I was enjoying a lovely Sunday brunch with my friends when I met The Shabbat of Poo, a nice, clean cut, good-looking, “every Jewish mother’s son” type of guy. He was a native of the Upper East Side, a few years younger than me (28 to my 31 years), and adorable enough that I decided to rob the cradle and give him a shot.

Now, at this point in my dating life (recent, as opposed to ancient, history), I entered this potential liaison with my eyes wide open. There’s no denying I left the restaurant with that tingly feeling brought on by the first blush of attraction. However, one of my girlfriends immediately warned me that most Jewish boys are taught, virtually from birth, that only a girl of the same religion will pass muster when it came time to meet Mother. Being the hopeless romantic I am, I decided to accept his invitation for dinner the following Sunday anyway.

I know, I know. I’m hopeless!

At that point, my hopes were running high. I was confident that if Mother ended up having any issues with my lack of Jewish-ness, I would prove her wrong. After all, I rationalized, why would he waste his time—and mine—if only a fellow Jew would do?

Poo was considerate enough to choose a restaurant in the little slice of heaven I call home—Hell’s Kitchen—which was an indicator of the way the dinner would turn out. There, I learned that Poo was an only child who rarely brought a girl home to meet his parents.

Especially his mother.

Before the entrée even arrived, it was crystal clear that not only was his mother a complete control freak, but as a result, she had produced the consummate Mama’s Boy. Score: Mommy, 10 – Mary, 0! But I wanted to know more, so I proceeded to the million-dollar question. Were the rumors actually true? Was a Nice Jewish Girl really the only acceptable candidate for a mate?

When confirmation of my worst fears exploded from his mouth at the speed of a just-launched rocket, two thoughts instantly and almost simultaneously popped into my head:

• Why he would waste his time and mine?
• Oh, like most men, he probably just wants to get laid.

What better target for a hook-up than a lowly shiksa, who, like a paper towel, one could use as needed and throw away? Well, score one for Team Shiksa. I stood firm that this turn of events just wasn’t going to happen on my watch.

(photo credit: http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/worst-date...)

However, it gets better, because the evening ended with a decidedly unplanned, but eerily perfect, retribution. After he walked me back to my apartment (like the Nice Jewish Boy he is), Poo asked if he could come up to use the bathroom.

I coolly and a bit flirtatiously flipped my hair back, kind of like Beyonce on tour. I attempted to insert a bit of levity into what had been an otherwise “meh” night by jokingly saying, “I hope I flushed the toilet!”

He scurried off to take care of business. Upon exiting the lavatory, he was stiff and quiet, with the weirdest expression I’ve ever seen planted on his face. I turned at least a hundred different shades of red as I realized that my little attempt at levity was actually no laughing matter.

Whoopsie!

But, hey, give me a break, I live alone. I’m a bachelorette. These things happen!

Of course, that’s with the benefit of hindsight. At the time, I was mortified. I apologized at least a million times and did everything short of washing his shoes with my hair to make up for the faux pas. I finally had to practically kick his knees in the back to loosen him up enough to sit down on my couch.

Then, at the exact moment he was barely able to cough out, “Don’t worry about it,” my precious little dog, perhaps sensing mommy’s queasy and uneasy feelings over a night full of rejection and humiliation, jumped up and peed on poor Poo’s lap!

(Valentino saves the day!)

What’s a mother to do?

In my case, my inner Lip Slut sprung to desperate life (to learn the definition of Lip Slut, please refer to my first article), and all I could think to do was to shove my tongue down Poo’s throat to somehow distract his (and my) thoughts away from my toilet and my dog pee and the general restroom-centric theme of our evening.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help. I felt so completely uncomfortable that I told him we should call it a night. He vacated my apartment at the speed of the Tasmanian devil.

Of course, I never heard from Poo again, but the night wasn’t a total loss. I’ll bet he thinks twice before going out with another goy.

Score one for the team!

What dating a mama's boy has taught me (this is just the first mama's boy, there will be more because clearly I didn't learn my lesson the first time):

• You will always be second, so become best friends with his mother. If you can’t, get really good at pretending.
• According to my friend Rose, who is dating an MB, you will have to win him over through his stomach. Become a better cook than his mother.
• Side note: JP and I never made it to the second date so I didn't have an opportunity to practice the above points but I did practice on the next Mama's Boy I dated.... Stay tuned!