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February 2001 Issue

Jewish Girls and The Force

By Rob Dixter

Ever since I was ten years old people have always told me I was a good looking guy. Most of them were near sighted relatives who thought I would end up President of the USA or at the very least a Rabbi with a very well coifed beard.

But all this pressure definitely had an effect on me. I used to believe I could simply attract women in the same way magnets would stick to my fridge.

This power was a complete contrast to the many lectures I endured from my mother growing up. She would sit me down and explain life and love to me, usually opening with the same line, "You are going to marry a Jewish girl right?" This would be followed by "If you have differnet backgrounds your children will be confused."

I didn't even have a date yet, and already I was worried about my unborn children. So this intense magnetism that I thought I had was restricted to a select few. No matter who I met or where I went I would hear my mother's voice in the back of my head in much the same way that Luke could hear Obi Wan telling him to use the force, only I was simply looking for a date whereas Luke was trying to destroy an entire empire with a lightsaber.

In college I met Lori in music class. I'm not very musical and have trouble tapping my foot to a leaking sink. But she sat down next to me one day and we began talking about clefs, in particular the treble and bass ones.

Lori was Jewish and she could spell synagogue. Also, she thought I was funny, did not mind that I liked to tuck my t-shirts into my boxers, and enjoyed taking off school for Jewish holidays that sound made up.

"The key to any relationship is communication."

There was Obi Wan again in the back of my mind. A nice Jewish girl that didn't chew gum like the flavor came from how high she could open her mouth was hard enough to find, and now I had Mother Wan reminding me that there was much more to a relationship.

So Lori and I dated a while and I thought things were going pretty well until the third date when she was describing a Kevin Costner movie we had just seen and she referred to it as "strangely crotitious." At first I thought she simply had a vast vocabulary, but later during dinner she told me she was personally responsible for the start of the Gulf War.

When I took her home she thanked me for the evening and told me it was "gopicus." Then my mother's advice went off again like Peter Parker with a head cold. What kind of communication could I have with a girl who invented words and historical statements?

I did what any decent male in their twenties would do. I quickly had my phone number changed and placed an obituary in the paper.

"You need to be comfortable in front of each other."

That was never a problem for me as I grew up in a house where my dad was reminded that he needed pants when he opened the front door and was hit with minus twenty-five degree weather.

I met Tracy in college a few months after Lori. She was nice and sweet and seemed to actually enjoy my rants about creating an entire luxury hotel made from Lego. Jewish and an excellent conversationalist, we got along great. It was when we were done talking that the trouble began.

If there was a pause in the discussion that lasted longer than a breath she would stand up and begin rearranging the room. She would move pillows, plants, I even saw her push an entire dresser across the floor once. Another time, I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I returned she had not only completely moved the furniture in different locations but had replaced the wallpaper as well.

I figured that I needed to leave my hometown and would perhaps meet a Jewish girl at Grad school. I did and her name was Kim.

"Every relationship is based on trust."

We met in mass communication class. Kim was the only other student who believed that reality TV was indeed an art form. We hit it off immediately and even attended Hillel's high holiday services together.

While I was deep in prayer asking for forgiveness for the past year's many sins (once again I apologize for the mustache, Mrs. Flanagan), I noticed that Kim's eyes were not focused on her prayer book but were fixed on me. I didn't think much of it until a few days later when we were watching TV.

It was an episode of The Flintstones where Fred and Barney are bowling. Instead of watching Fred's funny yet graceful bowling moves Kim's eyes were staring straight at my face. The relationship did not last long after that when I realized that a staring contest with her would be no fun whatsoever.

"You'll know it."

That was always the last morsel of advice to leave Obi Wan's lips. When I moved to New York I met Nina. At first she didn't like me, probably because I didn't hear her name when we were introduced and called her Beulah that first evening.

We began dating and things just seemed comfortable: there was never any pressure to say the right thing or act the right way. She seemed to think it was all correct. I even brought her home to meet the folks and they liked her too.

I've been writing for Generation J for some time now and I know Nina's mother reads these articles, so allow me to quell any fears she may have: Yes, I am that good looking nice Jewish boy you've always wanted your daughter to meet.

Parents only want the best for their kids and I think that thanks to my mother's booming echo of a voice, I may have found it. At least Nina hasn't called me a "broughter" yet.

Rob Dixter is a freelance writer in New York City. And he's a very serious guy.

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