Frum N' Flipping

I'm halfway through my weekly attempt to murder my driving instructor, when I ask to book a lesson on the eve of Rosh Hashana .(I decided the kitchen will survive without me for an hour, seeing what a lousy housewife I am anyway) "So we're on for next Friday?" "Oh, sorry. I'm going to Uman." "You're going to Uman?!" I'm sure he's kidding. He's not Breslov, not Chasidic, not even Chareidi. This is the perennial joker, who sarcasm I never get. On second thought, maybe he's serious. It makes sense. He needs to pray for survival. It's a miracle I haven't yet killed him and me both (several near misses with lampposts, buses and helpless puppies) and I've paid him ahead for the next batch of lessons, so he can't back out. "I'm really going. Want me to Daven for you?" He pulls out a list, hands me a pen. "Add your name" I look at the list of names, written in traditional plonit-bat-almonit s...

You'd follow me on twitter! A while back I was wishing I could post the only status I care about on facebook. Now I can do it! Real time updates from the life of a serial dater.

"I'm not wearing my best dress. Because I'm saving my best dress for your wedding" Says my 6 year old niece. Sweet. "You're so silly", her cousin says to her. "It will be too small for you by the time she's married, for sure!" WTH? It the forecast so dismal? "No. How can you say that? She can have a Shidduch tommorow, and bingo be married!" Pipes up another little voice at the Shabbos table. Thanks for the faith, darling.

Since time immemorial, an ancient mating ritual has been practiced, amongst the ultra orthodox sect of judaism, in the holy land of Israel. All details are sacrosanct. Our top investigative reporter reports back to us, below. Time: 8 PM on the first day of summer Bein Hazmanim. Place: The Inbal hotel lobby, Jerusalem. A row of white cabs pull up in the traffic circle. One by one, out step the girls. Each girl is fully made up and in her finest, each is clutching a purse, and each is wished good luck, with a wink, by her respective cab driver. The guard, standing at a wooden booth beside the potted palm trees, inspects their bags. Again they are told good luck, this time with a grin. One by one they push though the revolving door, into the heart of the Israeli shidduch scene. Inside stand the young men. They wear black hats, and suits. They can be distinguished by their ties. Beards are optional. They stand, by the reception desk and the souvenier display cases. The chairs are taken by...

I feel sorry for my husband. Not because the first time he'll see me wearing glasses, with no makeup, it will probably be too late. Not because I'm capable of getting lost in my own neighborhood, and anyone relying on my map reading skills is sure to get led astray. Not even because I'm a secret blogger, and as one commenter put it "won't your husband mind you sharing personal details of your life". (More on the blogging when married topic another time). No, all that he'll be aware of on dates. I began to feel sorry for my future husband, really and truly sympathetic, when I cleaned out the family refrigerator on Erev Shabbos. I filled a garbage bag with rotting vegetables and decaying dairy products. I scooped out chunks of solidified pasta, prepared for dinners long gone, and piled high in the sink their former containers. I used up an entire roll of paper towel, scrubbing weeks of acquired gunk off the shelves. I wouldn't have done it, I wo...

I've dated many men, in the last few years. They have some things in common. For a start, they are all single. Also, they are all in their twenties. I also go out with women. Mainly married women. Their ages range through the twenties to sixties. Don't be shocked. Hang on, and I'll explain. I'm in town, meeting up with a pal, one of the rare occasions she's in the hood. I get a phone call. It's my friend's mom, who since her own daughter recently acquired a new last name, has sweetly joined the ranks of those attempting to marry me off. "Someone wants to meet you. She has a guy." "Right. But I don't meet women. Who is he?" 'She won't tell me anything. She wants to meet you first." I entreat and I protest, but eventually I give in. The meeting is set up for the following night. Wednesday evening I get home from work. I choose an outfit which I hope the mystery woman will like or at least approve of, touch up...

"In our frum and yeshivish circles it has become acceptable to send 2 to 3 year olds to a mixed pre school, where boys and girls: play together , walk to the park holding hands (Non shomer negiah at such an early age!) , eat at the same tables.. (someone could think it's a shidduch date!) I feel it's inappropriate " Kudos to C.S from Yerushalayim , who wrote to Hamodia raising this important issue. While we are on the topic, I'd like to propose that hospital nurseries should also be separate. I mean there our Kinderlach are doing something much worse than holding hands, they are sleeping together!