My aunt insisted he was perfect for me. Then she tried his vegan macaroons
She lures me to L.A. with the promise of a suitor — not just one but a multitude of hand-picked middle-aged, maybe divorced, probably Jewish and most certainly bitter bachelors. “Santa Monica is teeming with good men your age.” Really? I didn’t get that memo.
Her daily spiel is aggressive, peppered with enticing sound bites meant to convince me that migrating south is the key to finding love. “You’re almost 50. You’ll end up joining an ashram if you stay up there.”
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