Fine you’re a matchmaker!

My. G-d.  What have I gotten myself into? Nervous as you can possibly imagine, I called this shadchan (“she is NOT a shadchan”) on the insistence of my friend’s mother (“Oh please, don’t call me Mrs. Bornstein! Just call me Rebbetzin Mrs. Bornstein!”), and had been listening for the past ten minutes straight as the highly-acclaimed holder of the keys to courtship dutifully put dinner on the table, chased two little ones into their rooms and talked another one out of a bedtime story all while untangling a teething baby from her sheitl and performing countless other home-making activities I’m sure I just couldn’t see.

She finally returned to the phone with an heaving:  “Yeah?”


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