Summer Vacation with My Bubbie.

My first day of vacation actually got started about a year ago, when Larry Smith came to visit the heartland.
Larry is a friend of mine from New York - famous in his own right as editor of the infinitely wonderful "Six Word Memoir" series (although right now he's probably best known as Mr. Piper Kerman - husband to the author of Orange is the New Black which is taking over the world. Okay, enough name dropping. Back to vacation.)
The latest in Larry's series was a small book entitled Six-Word Memoirs on Jewish Life. (I know you're all dying to know how this ties into my beach vacation, which last year didn't go any deeper than tan lines on my elbows. Stick with me.) To promote it, he did an incredibly glamorous book tour to glamorous places like Bexley, Ohio. Since that's near me these days, he called me up, said come sit in the audience and ooh and ahh and encourage book buying and I'll treat you to a beer. Deal.
Hopefully nearly all of you have read at least one of Larry's wonderful books. If you haven't, shame on you, and I'm not going to waste everyone's time explaining them to you. When you finish reading this, go buy that. But for those of you who have read them, you know they're poignant, hysterically funny, heartbreakingly touching glimpses into the lives of our friends and neighbors and idols and future exes, six words at a time. Jewish Life is no different. Full of gems. Larry deftly walked his audience (me, his other glaringly non-Jewish Ohio friend, and about 50 middle-aged to senior citizen Jewish ladies who eyed me openly and sized me up suspiciously) through the six-word story's legend-has-it beginning with Hemingway, up to its most recent rendition. He flashed some of the best excerpts on the screen, and they all oohed in all the right places ("Wait, you've got a little schmutz.") and ahhed in all the right places ("Chosen for something. Not sure what.") and nodded knowingly in all the right places ("Is he Jewish?! Is he Jewish?!") I did my best to hang in there, I really did. I have Jewish friends. I know the jokes, the stereotypes, the history. But I'm also a WASPy little mutt from Ohio, so I come into life - as I came into that room - with my own history, my own family, my own background. So when it popped up on the screen, my eyes rolled back, my mouth opened, and out popped that loud, obnoxious, Jessica laugh (you know it. I know you do.).
My grandmother's tattoo still haunts me. 
Six words that silenced that room, until the damn Gentile broke the stillness with her cackle.
The minute it came out of my mouth, I knew.
I couldn't explain - I couldn't start running my mouth about my crazy, wonderful, stubbornly willful, free-spirited grandmother who has for years - YEARS - threatened to get a tattoo simply because the joy of picturing some brand new doctor discovering brand new ink on a not-so-brand new body would bend her over with giggles. I couldn't take the time to tell them about the time she backpacked across France by herself in her seventies. Or the "renovated" RV she bought, dreaming of the open road, but that wasn't put together right so all the drawers flew open and forks went flying as she curved around the exit ramp onto the highway, making her first road trip nearly fatal and her last.
The little old lady sitting behind me leaned forward, put her arm on my shoulder, and said, not quietly but not unkindly, "Honey, I don't think you understand." A six word memoir of her own.
It was mortifying. Truly. I've embarrassed myself pretty much on a daily basis, pretty much since birth. But never, never, never would I want to say or do or, God forbid, laugh at anything that would cause someone discomfort or pain, let alone a whole roomful of people. Larry just stared at me for a second, shook his head to ask me "Seriously?" with his eyes, and then carried on. Oy.
But yes, yes... this is a blog about vacation.
Every year I come to the Outer Banks, and every year on my way, I spend a few days with that aforementioned nutjob of a grandmother.
Her 86th birthday is just a couple of weeks away. Guess what she wanted. How could I say no?

So see, Larry - I wasn't completely making all that up. If you ever get the opportunity to tell those ladies that I come from a crazy Protestant family who does things like multi-generational tattoo outings just for fun, I would so appreciate it.

(yes. multi-generational. the manischewitz made me do it?)

(epilogue: a few of you will understand, truly, that the worst part about this wasn't the notion of permanently drawing a stupid picture on my body. it wasn't the pain, even though it hurt like a motherfucker. it wasn't even the grimace on my dad's face when he tried to bring himself to look at it, and couldn't quite. it was that guy manhandling my foot.)

How to date a woman.

Men. I understand, based on a previous post or two, that you've all probably become pretty accustomed to me guiding you through the rough waters of grown-up dating. You're quite welcome. Let me see what more I can do for you.

First off, if you're reading this, it's not about you. I know a couple of you aren't going to believe that. A couple of you are going to read something here and think, "I'll be damned. She's talking about me." First, get over yourself. And then believe me when I say that it's really, really not about you. And if you still don't believe me, fine, then just suck it up and try to learn something. Because, let's be honest, I'm probably talking about you.

Step one. The ask.
Guys, I'm so serious about this I'm going to say something I don't think I've ever said before. Ready? Here goes...
I am thirty seven years old.
Know what that means? It means it is inappropriate, in every sense of the word, to ask me out via text. That thing your finger is jabbing away at? Yeah, it doubles as a phone. You want to ask me out, ask. With your hopefully really sexy, manly voice. If you sound like a small woodland creature, chances are we aren't going to make it anyway.

About the ask. Every girl likes to be pursued. All of us. Who wouldn't? It feels nice to feel wanted. But, alas, wanted and stalked are not the same thing. So if I've never met you, or if I haven't seen you in like twenty years, please stop telling me how great I am or that we're soulmates. You sound crazy, boy. You sound like a ring-hungry girl. Get to know me. Find out how I feel about the world and that I'm actually batshit crazy and that I look every single minute of my 37 years in the morning and then ask me on another date anyway. 

And we've got some time constraints that need to be addressed. If I hear from you between the hours of 11:47pm and 5:36am, nothing you say/text counts. That is all. 

Step two. The bill.
Yes, I skipped a couple steps. Just trying to hit the high points. The bill. Pay it. Shut up, man up, and pay it. I promise that, should you see me for follow up dates, I will do my part. I will pay my share. I will put out. But if I'm here because you asked me to be and you're douchebag enough to stare at the bill when the waitress (or - seriously? - bartender) sets it down, you deserve to get your hand stuck to your junk.

Step three. The action.
Remember a few steps ago when I said to call me the first time you ask me out? I meant it. It doesn't mean I'm not a modern woman. I will sext the shit out of you if you flirt right. I'm not really sure how this is a step, I guess I just didn't want anyone who's still reading to think I'm a prude. Basically, here it is. Anything that doesn't follow the first two steps is not a date. It's a booty call. I like a good booty call. But you know if a girl actually responds, you're never going to take her seriously. Girls, it's virtually impossible to shift the mindset of even the nicest guy out of booty call brain. So if you cave, it's on you. Not him. But guys, no one wants to hear you bitch and whine that you can't meet a nice girl when you can't pick up your damn phone to ask a nice girl out to a dinner that you will pay for, when all you're doing is drunk dialing random chicks post-midnight. You know who answers those calls? Skanks. So don't indulge in skank-attracting activities and then get pissy when nice girls spit at you.

So, boys and girls alike, if you are even remotely interested in anything more than probably drunk half-assed, half-mast sex, follow the steps. It is that simple. 

Again, you are welcome. 

Sock bun in the oven.

I’ve known a lot of pregnant people. And while I’ve always understood why it might make them uncomfortable when perfect strangers start fondling their bellies in the grocery store or something, I have never understood what the problem was when I, little old me, a dear friend and faithful companion, wanted to rub the baby. Or talk to it, super close up. Or bite it a little. Through their stomach. Okay, it sounds weird when I’m saying it out loud like that, but I assure you, in the moment – totally normal. To me.

Now I get it.

I was at a baby shower Sunday for one of the world’s most adorable pregnant people ever. Like a party trick, it seemed that most of her other guests were also incredibly, impossibly pregnant. Like going-on-13-months kind of pregnant. And I kept my hands (and mouth) to myself. I’m respectable. Respectful.

Let me just say this: it was not reciprocated.

Those women were manhandling me. Four, five of them at once. I walked out of there looking like I’d been on a three-day bender, I was so disheveled.

I had a sock bun on my head and you would have thought I was growing a kid from my scalp. Granted, it was adorable. It was soft and squishy and just the right amount of messy but still sweet and charming. And they could not keep their hands off of it. Just walking right up and touching it, like just because it sticks out it’s available for all to grope. I’m telling you, it was pretty close to violating.

People, hear me now: just because a woman has a sock bun does not give you license to poke at her, run your hands over her, get all up in her head to figure out how exactly it works and because you just can’t believe – can’t believe! – there aren’t any bobby pins in there.

I should be allowed to wear my sock bun proudly, without “asking for it.” Just keep that in mind, please, people, especially pregnant people who should really know better.

How you just know it's been too long.

When you're out with your girlfriends, trying to have a respectable, totally even-keel, grownup cocktail, and some guy, see below, starts giving you shit.
When a complete stranger - and I cannot overstate this enough - a person you have undoubtedly, beyond any question, for sure never seen before in your life - approaches you, out of nowhere, at a bar no less, and starts demanding blog posts (pardon. REproaches you, explaining how you've let him down and how you sort of suck). And then especially when he starts pointing out events around you, like an impromptu limbo tournament, saying "now that would be a good blog post."
When you're telling some kind of hot, wrongly young guy how absolutely horrible, truly unlivable, Cincinnati is, before you realize, crap, he's the backup Bengals quarterback.This has nothing to do with anything, but come on, how do you not throw something like this in wherever you can?
When complete strangers - seriously, never seen this dude before In. My. Life. comes up and says, loudly, slurredly, "ARE YOU EVER GONNA WRITE ANOTHER BLOG POST AGAIN? BECAUSE IT'S BEEN LIKE SEVEN FUCKING MONTHS AND REALLY? NOTHING INTERESTING HAS HAPPENED TO YOU IN SEVEN FUCKING MONTHS?"and your first thought is "uh, heh?" and your second thought, inside, obviously, is, "omigod i'm like a celebrity i think i basically just got recognized."
That's how you know it's been too long since your last blog post.

This Blog Post Doesn't Say Anything.

I know, you guys. I know. It's inexcusable. Nearly two months.
I promise to write something soon - I've apparently had absolutely nothing of consequence happen to me, because of me, for me, or near me in a really long time.
But I'm shaking off the cobwebs and cooking up a couple of good ones. Promise.
AND I'm going to start the Book Review again, in response to the literally threes of you who have been clamoring for it. So give me reading suggestions!