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Christine Williams, a New York City-based freelance writer, is currently dating a wonderful man. Yes, he is a Christian.

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"But you’re not Jewish!" my mother insisted.

I held the phone far from my ear, but this did nothing to cushion the stony silence that followed.

"You don’t think my name and blonde hair are constant reminders?" I quipped, as if her naming me Christine was a source of my troubles with dating.

As she is more than just a great mom ‒ I actually consider her one of my best friends - I tried to explain to her why a nice Catholic girl like me would join a Jewish Singles dating website.

To me, it was logical enough. You see, living in a diverse city like New York, you come to expect to date people of different backgrounds. To be an equal-opportunity dater, if you will. After all, if I wanted to date only others like me ‒ white, educated, and from a nice Catholic family ‒ I would live in the Midwest. And I tried that already -- for eight years. I spent my twenties dating men who fit that description. Boo-ring. But I live in New York City now, and along with underground bars, $15 cocktails and having ethnic food delivered at 3am, I wanted to experience all this city had to offer. Men included.

For one very brief moment I wondered why my mom could not be like so many others -- mothers I had heard friends complain about, who pushed their daughters into whatever tactic to "land a husband." Granted, usually I am grateful for this. Just not today.

Again, I tried to explain the dynamics to her. I thought a business-like approach with statistics would be most helpful, instead of tackling with an emotional approach ‒ clearly she was emotional, and I would not win that battle. I explained to her that 25% of the NYC population is Jewish, and that in my neighborhood in particular, I am most definitely a minority. And, I gently reminded her, for the past five years here, I have inadvertently dated only Jewish men. Lovely men. One, in particular, even came close to being a son-in-law. (Or so I’d thought.) In my summation, I brought out the heavy ammunition. "Why are we fighting a war based on religious differences if we cannot even get along and accept inter-faith dating in our own country?"

The hush hung between us, and I swear I could even hear air blowing through her nose hairs. If we were discussing anything other than this, I would have taken this opportunity to make a joke about needing to trim them back. For now, though, I waited.

Something must have worked. I heard her nodding in agreement. However, before succumbing to defeat, she left me with her final thoughts: "I would be interested to hear how going on a Jewish dating website is going to broaden your acceptance of others." And then as quickly, "But, sweetie, I have to run!"

Ah, the perils of having a sharp-witted mom.

So, ignoring parental input, I joined "the world’s largest Jewish single network" and immediately began to feel in charge of my dating prospects. I boldly logged in, using my name "Christine" as my user ID. I felt it was critical to my success to ensure honesty about my role as a shiksa, in case the blonde hair wasn’t enough of a giveaway. I certainly didn’t want to be criticized for false advertising.

My confidence quickly began to wane as I filled out the profile. A college graduate who prides herself on a good vocabulary, I was lost when it came to indicating my religious preferences. I mean, what the hell was the difference between Reform, Conservative and Secular? At least I knew Hassidic and Orthodox ‒ or I thought I understood the premise as I have seen more than my share of Woody Allen movies ‒ but what was Conservadox? How about Another Stream? -- I did not even think Jewish boys were that outdoorsy. And, what was the difference between the denomination and the ethnicity? Was a Traditional Ashkenazi more willing to date Christians than a Sephardic one? Words spiraled in my head as I heard my mother’s voice resonating in my ears. Still, I would not give up. I would fight for liberty to love whomever I want! This was now a crusade.

Unfortunately I was leading my cause without a road map. Or a license to drive. Not only did I have no idea what these words meant, I had no way to learn. Webster was obviously written by a Christian because it left out these terms. Maybe this is why Jews still feel so persecuted, I quietly speculated. Jesus, my request was simple - I just wanted a resource to tell me those affiliations in which the man did not have to wear a yarmulke on a daily basis. Seriously, how can you affectionately run your fingers through his hair if he wears one? Where is the romance in sharing barrettes? Fearful of others’ reactions, I opted to guess rather than get further advice. I mean, I knew enough Jewish girls to get clarification, but the last thing I needed was a girl who thought I was stealing from her already shallow dating pool.

In the end, Secular and Traditional seemed like safe bets, and where I could, I checked the "any" box rather than making decisions on additional religious-based criteria. I would later learn, through one of my only blind dates from the site, that I was right to guess that those two offered mothers most likely to let their sons date outside the religion.

"Most likely," my date had said kindly. "But not definitely" he added with a knowing look.

Because I was new to online dating, I was initially uncertain if the parade of men sending notes was because of me or my religion. I got as many adoring comments -- "a Sicilian Jew, you’re a dream come true!" as snide -- "Why do you feel you should be on this site?" What I did not get was dates. A leopard with no spots, I got the stares but no companionship.

There were a few ‒ aren’t there always? - willing to cross the line. I would not call them desperate…but I could. They were on a Jewish website to meet Jewish girls. It was in their criteria, but they were so downtrodden by dating in general, and online dating in particular, that they were willing to branch out. One particular less than amusing man called me CHRISTine, either to make a lighthearted joke or acknowledge that he was okay with my religious affiliation. Regardless, it stung. Was this a common joke among Jewish boys in New York City? Didn’t he know that my last Jewish beau ‒ who I deemed the love of my life ‒ had also called me that? Ouch.

The day my ex, Arin, called me "CHRISTine," he was in a sweet, attentive mood.

It started in jest, as his friend poignantly ‒ or annoyingly, I am not sure which ‒ asked him about his new shiksa girlfriend. Arin, not wanting to call me his girlfriend yet, found it easier to divert attention to the name and take it on as term of endearment. Little did I know that the moniker would ultimately be the source of our downfall.

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To be continued . . .