“Don’t let me forget,” my dad said to my mom as he headed into the kitchen. “You need to put some neosporin on my scalp.”

(Earlier today, a dermatologist had removed a couple little bumps from his noggin. They were benign, but since skin cancer runs in our family, we’re all quick to take a scalpel to that nonsense.)

I looked up from my laptop and chuckled, “That’s marriage. That’s 30+ years of marriage, right there.”

Mom didn’t get it.

“Just the way he said it, so matter-of-factly,” I went on. “Like you’ve been around each other for so long, that saying, ‘You need to put ointment on this gaping wound,’ doesn’t phase anyone.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she replied.

“I mean, what’s a little incision, when YOU’VE gone through CHILDBIRTH?! Was dad like, RIGHT THERE when I was born?”

“Well yeah, he cut the cord.”

“Was it gross?”

“Probably.”

I burst out laughing. My dad came back into the living room to investigate: “What are you guys talking about?”

“I asked if you had seen me being born,” I explained. “And when I asked her if it was gross, she said probably.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” he responded. “Y’know, I used to field-dress deer, and stuff like that…”

“Hahah….Wait…Did you just compare my BIRTH to FIELD-DRESSING A DEER? Thanks, Dad.”

For those of you playing the home game, I am a huge fan of Chef Anthony Bourdain. Like huge. When I found out the Indiana Humanities Council was bringing him and his buddy Eric Ripert to do a talk here in Indianapolis, I started counting down the days. And when I discovered I was going to meeting them? I panicked. My memory wandered back to the “Sufjan Stevens Debacle of 2009,” in which I experienced complete social paralysis around the indie darling. (I mustered the courage to tug on his hoodie and gave a quiet, “hey..” and he was JUST about to turn around when someone called his name. I bolted, while everyone in a five-foot radius cringed.)

BUT NOT THIS TIME. NOT WITH TONY, I had decided. I took to social media to ask what my icebreaker should be. The number one answer? “Put a boob out.”

Nice.

Last night I headed to Clowes Hall on the Butler campus with Bess, a talented cook in her own right and a Ripert-lover. We were giddy, giddy schoolgirls. By taking advantage of the presale, we were able to get really great seats about five rows back.

The two sort of interviewed each other, sipped on local beer, and then opened up the floor to questions. My favorite was from a little girl who asked, “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

Bourdain: I wanted to play bass for Parliament Funkadelic.

Ripert: I wanted to be a Chef first. But I also wanted to be - how do you say - a Park Ranger?

I paid a little extra to gain access to the reception, which included a meet ‘n greet with the two Chefs. This is where I started sweating. I had spent the past couple weeks ruminating over WHAT I was going to say to such an inspiration to me. I watch No Reservations to escape to far-off places for an hour at a time, yes, but what keeps me coming back is his exquisite writing style. I would read his books and swear I could taste the food. On my daily commute, I’d listen to his audiobooks in my car and miss my exits.

When a woman handed me a post-it note and a sharpie and told me to write down what I wanted Tony to write, it came immediately:

Guys, this only slightly resembles my actual handwriting. A) I was literally writing this in the palm of my hand and B) I WAS SHAKING.

I took a deep breath and approached the table.

“Hi,” I said. “This is the one thing I wanted to ask you.”

He took the post-it and held it at arm’s length so he could read it better. (Only then was I reminded that this man who is on my Top Ten list is old enough to be my father.)

“It says To Jenn, with two N’s, and then write what is your one piece of advice for an aspiring writer.”

He took a pause, looked off into the distance, and put the marker to the page.

“If you can do that…” he trailed off, as he slid the book back over the table. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded, as if to finish, “…you’ll be fine.” Sincerely I mouthed, “Thank you” and I think we had kind of “a moment,” which probably only occurred in my head, but this is my blog so I don’t care.

After that, Eric Ripert is going to be a piece of CAKE, right?

So this happened:

Me: Lemme just WHIP THIS OUT HERE (I pull out his massive book from my purse. He begins to sign.)

Me: And I’m Jenn, with 2′ns. (You laugh, but after 27 years of being 1 of 2349823423 Jennifers, you learn that people won’t remember “Jenn,” but they will remember “Jenn with 2 n’s”)

Me: I am SO JEALOUS of your birthplace! (he had mentioned that he was born in between  Cannes and Monte Carlo, aka the French Rivera, aka, My Favorite Place on Earth Pretty Much. Prrrrobably could have articulated that differently.)

Eric: Oh yes?

Me: Yeah, I’ve been there a couple times. (as if to say, I know we’re among Hoosiers here, but I’VE been to EUROPE.)

Eric: …..

Eric: Yes, it iz very nice therr. Very beautifool.

Me: Yeah, not half bad, huh? (Oh my God, Jenn.)

Eric: New York Cittee iz nice, too.

Jenn: Yeah, I’m thinking of moving there.

Eric: Iz very nice.

Jenn: That’s what I’ve heard. (AWWWKWARRRD. Inner monologue: “You need to end this, now.”)

Jenn: HEY, would you mind taking a picture with me?

Oh well. At least we look good.

I went home and went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. It was very Audrey-Hepburn, I-Could-Have-Danced-All-Night. I kept throwing my head face down in my pillow and screaming, like the night of my first kiss.

It never does.

I get anxious to start the next chapter, to push the re-do button until I stumble upon a Life that makes sense to me.  Luckily, I’m not alone in this one. My beautiful BFF Katie and I have spent endless hours on the Cockpit Couch, imagining a total overhaul of our lives. We don’t know where it will take us — or if we’ll take on the adventure together or apart. We just know things need to change. And when we get tired of talking about it?

We watch The Hills.

…like for 6 hours, on a Sunday. Both of us were fair-weather Hills fans, only tuning in for a couple episodes here and there. But a few Sundays ago, we needed complete, mindless escapism. Enter MTV. We got so into it that we planned our entire Tuesday night around the series finale, complete with a bottle of wine (PER PERSON). We laughed about it, mocked ourselves…until three glasses in, and Kristin says something like “I need a change, y’know?” and we slurred, “Oh my gaaaaah, this is SO US. SO. US.”

Hence, this G-Chat conversation:

Jenn: We need a theme song.

Katie: Something like…’feel the rain on your skin.’

Jenn: Oh yeah. DUH.  We already have one.

Katie: Hahaha.

Jenn: Shit…and then when we’re feeling super emotional, we have to find that unplugged version.

Katie: Oh man, the unplugged version! Omg I’m listening to it right now…why does it somehow make me feel better? This is sick.

Jenn: I don’t know. This is totally one of those things where we like it ironically until we start to like it unironically.

Katie: Okay, I’ve hit a wall. That must mean lunch time.

Jenn: GO GIT IT! Your lunch is still uneaten.

Katie: Wow.

That’s how I found myself at The Steer-In.

(photo by this guy.)

I saddled up to the small and cozy counter.

“You’re finally here!” bellowed the older gentleman occupying the corner seat. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“Hah! Is that right?” I shot him a smile over my shoulder as I slipped off my shades and took a seat. He wasn’t creepy; he was a harmless retiree looking for conversation.

“Them’s some fancy glasses,” he commented, pointing to my bright yellow knockoffs. “Where’d you come from? Hollywood?”

“Naaah.” I ordered an iced tea and flipped through the menu. “So what’s good here?”

“Everything. Everything is good here.” The man anchoring the opposite corner nodded in agreement: “I’m here every day. They got big, breaded tenderloins.”

I chuckled. “That’s so Indiana!” This whole experience was Indiana — the stuff of Mellencamp songs. This guy’s got an interstate runnin’ through his front yard, you know, he thinks he got it so good.

As I sat and waited for my carry-out, we talked mainly about death:

“I don’t want to be cremated. And I don’t wanna be put in the dirt,” he declared.

From four seats down: “Whaddia want, then?” The Retiree had captured the attention of everyone at the counter, this lunchtime table for singles.

“I wanna do like the Egyptians.”

I looked up from my tea. “You wanna be mummified?”

“I wanna be put above the ground in a crypt, like them phay-rohs.”

I smiled. He looked me in the eyes: “When you’re dead? You’re gonna be dead for a long time. You gotta enjoy your life.”

The door chime rang and focus shifted to a younger man in a white tee shirt, who sat down next to my lunchtime companion. The waitress approached his place at the counter: “You orderin’ sumthin’?” The way she said it - she must know him.

“No, thank you. It’s too hot to eat.” He looked kind of…weathered.

Retiree punched the Young Gun on his shoulder. “This is son number one. His girlfriend just broke up with him. She’s an officer for the Coast Guard in Koh-dee-ack, Alaska…. Traded him in for a bear, er sumthin’.”

I guffawed, then covered my mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s not funny.”

Young Gun shook his head. “He’s having a harder time letting it go than I am…. How’d you get stuck in this mosh pit?”

“Just meandered my way in, I guess.” The waitress came with my carry-out. “Nice talking to you fellas, have a lovely afternoon.”

Ain’t that America.

As I was walking out to my car, someone called out, “Hey…” and I turned around to see Young Gun. “What did you say your name was again?”

I hadn’t.

“Oh, it’s Jenn.”

“Jenn, I’m Jason. Listen, um, would you maybe want to go out sometime?”

“Um…sure…” I trailed off.  I lack the ability to reject anyone in situations like this.

“Ya like motorcycles?”

I told him I didn’t know.

I gave him my number — not because I want him to call, but because it takes GUTS to run out of a diner after a perfect stranger, like they do in the movies.

Let me tell you, reader - there was a lot to choose from. When we drove past THIS PLACE:

I knew. This is where I’d find it. Little did I know I’d also find one of the greatest. things. ever. beyond those bears, there.

FIRSTLY, this is what I bought Katie.

This is a shot glass THAT IS ALSO A MAGNET. Donned with multi-coloured well-wishes of “Vacation” , the words “Traverse City” are schlepped on, completely off-center. Multi-functional tacky. I liked it.

BUT IT GETS BETTER.

Last night, I changed out of my work clothes and slipped into something more AWESOME.

I don’t think you realize — this is an AIRBRUSHED CUT-OFF HOODIE.

Me: Is this not the GREATEST SHIRT YOU’VE EVER SEEN?

Katie: [cracking up] You look like you should be Krumping.

[doorbell rings. I go to answer it.  It's Jordan.]

Jordan: Hiiiii! (hugs)

Me: Hiiii! (hugs)

Katie: Why are you pretending like she’s not dressed like that?!?!?

Jordan: I’m not. Krump! Krump! Krump!

[Ten minutes pass. Front door opens. Matt joins us. Then, a little while later...]

Katie: Matt, I’m surprised you haven’t said anything about Jenn’s shirt.

Matt: I’ve been eyeing it since I got here. I’m obsessed.

Jenn:  Me. Too.

Matt: Can we throw a party, like, around that shirt?

I say yes.

BESS (to JENN): You should get the Black Jack Big Box!

JENN: (squints at menu) What? Oh. It’s a…black taco? Huh.

THE VERY DAPPER AFRICAN AMERICAN MAN WAITING IN LINE JUST IN FRONT OF THEM TURNS AROUND.

MAN: Black is in now.

JENN BLUSHES, GIGGLES NERVOUSLY.

MAN: But you need to know, once you get it, you’ll never go back to the other kind of taco again. It’ll be the best taco you’ve ever had.

BESS:   . . .  I hope it’s not a limited time offer.

Up close, I learned that most of them were homeless people looking to use the free internet.

But let’s not name names. I was there for the same reason, which resulted in me sitting among some delightfully crazy people on floor five.

“Excuse me, what color is your hair?” the woman to the right of me asked.

“My natural color? Or…well, I get this done professionally,” I responded, feeling somewhat guilty that I paid for something so superficial while this woman had most of her worldly possessions in a Kroger plastic bag.

“Well, it’s very lovely.”

I thanked her, babbling on about color depositing shampoos, like my life was such a struggle, but I am chatty and will talk to pretty much anyone and she didn’t judge me for it.

“A good hair color is hard to find,” she declared.

“Oh, yes. Yes it is…” I trailed off, assuming the end of this superficial conversation.

“Much like a good man - hard to find.”

“I know..right?”

She took a beat, and although we both went back to looking at our monitors, I knew there was more coming.

“But you can get rid of your hair color. You can’t kill a man.”

I laughed nervously and waited for the crazy.

“…well, you can. But you catch hell for it.”

I peeked at her monitor - she was googling Miami crime records.

Bess: One of my reps sent me a Sam Cooke book.

Jenn: Funny, it sounds like you’re saying “Sam Cookbook.”

Jenn: Holy shit, “Sam CookeBook..” Why didn’t his marketing people THINK of that, before he got shot?!

Bess: By a stripper!

Jenn: Think of it, that’s the best idea of all time.

Bess: A whole book of Sam Cooke-themed recipes!

The best thing about Bess ( “the BESST THING”) is that we will convince ourselves that every idea is the greatest thing to ever exist.  We continued to flesh out recipes…Like…

Everybody Loves to Cha Cha Cha= “Everybody Loves to Cha-Cha-Chalupas.”

You Send Me = “You Blend Me Smoothie”

Win Your Love for Me = “Win Your Loaf for Me Meatloaf”

For Sentimental Reasons = “For Sentimental Peas’N Carrots”

A Change is Gonna Come = “A Change is Gonna Crumb Cake“

Can I copyright a blog entry? This will obviously never come to fruition, but if I see The Sam CookeBook at a god forsaken Barnes & Noble I will HUNT THEM DOWN.

Our whole basis for writing the book was so that Bess could sell it in her future bookstore, B’s Knees Books. See, whenever we talk about our ideal lives, it’s this scenario: Bess owns a little bookstore on Mass Ave, and I’m a freelance writer who just hangs out at her shop and drinks copious amounts of wine and coffee.  Roaming around the store is Louisa May Alcott, Bess’s Newfoundland:

Obviously, in this fantasy of our awesome lives, I have a dog too.  I have a french bulldog named Rue McClanahan:

Naturally, Louisa May Alcott and Rue McClanahan are best of friends, and romp around the bookstore as their owners have outlandishly lucrative careers.

. . . . .

I have a feeling this entry is only going to make sense to the four of us.

Jenn: who knew cream cheese and like cocktail sauce and crab was so good

Bess: no shit! i’ve had cream cheese, cocktail sauce and baby shrimp before but i think the crab really adds something

Jenn: it really does.

[insert a good five minutes of actual deep conversation here]

Bess: man i’m lovn’ this dip

Jenn:  Seriously. I ran out of crackers and I am NOT above using my fingers

Bess: i’m not above getting a second plate

Jenn: I’m down
meet you in the kitchen?

Bess: done and done

Jenn: best friendship ever.

Bess: seriously… solid as a rock