands.
“He’s so nerdy, you know what I mean?” I babbled. “Like who was going to want to marry him? It seemed so hopeless.”
“Then there really isn’t much hope for the rest of us,” she said in a quiet voice.
“But Leah you’re so awesome —”
“Rain, don’t.”
I swal
lowed as I exited MazelTovNation and the Word document with the list of names popped up.
No time to save it anywhere. My heart pounded as I closed the document with all the work that went into it. If only I could have closed down all the mistakes that had brought me here.
Do you want to save the changes? it asked.
No, not really.
Not at all.
chapter 12
A Loud Rap on the Door
On Friday morning I bounded to the back of the bus, where Tamara waited for me in our usual seats. She threw her arms around me and squealed. Guilt was biting me, but celebration won out. I really was so happy for her.
“Congratulations, Tamara! Mazel tov!”
The Groomer, one of the bus regulars, stopped flossing.
“My friend’s engaged — she’s getting married!” I shouted to him. You know it’s a pretty cool day when a guy with a foot of dental floss hanging from his mouth starts looking slightly charming.
“Do you have a ring?” I said to Tamara.
“Well, we have to —”
“Do you have a hall?”
“We think —”
“When are you getting married? Talk fast, my stop is coming.”
Tamara laughed. “Right now all you have to know about is the engagement party. Monday night at the Harmonia.”
I looked at my only friend as I leaned back in my seat. “I’m so excited, I can’t believe this.”
“I don’t even know how to thank you,” she said.
“You don’t have to. I’m the second happiest person in the city today. Okay, maybe third after Jeremy.”
She shook her head in wonder.
“How’s the math going?” she said.
“It’s not,” I said, truthfully. In fact all of my studying had become obliterated by the overpowering Drive to Match.
“Oh and by the way, listen to this,” Tamara said. “You went to Maimonides, right?”