Sunday, February 22, 2009

Scratch jockitch

Last night was a comedy of errors.

First we went to the kosher Dunkin' Donuts on 86th Street and Amsterdam Ave. When we walked in, there were no donuts in the rack, just a few bagels and croissants that had seen better days.

"Where are the donuts?" I asked.

"Oh, I have some," said the counter worker. "Marble frosted, glazed, strawberry, and powdered."

I didn't want any of those. It was my plan for us to get 4 or 5 donuts and have a tasting. This wouldn't work.

"Let's try the other kosher Dunkin' Donuts," I said. Jockitch acquiesced; he's very easygoing. We walked up to 94th and Amsterdam and found the same scenario.

"Damn," I said. "I really wanted donuts. Do you want to get pizza?"

"Sure," he said. We went to Mike's Pizzeria, and 3/4 of the West Side were already there.

"Too crowded," I said. "Let's try Cafe Viva."

Same story. "DAMN," I vented. Jockitch smiled patiently.

"Want to go to Starbucks?" he said.

"Fine," I capitulated.

So we didn't have donuts. We did have a long talk, though. And the problem is, I know what I want at this point in my life, and jockitch doesn't. He's not sure if he wants to get married again. He's not sure if he wants to be frum. He's not sure if he wants any more kids.

I think we're going to be good friends, because we get along well and we always have something to talk about. But I can't date him. Which is a shame, because he accepts me with my illness. I guess that means it's conceivable that other men will as well.
Copyright (c) "Ayelet Survivor"

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