“ ‘Ask his mother for recipes.’ I hate cooking.”
She looks scandalized. “Whatever you do, don’t tell a man that.Orhis mother.”
“ ‘Find out about the girls he hasn’t married and don’t repeat their mistakes.’ ”
“That one’s just a no-brainer.”
“ ‘Point out to him that the death rate of single men is twice that of married men’?!” I throw the pages down. “Gran, be serious.”
“What? Statistics don’t lie! No harm in instilling a little fear,” she says defensively.
“I am not using these ‘tips,’ ” I say, my fingers locked in tight air quotes, “to trap a husband. They’re ridiculous and antiquated and you know it.” I scan the list again anyway, shaking my head. “Funny, though. I can’t believe women actually used to do this stuff.”
“Oh, I think you will use them.”
I glance up. “Excuse me? How’s that?”
A slow, devious smile blooms on her face, melting the years and lines of age away. It takes me a second to place the familiar glint of mischief in her eyes until I realize: It’s the same teasing gleam I see when I look in the mirror.
“Because it’s my birthday, and this is what I want as my gift.”
I cross my arms and tilt my head, my body languagecommunicating:You can’t be serious.She meets my gaze steadily, her smug expression confirming:As a heart attack.
“What, theHamiltontickets weren’t enough?”
She throws up her hands. “Cass, just read the book and give some of the tips a shot. What do you have to lose?”
“Uh, my dignity?”
“Pfft.” She waves a hand. “Overrated.”
“You’re actually suggesting I behave like a submissive 1950s trophy wife?!”
“I’msuggestingyou consider that some of those tips might actually have merit. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result, right? You’re sitting here telling me you wish things were different, but you’re not willing to change your behavior or consider another way.” She raps the book cover with a knuckle. “Here’s another way.”
“I hardly think you blackmailing me into highly problematic, subservient behavior is a proportional response for my lack of a wedding date.”
“Oh, ‘blackmail’ is such a strong word,” she says airily. “Think of this as... anexperiment.”
I open my mouth to argue further, but the word triggers something in my brain and I pause.
This article—one my grandmother’s saved forseventyyears—is exactly the kind of story we salivate over at Siren. Just reprinting these half-baked dating tips in all their ridiculous retro glory would generate a million clicks and even more shares, but what if we actually tested them on some unsuspecting suitors? I can see the headline now:I tried these old-fashioned dating tips so you don’t have to!Subhead:June Cleaver meets the modern Manhattanite.We could even turn it into a recurring series. It’s a content gold mine.
Gran’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “I know you wouldn’t deny an old woman one of her last requests.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Please, you’re going to outlive us all.”
She wags a finger at me. “I won’t be around forever! My clock is ticking. And I want to see you happy.”
“Iamhappy.”
“But you could be happier.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t win.”
She shrugs, unrepentant. “I just call it like I see it.”
“You should consider a filter.”
