Dating Kosher

Dating Kosher

If diamonds are a girl’s best friend, then a man willing to provide them is a girl’s second best, or at least very good acquaintance. This is scripture according to Shoshanna Rosenblatt, self-proclaimed spoiled Jewish princess. The problem is finding such a man in time to accompany her to her father’s wedding where she would be seen and judged by countless important people. The outfit had to be perfect, the man had to be stunning, and her look had to be flawless: it was absolutely imperative that she be fabulous.

But things aren’t going as planned for Shoshanna; her recent boyfriend abandoned her for a business trip, ex-boyfriends are either unavailable or married off, and she is running out of resources. Enter Nate Cooper, a blue-collar Irish air conditioning technician; the furthest thing from Shoshanna’s ideal man. Well, at least he had the stunning part down. In her desperation, Shoshanna bribes Nate into pretending to be her new Jewish boyfriend and escorting her to the wedding. What were a few white lies told to friends and family? And anyway, what could possibly go wrong?

Dating Kosher

by

Michaela Greene

ISBN-13: 978-1523251933

ISBN-10: 152325193X

Dating Kosher

Copyright © 2016 Michaela Greene

All rights reserved.

Published by Kibitz Press 2016

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. 

Prologue

Okay, I’ll admit it: I, Shoshanna Yolanda Rosenblatt was a spoiled Jewish princess. I’d never eaten at a Taco Bell, or had a home perm (who does those?) and I didn’t believe a guy can really love you without giving you at least one piece of decent jewelry. In my experience, the jewelry was more satisfying than the guy, anyway. But in my own defense, you have to understand that a Jewish Princess is not made, but born into her position and never, ever without a solid role model.

Other than absolute necessities, I didn’t cook, didn’t clean and my idea of getting outside meant a trip to the mall. I was definitely a walking stereotype.

My family is considered upper middle class, although my dad, the lawyer (I know, how cliché) always said we were comfortable. I couldn’t understand how comfortable equates to one’s financial status. To me, comfortable was my Uggs, bought before Oprah outed them, before they were so hip. I stopped wearing them in public, for the most part. But they were still great for around the apartment.

Anyway, my life was pretty good; I was looking the best I ever had at a perfect size two. My hair had finally grown out after an insane encounter with a new stylist who had somehow convinced me that a short razor cut would suit me. Needless to say, after
that
debacle,
he’d
been cut from my life.

But all that was behind me and I sported a cute short cut, fringed with ends that didn’t dare split and perfect highlights that were maintained more regularly than my father’s precious Jaguar. On top of that, I had a decent job working as the receptionist for an upscale spa in, a great condo (a short train ride from said job) that I rented from my Dad, which Mom had decorated. If I could just keep my constantly shedding cat, Armani, off the furniture, my abode would be perfect.

A frequent visitor to the condo was a jeweler named Max Levine who called himself my boyfriend. I was dripping with gold and diamonds, except, of course, on
that
finger but other than that, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Well, maybe a little. I could have asked to not be so goddamn bored with my life.

Mom and Dad’s divorce had been final for over a year, so thankfully, most of that drama was over. After that, every Tuesday evening was spent with Mom in the city over cocktails and sushi and Sunday mornings consisted of brunch with Dad at a greasy spoon near where he lived with his fiancé, Susan Weinman.

Dad had bought the house after Mom cleaned him out, making her more comfortable than he. She had gone back to interior decorating full-time and had been generous enough to offer to decorate Dad’s new place for him at half her regular rate. Dad had respectfully declined.

Mom now lived in a condo in the city to be close to her clients. She was very involved in the arts scene, going to galas and openings almost every night of the week, but Dad and I knew her well enough to know she was very unhappy. Her most stable relationship was with her therapist and even that was tenuous at best. But there was only so much I could take of Mom; she had always been as much a drama queen as I was a spoiled fashionista, and there was no changing a leopard’s spots.

Or so I used to think.

Chapter 1

It had been an especially tiresome evening spent at a restaurant opening (Mom had been a consultant on the project), where the food had been a heinous fusion of Mexican and Japanese cooking. I lay in bed with Max at his apartment. He was still breathing heavy, long after we’d finished having sex. A sexual dynamo, he was not.

I looked over at him; his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath. A bead of drool threatened to escape the corner of his mouth. He was truly disgusting. It was then that I realized just how bored I was. How my life had become shitty when I wasn’t looking.

“That was horrific,” I said out loud.

“Huh?” Max grunted.

“What? You climb on top of me like I’m a horse, ride me for six minutes and that’s it?”

“Maybe if you didn’t just lie there like a
dead
horse, I’d have something to work with.” He shot back, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Whatever,” I said and got out of bed to take a shower. Go to sleep you loser, like you always do, I thought. I hopped into the shower, rinsing the memory of his clumsy hands on my flesh down the drain. Is this all there is? There’s gotta be something better in the stars for me. I began to seriously weigh the pros and cons of Max Levine.

Pro: the jewelry

Con: he’s an utter bore

Pro: the diamonds

Con: he’s a clumsy oaf in bed

Pro: his parents are very wealthy

Con: his parents are insufferable

Pro: oh, who am I kidding; it’s all about the jewelry. That’s all there is. I make my own money and if I need anything beyond my means, I just guilt one of my parents into providing it for me. I am, after all, the product of a broken home…

By the time I emerged from the steamy bathroom, fully dressed, towel-dried hair thrown up into a ponytail, I had made up my mind. Max Levine was history. As predicted, he lay on his back, snoring loud enough for the Shapiros in the next condo over to hear. I grabbed my purse on my way out, considered writing him an explanatory letter, but didn’t see a pen within easy reach and I couldn’t be bothered to go searching one out. So I just left. He should have just been happy that he got a goodbye fuck, even though he had been right; I did just lay there, waiting for him to heave a few times and fall on top of me with his post-orgasm grunt the way he always did. I had never been a dead lay before; how could I have allowed it to get like this?

No he didn’t need a letter; he was smart, he’d catch on in a day or two. I glanced down at my tennis bracelet; but damn it all, I’d sure miss the jewelry.

Chapter 2

When I got home after leaving Max, I stripped off my clothes and fell into bed, tired and wishing my last lay had been a decent one. It was impossible to determine how long it was going to have to last me. I never had a real problem in the dating arena, but giving it up too soon in a relationship had proven to be disastrous in the past. I had to make sure a guy was worthy of buying the cow before I gave out the milk. One-night-stands were like a facial: you need one every once in a while to clean things out, but it’s not something you want to do too frequently. And of course, I had to be careful; being kind of slutty in high school had gotten me a lot of eager bedfellows, but also a nasty case of gardnerella and a reputation to match. No, I wasn’t prepared to go down that road again.

Max had been a disaster from day one. I could finally admit that, should have seen it coming.

We’d been set up by a mutual friend at a gallery event. The artist was showing his photographs: mostly pictures of landmarks of Jewish significance with his own commentary (scrawled in red Sharpie) superimposed over the photographs. This is art, my friend Naomi told me. I suspected otherwise.

Max had walked over with two glasses of wine. “Naomi tells me I’m supposed to introduce myself to you,” he said, handing me one of the glasses.

“Thanks,” I had said, pondering what kind of slow death I would treat Naomi to. This guy wasn’t good-looking, was dressed in a bad suit and horrible department store shoes. He was not even close to being in my league. I always took great pride in how I looked, from spinning classes and yoga to the flawless outfits put together by either myself, my mother or my insanely talented personal shopper, Julio.

“Come here often?” he asked.

I looked at him, trying to ascertain if he was serious or trying to be witty. It was impossible to tell.

Maybe it was the full moon, the free flowing wine, or it could have been my jumping ovaries, but I was surprisingly amused by his awkwardness. Somehow we ended up in my bed at the end of the night.

I had been dazzled more by his diamonds (glittery pinkie ring) and the thick bling around his neck than his below average looks and pathetic come-on lines. Maybe I thought I could make him into something, change him from the ugly duckling into a swan. I should have been smarter. No woman, nor even Julio was up to that task.

Although I shouldn’t have any regrets, I did get quite a bit of jewelry from him. A special blow job on his birthday had netted me the exquisite diamond tennis bracelet, a few exuberant bucks when I rode him one steamy July night turned into flawless emerald earrings.

But now, as I lay under the covers, staring at the tiny spikes that made up my stucco ceiling, I knew it was over. Tears threatened to erupt from the corners of my eyes just as Armani, my freakishly intuitive cat, jumped on the bed and shoved his forehead into my chin. I pulled my hand out from under the covers and gave him a scratch between the ears, causing him to knead the bed with his front paws while a deep rumble emanated from somewhere inside him.

But no matter how much comfort Armani bestowed upon me, he couldn’t stop my tears from falling.

“Why am I crying?” I asked him. “Max was a putz anyway. It’s not like I loved him.” Armani continued to knead, ignoring my questions.

The tears remained a mystery but as the last one dried up and sleep was only moments away, I swore to myself and Armani that next time I would be smarter and not blinded so easily by the promise of jewels and gold.

* * *

Work was never a great place to meet men. Let’s face it; men don’t come to spas much. Well, some did, but they were either gay or sent by their wives for a back wax (yuck) and I had heard too many horror stories about friends dating married men to allow myself to go down that route. Anyway, I was trolling for my own husband, why would I want to share someone else’s?

That said, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to meet someone outside the workplace, maybe at a synagogue function or as a set-up through a trusted friend.

So when I walked into work that Monday, the idea of meeting a man, any man, wasn’t even on my radar.

Once situated at my desk, my wireless headset snugly in place, enormous latte in front of me (but not too close to the keyboard, I was still getting grief over that last disaster), I glanced at the clock. Time to open. I got up and turned the lock, pushing the door open slightly to allow a stream of the fresh morning air into the lobby. The building seemed a bit warm; perhaps I’d check on the thermostat if the air didn’t kick in soon, I thought.