So, there's a whole lotta swiping going on these days. The youngest son is on an app-related quest. He just wants to meet a nice girl. That's all. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Conversations start and stop. There's the promise of "grabbing a drink." Then there's radio silence. Or should I say, cellular silence. He plants himself on the sofa and gets to work with the swiping. The SJG remains mystified, and maybe a little too invested. "She was pretty. Why'd you swipe left?" "You swiped right for her? Have you no taste?" For some reason, these observations don't go over well. He swipes left on my commentary and tells me to mind my own business. McCuse me? In my own home, where he swipes, swipes, swipes out in the open, for my aging eyeballs to see? And by see, I mean I have to lean in closely to get a good look. "Back up, Ma." This is the response I get as he swipes the day away. May I be honest with you, courtesy of a very long sentence? For a concerned, well-meaning mamala, a short person who met hubby in 8th grade when I'd already achieved full height, a gal who wouldn't even be here if my parents hadn't been fixed up on a blind date, the best part of this frantic swiping isn't the potential to find a match worthy of a song in the updated version of "Fiddler on the Roof." No. Not even close. The best part is listening to him dream up ways to woo his cyber soul mate, via text. This week's favorite, delivered with a thick Brooklyn accent: "Hey, how you doin'? Name's Shlomo. I'm a part-time mohel. What do you do for cash?"
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