Call Me Ishmael

I like to think of myself as being open to new experiences, new things. While overall this trait has led to many positive interactions in my life, it has, as you know, often backfired on me in the form of inappropriate men, outrageous dates, and ridiculous dating situations. This is partly why I’ve found myself on first dates with an avuncular pear-shaped man, a man who talked about himself non-stop for the entire four hours of our Titanic of a date, and the first date with my boyfriend that included his father.

All this pales in comparison to what's in store for me on Sunday. Frenchy and I will be going whale watching with our kids. And his ex, who is not officially his ex yet, but soon, if the French legal system doesn’t come to a complete halt this summer, when Europe hangs a "gone fishing" sign on its door for a couple of months.

Yes -- just to be very clear -- I’ll be going on a date with my boyfriend, our kids and his French wife, who is coming along because she’ll be here in LA for a visit to spend time with her kids. On Sunday I will be living the cinematic version of Moby-Dick, if Woody Allen were the director. It’s potentially such a rich mix of French sophistication and American awkwardness, how can it not be funny and messy and weird and emotional, all at the same time?

Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Rubinowitz.