Circling the Wagons.

It's been a pretty blah few weeks. Made blahier by the fact that they've been the first few weeks of a whole shiny new year, which feels a little wasteful. And even blahier by something called a "polar vortex" which is just weather code for the universe is trying to kill you.
There's been a lot of whining. A lot of moping. 
And there's been a lot of praying. Actually, there's been a little bit of praying mixed in with a lot of bugging the crap out of God, trying to convince Him I know better than He does and He should just listen to me and give. me. what. I. want.
A lot of talking about myself. To anyone who will listen.
And tonight, in the shower, where all the world's problems get talked over, He'd had enough. Yep, I've talked about myself so much for 19 straight days that I bored God. So He gave me a suggestion, that sounded in my head a little something like this: Seriously, Stone, I cannot take it anymore. Please. Stop. Talking. About. This. I  know it's been tough. I know it's confusing. I know it's not what you want (because you won't stop telling Me). But surely you don't need Me to point out to you, in the midst of all this alone you're feeling... how surrounded you are. Right?
I felt humbled. Like that bow-your-head, drop-to-your-knees kind of humbled. Because I realized just how many people have listened.
I got scared, and people held my hand. I got hurt, and the world took notice. I got sad, and the wagons circled.
It is an exceptional feeling, to feel loved. To feel protected and cared for. To see concern in the eyes of people who simply want you to smile and be happy. 
I have been shrouded in friendship.
And I'm grateful.
For every little note, every huge hug, every reminder that, if women this wonderful can love me, I must be at least a little loveable. If girls this funny are determined to make me laugh, I must be capable of humor.
I'm grateful for my friends who are doing everything in their power to make sure I don't succumb to the stereotype. One even gave me this gentle reminder:

And that, readers, is what friends are for.
So here's hoping I have something funny to write about soon. It's time, no? But in the meantime, my dear friends, thank you. This is my love note to you.

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!

enough.

sometimes, most of the time really, when i write a blog it just pours out in one giant puddle. sometimes the idea will spark, and i'll just start free writing a draft so i don't lose my train of thought, then i'll come back and try to piece them together into some semblance of a story. today was more of a free writing kind of day, but i don't want to come back to this. so below is a little insight into a writer's first stage, into a girl's point of view on a pointless tragedy, into what happens before the red pen when emotion is just unedited, thoughtful emotion. i know it won't be for everyone, and i know it's not polished or well thought out. neither of those things have ever stopped me from running my mouth before, nor, clearly, will they now.

thoughts and prayers are not enough.
facebook statuses and cover photos and comments are not enough.
tv coverage is not enough.
a telethon, a celebrity concert, a ribbon on a dress is not enough. 
one stupid silly blog post is not enough. 

this is not a natural disaster. it's not a human accident.
this was a choice, not that someone was allowed to make, but that someone was empowered to make.

the definition of insanity is not men like this - which i say only because it's only been men, boys really, so far - who do these things. it's the rest of us who cluck and tsk and cover our mouths with our hands as we watch the news, as we demand action and change and something different and more and better for our children, and then we change the channel and it's gone until it's back.

our president called for "meaningful action." pick what means something to you. replace "newtown, ct" with YOUR home. imagine the news trucks and the police presence and your neighbors. if this happened in centerville, i would be there. go to the darkest side for a moment. go all the way to that side. tell yourself you're next. picture your children's kindergarten classroom. picture your own freshman homeroom. who sat next to you then? who do your kids paint with now? aren't we past the platitudes of "you just never expect it to happen here, in this kind of place, to you." does that sort of elitist naivete really still exist?

the second amendment was adopted ON THIS DAY, December 15, 1791. do you think this is what they had in mind? these inconceivable guns that rob human lives and innocence in fractions of a second, not even giving the most ill person a moment to think to themselves, amidst the chaos and noise, "what am i doing to the world?" these guns that land, not in the hands of militia or protectors or even sportsmen, but in the hands of the angry, the sick, the vengeful, the forgotten, the left behind, the misguided, the self-righteous?

at that time, it took an approximate, estimated 45 seconds for a trained, skilled shooter to load a muzzled rifle. most of the TWENTY children shot yesterday morning were probably already dead in 45 seconds.

people say it's not the time for politics. i understand the sentiment, and i respectfully disagree. if you want to affect change, you need to do it when people are paying attention. and as horrible as yesterday was, as glued as we all may be to cnn or msnbc tonight, tomorrow we'll watch something else. i'll probably watch a bad mel gibson movie, because that's how i tend to abuse my sundays when there's nothing more pressing to do and no one around to stop me. my friends with kids will probably be wrapping presents or baking something or wrapping baked stuff or whatever you people do the week before christmas.

no one in that town will be baking today. no one will be christmas shopping. those chores, those tasks we'll roll our eyes at and say we wish were already done? they don't get to do those things. they would probably give anything to be braving the mall traffic today. spending a little too much money. reprimanding themselves for the "one for you, two for me" approach to gift giving. from now on, this will cease to be a time of celebration for 26 families. it will be a time of grieving, of remembering, of questioning, of yearning. "sending our love," let's be honest, won't ease that pain. won't lessen the grief. not today. not a five-year-old's lifetime from now.

you need to talk to your mayor. you need to learn about the brady center. you need to take about 15 seconds to sign the online petition for gun control. now. we need to stop expecting this, and stop accepting this. something has to change for it to be different. that's just good common sense. we are better than this. 

how long will it take us to fix it?

some brightside words of brilliance and light and harsh truth on my facebook feed this morning:
"there is something heroic about joy."
"we are all asking God how He could let this happen. I think God is asking us the same question."
"there is still good in the world. go find it today. find it fast."