There are many things about myself that I’m not proud of.
My nose. My cruelty to children. The fact that, when I masturbate, I usually think about two or three of me making out with each other. But just be there's one unfortunate truth I’ve been denying for a while that I think it may be time to come to terms with.
Lately, Anoosh has taken to telling me that I’m a JAP. Can you imagine? Indignation aside, on further reflection, I realized that the past dozen or so men I’ve dated at one time or another have said the same exact thing to me. “Carmela, you are a spoiled brat.”
The first few times, I just let it slide but by the eighth or ninth guy who said it to me, it had started to hurt my feelings,. And now to have Anoosh say it to me too... well... there's just no way I can deny it any longer. It’s time to face the facts.
I really need to date richer men.
There. I said it. I’m not proud of it, but it’s something about myself that I just can’t deny any longer. If all the men I’ve dated in the past three years think I’m jappy, how can I possibly deny that there is something horribly, horribly wrong... with them?
What other explanation could there be? Clearly, I am not a JAP. I cut my own hair and do my own nails. I shop at Forever 21. Case closed. Obviously, it’s them. The best that I can figure is that what they are mistaking for spoiled behavior, isn’t me being a Jewish Princess... it’s just me being Jewish, period.
I don’t insist on a nose job because I’m spoiled, I insist on it because my nose is so gigantic it’s obscuring my view of the world. And I don’t ask for all expenses paid vacations because I’m a brat... it’s just that if I don’t get some sun in the winter months I get so pale that when I walk out in the sunlight you can see my brain through my forehead.
Anyway, this realization has inspired me to write a novel which speaks to other women suffering through this sort of challenge, entitled “He’s Just Not That In To Jew.” You can look for it in bookstores around summer. And I’m simultaneously working in the follow up novel, due out next fall, entitled “First Comes Love, Then Comes Nothing.” It’s going to be a series. Kind of like Harry Potter except without the awful children and dumb accents.
In this book, I also plan on explaining how it’s not really my fault that I choose these financially challenged men. You see, my parents did not prepare me for the completive world of dating.
Most young girls are taught to look for a mate with optimism and trust. I imagine most young girls get a talking to something along these lines:
Mom: Now Cindy, when youre old enough to date, it’s important that you look for a man who loves you, but also one who can support you financially.
Little Cindy: Gee mom, you’re right! Thanks for looking out for me!
Dad: Oh Cindy, you’re such a sweetheart. We just want to make sure you find the perfect match. He’s out there somewhere!
Little Cindy: Ok dad. You guys are the best parents ever!
The speech Big Big and I got was slightly different.
Mom, between mouthfuls of brownie: Listen guys, just remember, the only reason any man will ever be nice to you is because he wants to get in your pants.
Dad, while muttering racist epithets: And the only reason he wants to get in your pants is so that he can lull you into a false sense of security, and then harvest your internal organs for sale on the black market.
Big Big and Carmela: Stare blankly. Return to punching each other.
The closest I ever got to relationship advice was when my mother sat me down and told me “Carm, if you love something, let it go. Just don’t be surprised when it comes back with herpes."
So, you know, not really my fault. I’m the victim here.
God, I feel so much better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest! My ridiculously, pathetically flat chest that Anoosh refuses to buy me implants for. Cheap bastard.
