By Chana (anonymous)
It’s Friday, 3:30 pm and I’m standing on my frosty porch (did I mention, without a coat).
“Hi Mrs. Silverstein, it must be rather urgent,” I inquire, forgetting about the kishka still waiting to be mixed on the counter and the 3 pots boiling on the stove.
“I was wondering if you can mention our name again to the Cohen family,” Mrs. Silverstein asks me, “perhaps if we can nudge them from another angle they will consider us.”
I should’ve known better. This is only the 12th time Mrs. Silverstein called this week. 7 times after I already said ‘Shema’ and brushed my teeth, and four times ranging from 6:40 to 7:25 am.
“This day in age it’s hard to find to find such aidel children like I raise, you know, the average Lubavitch girl is into all these shtusim and dress…”
Mrs. Silverstein is starting to sound like the average Jewish mother. “Bishvila nivra haoilam.”
Meanwhile, my 18-year-old son is trying to catch my attention, motioning to the stove top. I motion to him my pointer finger, as I try to politely excuse myself. “I hear you. It’s already Shabbos in New York. I can call for you I”YH on Motzoei Shabbos.”
“This is the type of family we are looking for. Make sure they know how amazing our daughter is and how we gave a down payment on a house for all our other children,” she continues rambling.
Did she just say that? I regret not listening to my husband’s suggestion to request a down payment for suggesting a shidduch. I only called no less than 17 names for her daughter in addition to the 4 guys I set her up with.
“I’ll be in touch with you,” I attempt to wrap up the call again.
“Don’t forget to tell them to call our mechutanim… and let me know if they ask for a picture. Also text me on my cell so my children don’t pick up your name on the caller I.D. Oh yes, I have to go pick up the cleaners before it closes,” she mutters.
The phone signals the end of our conversation.
No good shabbos. No thank you. No apology. She’s 3 hours behind me, but shadchanim must have maids making shabbos for them so the etiquette rules don’t count.
I begin marking her down as the 26th name on my Motzoei Shabbos “to call” list when I hear a piercing ring coming from inside my house. I rush back inside. Phew. My husband closed the fire already.
The guests will just have to like the over boiled eggs and the burnt stir fry. I’m sure they’ll understand. After all, I’m a shadchan. That’s what’s supposed to happen on a short Friday afternoon.
P.S. I’m trying to help solve the shadchan crisis. If anyone is interested in doing this amazing job, please contact me (seems like my number is out there already) and I’ll tell you all the marvelous perks that come with the title.