Snapshots from my dating past: The litigator whom knew the Metropolitan Museum of Art by heart; the author whoever dad had been a blacklisted star; the activities marketer who moonlighted as being a drummer in a salsa musical organization; the stockbroker whom retired young and toured the barbeque and banjo bones associated with the Smokies in a cadillac that is rusty.
Simply speaking, this option had more or less nothing in keeping except which they had been fundamentally perhaps not suitable for me—and they certainly were all Jewish. Continue reading “The worries behind a tale that never ever grows old”