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Does Anyone Else Want My Autograph?

Does Anyone Else Want My Autograph?

“Are you the Abigail Pickus who writes the singles’ column for the Jewish Week?”

Which is another way of saying, Yes I am!

Which is yet another way of saying, here I was at a party in Tel Aviv, nestled on the couch next to some girlfriends when all of a sudden who approaches but a fan?

Fans, actually, because there were two of them. A husband and wife team.

Which is all another way of saying, I practically threw myself into their arms, weeping with joy.

I didn’t even know anyone was reading me.

“Oh, my husband and I read you all the time,” the woman continued, but made sure I knew that her first love – and loyalty – was to “In The Mix” intermarriage blogger Julie Wiener.

Like I cared.

I’m not competitive or anything. If she likes another writer just a wee bit better than me, well, I don’t need to go to therapy or anything about it.

“My husband even said to me, ‘I’ll bet Abigail Pickus is going to be at the party!’ and indeed, you are!”

At that point the husband himself appeared.

“How’s Trevor?” he asked, referring to my dog, Mr. Trevor Pickus.

“Oh, Trevor’s good,” I said, suddenly missing him something awful. “He hates parties.”

The three of us got to talking and I liked them immediately. And really, what’s not to like? Smart, funny, interesting, and, it goes without saying, possessing impeccable taste.

The wife, though, had some advice for me, couched as “questions.”

As in, “Don’t you think you’re hurting your chances at love by living in Jerusalem? Shouldn’t you move to Tel Aviv?”

Or maybe I should move to a small town in America since places like Jerusalem and New York are over-saturated with singles.

And what was I doing shielding myself in a little cocoon of women at the party? How was I going to meet anyone that way?

If you want to know the truth, the pickings at the party were slim. Plus, I had met someone the week before and wanted to give him a chance.

So blame the three glasses of Beaujolais for the fact that a mere few minutes later I was flirting shamelessly with someone I wasn’t remotely interested in, a gentleman I had contacted a while ago on Jdate because he seemed like someone I “should” date.

But during our phone conversation he alerted me to the fact that because he lived in Tel Aviv, he was not interested in being in a “relationship with someone in Yerushalim.”

Can we talk a second about Americans who, when speaking English, refer to Jerusalem as ‘Yerushalim?’

There, we’ve talked about it.

Anyway, I never went out with Mr. Yerushalim but there he was, at the party, and suddenly he wasn’t looking so bad, mostly because he seemed to have some job contacts for me.

“Well, if you ever find yourself in Yerushalim…” I told him, practically purring, while he looked on, aghast.

My girlfriend was aghast, too.

“Abby!” she said. “Remember the three day rule!” she reminded me.

Which is the amount of time I am to give to each date, out of respect, before moving on to a new man.

And it had not yet been three days since the “end” with the current man. Actually, it had but I just did not know it then. Since only the following day did he break it off.

Not that I cared in the least. Nah, I took it to the chin, as would be expected. Only weeping the entire weekend, that’s all. Oh, and wishing I had something stronger than Dramamine in the house.

Where was I?

As yes, at the Beaujolais party where fans stake me out.

“I didn’t even like Yerushalim guy,” I told my girlfriend as we hightailed it outta there. “He was just male and seemed sweet.”

“Focus, Abby. Focus. You can do it.”

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