Let Them In

It’s not easy, letting someone into your home. Because then they see the holes in the walls, the off-kilter frames, the cobwebs in the corner.

It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders.

It’s not easy, letting someone in.

It’s New Year’s Eve of 2009.

I open the door in my old robe, with a bowl in my hand. In that bowl are tiny bits of stale tortilla chips, found at the bottom of the bag. On those chips of chips, are half-melted cheddar cheese and some questionably tangy salsa.

Clint stands before me, in a pressed black suit and a silky purple shirt, looking like he climbed out of a glossy menswear ad. At 29, he’s the oldest of the three brothers at the end of the block who serve as my family by proxy.

I let him in.

He peeks into my bowl.

“What is that?”

“My fancy gourmet dinner.”

“Come on. Get dressed. We’re going to the Surfer’s Ball.”

Big, black tie event at the upscale hotel here. He doesn’t want to go “empty-handed.” He’s a shy guy and needs me as social reinforcement.

“No ball, Clint, I told you before. I just don’t have it in me. And its 100 bucks to get in. I can’t spend that right now.”

My budget is tight. It’s always tight. It wears me down. Of course, it wears me down.

“Well, I’m paying. Besides, I probably owe you anyway.”

Yes, he does. Even though he and his family have a big, beautiful home at the end of the street, the “boys” spend a good amount of time here. I feed them, give them clothes, booze and bad advice. They break my stuff, use my shit and push my buttons, I’m guessing like real brothers are supposed to do.

Kyle, Kurt and Clint

And me

“No, Clint. I wanna watch Criminal Minds and eat stale chips. Leave me alone.”

“You’re going. You said you were going.”

“Mind changed.”

“Let me see your gown.”

“Clint, please leave her alone.” I sometimes refer to myself in 3rd person just to make people uncomfortable. I got it from Silence of the Lambs.

“Come on. Let me see it.”

I reluctantly walk into the bedroom and he follows. There it is, hanging from my closet door. A long black, silky gown. Very formal and pretty, mocking me. It’s quite different than the “apathy robe” I’m wearing.

“Wow. It’s beautiful. Please, Beth. Come as my date.”

Clint and I aren’t romantically involved. I don’t date any of the brothers. That whole “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy, if I may be so crass. Having sex with them might cost me the only sense of family I have here. So I know what he means by a date. A make-believe date. A placebo date.

Looking at him standing there, tall, handsome and well-dressed, I realize a fake date with Clint may trump a show on serial killers. Maybe.

“Okay,” I mutter.

“Yes! Get ready now. It’s 10:30.”

Clint and I have this game when I undress in the bedroom. I don’t bother asking him to leave my room at this point. He’ll go on the computer or do something to avert his eyes. I enjoy it. Simply the act of undressing with a man in my room feels good between my legs.

I squeeze into this fairly tight gown and begin hating myself almost instantly. Why doesn’t it fit like before? Why is it betraying me so? I start taking it off, with a groan.

“Let me see it first.”

“No, Clint. It’s wrong. It’s…”

“Let me see it!”

I turn around and his pretty blue eyes light up. A tight gown means something totally different to him.

“Perfect. Now keep going.”

But I can’t. I’m stuck in mud, suddenly.

Clint takes over. He tells me what jewelry to put on, what coat to wear. He picks my shoes. He watches me apply makeup and tells me when to stop.

“Okay, that’s enough. You’re pretty enough without it.” My face warms a little. The words feel good and hurt simultaneously.

I don’t feel pretty enough. Technically, I realize I’m an attractive person. But there’s this pervasive ugliness that lays its unwelcome hands all over me.

Living in this house doesn’t help. It’s an old family shore house that I moved into several years ago, so I could start my business. With both my parents gone, my brother has been the only person living here. He’s a hoarder. A Howard Hughes type. He doesn’t see the disrepair that everyone else does. Or he doesn’t choose to.

His shit was everywhere when I first moved in. It took me months to make it barely livable. I eventually hit a wall and could do no more. This house is beyond me. It needs a fucking wrecking ball not a “woman’s touch.”

Several weeks ago, I had a date over for dinner. He saw the ceiling tiles in the living room, falling in from a leak in the roof.

“Your ceiling really need repaired,” he says offhandedly.

“You free Wednesday?” I respond, with a spark of anger.

It’s easy for people with sturdy little houses and sturdy little families to make comments like that.

Sitting in my bedroom after dinner, he looked around at the hodgepodge of random artwork I have up and the many layers of paint carelessly slapped on the wall. My room offended his sensibilities, I could tell. I kept thinking, hell dude – if you think my room’s a wreck, wait till you get a load of what’s between these ears of mine! After that night, I didn’t hear from him again.

“Come on, Beth. Focus. It’s quarter of 11. Do your hair,” Clint says.

I brush my hair and pull it up on my head. Then take it down. Then put it back up. He doesn’t know I’m on the verge of tears. Or perhaps he does.

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Yes. Please”

Clint leaves my bedroom and makes his way through the maze of blankets we have hanging up throughout the house. We have no central heat here. The bedrooms and the kitchen are heated by space heaters. The hanging blankets, like those ceiling tiles, inflame the shame, infect my spirit.

But Clint has seen my hanging blankets and falling tiles. He’s done repairs here. Perhaps he’s doing repairs now.

When he comes back in the room, my tears have been neatly placed in the jewelry box.

“You look amazing.”

I try to smile.

“Is my room…weird?”

“What?” He looks around. “No. I always thought you room was kinda sexy, in a gypsy sorta way.”

The house I grew up in was nothing like the Joneses. After my dad died, my mother worked full-time and came home exhausted and depressed. The house suffered. Holes in the rugs and furniture, fleas on the dogs, dishes in the sink. I couldn’t stand it.

When I had slumber parties, I’d clean that house all day yet feel so self-conscious and nervous when the other girls would arrive. You can’t clean away that awful feeling, no matter how hard you scrub. And something would always happen. One girl was allergic to fleas and got bitten repeatedly. She had to leave.

The next day, I sprayed bug killer everywhere, even on my bed and pillows. I’d be prepared for the next visit. As if there would be one. As if I could kill that feeling of shame with a can of Raid.

I read once that shame is one of the most corrosive and useless of emotions. Guilt can spur an apology when needed, for instance. But shame? It serves no purpose other than to make you feel like a first class piece of shit.

Clint plays music on the computer. I pull out a red lipstick from my makeup bag and take a sip of my latest find, a very good California Syrah. My favorite wines are almost always from California.

It’s funny. Even with all my broke-assness, my tastes have gotten nothing but finer. My mother used to laugh at my lofty inclinations as a child.

“I swear, you’d think you’re a Rockefeller or something. I don’t know where you get it. Just a head’s up, girl – we’re poor!”

She was the one who taught me to have good taste. Even broke, we’d occasionally go to fine restaurants, to expand our culinary horizons. She took me to the movies constantly, so I could “see the world.” She taught me manners, core manners.

She had impeccable speech, an extensive vocabulary and read several books a week. She was genteel. She was also draining and narcisstic and extremely depressed. If I complained about the house, she’d bellow:

A house is supposed to look like it’s lived in, damnit. You try raising 5 children on a secretary’s salary! You try coming home and cooking dinner and cleaning. You see how it feels! No one appreciates the work I do. No one!”

The lipstick is a blazing red – a real power color. It does some of the work for me, thankfully. After applying it, I “unveil” myself to Clint, though he’s been watching me on and off the whole time.

“Good enough?”

“Very much so,” he says kindly.

“Thank you, Clint,” I say, gratefully.

Oh, doesn’t he seem like the sweetest guy? Well, that’s because this is a story.

Real life has fleas and worn spots in the rugs. In a few nights, Clint will “jokingly” tell me several times that I “owe” him since he bought the ticket for me. I will become irate, detailing the countless meals I’ve fed him, the times he’s stayed at my place, borrowed my car…

No one appreciates the work I do! No one!

I explain how his jokes slowly erode that special feeling I had New Year’s Eve. She needs to hold on to that feeling right now. So back off. You hear me? Leave her alone!

It is New Year’s Eve, 2009.

Clint puts my long, black coat with a faux fur collar on me and opens up the front door, which is starting to fall of its hinges. We take a step out on the icy front porch, caving in from age. The full moon and blast of arctic air instantly charge my spirits. The night becomes me suddenly.

I could probably fly there, if so desired. But I’d rather drive with Clint in his old red Ford pick-up truck and sing to the tunes on the radio. We links arms, so I don’t slip on the icy, sunken steps. His arms feel so big and blue collar.

For a moment, she feels safe and pretty.

Let ‘em In – Paul McCartney

The Dokken Factor and Other Deal Breakers in Dating

First dates are up there with anal fissures in the pleasure department but they must be endured. How else can you get to the sex?

Unfortunately, one often encounters deal breakers on those first dates, making any future seem unlikely.

Take my date last weekend…please. Actually, he was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, above average intelligence. We went for brunch at a local joint at the Jersey shore, sitting in the Fall sunlight, sipping mimosas. Happy so far!

Small talk ensued, which generally sets my teeth on edge. I hate small talk. Weather, current events, “What do you do for a living?” “Your mother, when she’s available.” That kind of thing. Deadly. But I know, I know, it must be done.

“So what kind of music do you like, Peter?” I halfheartedly asked.

“Heavy metal for the most part…like Dokken.”

“Dokken? What do you mean Dokken?

“It’s an 80’s metal band.”

“Oh, I’m aware. They have lots of hair. I just never…forget it. So who else do you like?”

“What? You never what?”

“I never heard anyone mention Dokken as one of their favorite bands before. That’s all. Like, it was the first band you’d mention.”

“Well, who would you mention?”

“Any band other than Dokken?” I responded with a nervous laugh.

We quickly changed subjects but somehow Dokken loomed over us the rest of the brunch. They might as well have been at the table, guzzling my mimosa and giving me lap dances.

Peter and I never had a second date. Which is fine. But it got me thinking about the Dokken Factor – or any other element that makes you say, “Sorry cowboy, this is just not going to work.”

Listen, I don’t think everyone should think just like me. I mean, musically, I have some nerve judging anyone. I like heavy pop, for instance. The poppier, the better. I’ve stopped parties dead in their tracks from putting on a little Barry Manilow to add some “spice” to the evening. Phil Collins fills me with a deep sense of glee. I think The Bee Gees are one of most misconstrued bands of all time.

I also like classic rock. But I can’t help that. I’m from Jersey. I was born with Boston in my blood, Van Halen in my veins and Genesis in my genes.

And it’s fine to have differences in taste. It adds a certain fun, playful tension. But differences as great as Dokken? That may just be an unbridgeable gap.

My ex-boyfriend is a big movie buff. And when I say big, there are few movies that man hasn’t seen. We can talk for hours about performances, directors, a certain shot or scene that has stuck with us forever. When he started dating again, he went out with some gal who over dinner said that she didn’t like black and white movies. They gave her the “creeps.” I had to break it to my ex that they stood no future whatsoever. He agreed. The Dokken Factor, clearly at play.

More intimately, a female friend of mine had been dating a man for 6 months when she confessed that while their sex life was going well enough, he never went down on her. He told her the first time they had sex that it just “wasn’t his thing.” (And no, it wasn’t a hygiene issue. I asked.) I told her that she may need to break up with him. She sadly agreed.

She did talk with him about it before ending it. He reiterated that he just didn’t like going down on women – not just with her, any woman. Cunnilingus done well may be one of the most deeply sensual and wonderful sensations a woman experiences sexually (in my humble opinion.) To do without, because it’s not his “thing”? Au revoir, pussy hater.

I know – we all have our sexual preferences. But not as big as this Dokken Factor. It should be a primal drive to want to go down on a woman. Instinctual, I argue. If I was a straight man, I’d skip the breasts and run, not walk, to eat at the Y. And if a man doesn’t like to do it, then he’s either sexually self-centered or lazy (which means lame sex) or he secretly prefers other sexual organs in place of the vagina, if you get my drift.

Sometimes, deal breakers turn out to be deal makers. Surprisingly, I dated a Christian guy and we managed quite well for some time. As long as he wasn’t proselytizing, I had no problem. It’s strange that I would fear a problem, truthfully. I’m a spiritual person. Not in the Christian sense (though Catholic blood still courses through these veins, whether I want it to or not) but what did I think he would do? Burn me at the stake? Beat me with a Bible?

He cursed occasionally, drank beers and had the most devastatingly beautiful lips that he would place oh so strategically all over me. When he kissed me (which was heavenly) “Son of a Preacher Man” would play in my mind. I imagined that I was defiling him, sullying his Christian goodness, which was ultimately a real turn-on, for both of us.

One man I dated cowered in quite a dangerous situation we encountered. A homeless man approached us on the street one night, when I lived in Philly, with a pipe in his hand. I had to scare the guy off by using my special “dealing with crazy people” technique. When I was done, my date stood far off to the side, applauding. Applaud this, Dokken Factor.

Sadly, I don’t always heed deal breakers. I had a wonderful date many years ago in Brooklyn – a romantic movie, a lovely dinner, great conversation, laughs. When we walked home, we came to his place first. It was there he said goodbye to me, leaving me to walk about 10 blocks home at 1 am in a semi-sketchy neighborhood. I remember trying to shrug it off, but tears kept filling up my eyes on my solo journey home. Yes, I could have asked him – but I didn’t. He could have offered, too. I stayed with him for several difficult years.

Clothing, while not a deal breaker, can certainly be deal altering. A man constantly donning a baseball cap can dampen my spirits a bit. Wearing sneakers all the time is a turn-off as well. T-shirts with slogans plastered on them…ick. He doesn’t have to be a fashion plate but show a little effort. Show that your look matters.

At this point of my life, I hope my deal breakers turn into meal makers. A man who cooks well can lure me in pretty quickly, transporting me past many Dokken-like character flaws. Sad but true.

So while I don’t think I’ll ever fall for a metal-loving, pussy-hating, Budweiser t-shirt wearing Christian who thinks black and white movies are creepy, I’m still open. At least, I try to be.

(That lap dance by Dokken doesn’t sound so bad afterall. If you guys are available (which I’m guessing you might be), please meet me at The Sandbox Cafe this Saturday. I’ll be the girl with the mimosa and the semi-jaded outlook.)

(Yeah, that’s right. Manilow. Try to stop me. Just try.)

In Bed with the Devil (One Last Time)

“So how’s it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh at the gallows’s humor. We can make jokes while having sex. We’re at that point with one another.

Soon the laughing makes way to sighs and moans. A tear runs down my face but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying being very naked with my ex-boyfriend this one last time.

God, can I really call him an ex? That implies that we had a legitimate relationship, which I seriously question. He was my part-time lover in New York City years ago. When everything was falling apart there, he was my guiding light, my protector – which is a scary thought. Because Robert is the Devil. But when you’re in Hell, you look for the leader, I suppose.

Robert makes Bacchus look like a Jesuit priest. He’d make Caligula blush. He is debaucherous, cavalier and deeply self-centered. He embraces his self-destructive behavior in a truly shameless manner that one can’t help but slightly admire.

Robert is old-world beautiful. The kind of man they don’t make anymore. Big, rugged, broad-shouldered, well dressed. A former FBI agent. An esteemed soldier. He’s a professional sharp shooter and an overall badass. Now he owns several businesses in the city and holds orgies in his elegant wine cellar, with candles burning everywhere and the finest wine and coke pouring all night.

Robert is a compulsive liar. And an addict. Everything that pours out of him and into him are lies.

While not as self-destructive, I can go there with the best – or worst – of them. I consider myself a Dark Lighter. I can go where the dark people go, give of myself, and return to tell the tale. I can keep my light. I can keep my light.

Robert loves to tear off my clothes. He loves to see me naked. He tells me I’m his angel but I’m a trophy to him. He tears at my clothes when others are around so they can see my body. Being pretty unashamed in that department, I’ve often let him.

Not this night. Those wild times are done and I’m here for one reason only.

Tonight I’m visiting him at his Jersey shore home. He brought a friend along and we went out to eat – the best food, the best wine, the best everything. While Robert may rot in Hell for eternity, he is brilliant company – charming, wicked, wild and sweet.

When I tell him I won’t go back to his boat for more “fun”, he flips. He towers over me, bellowing, but I never fear him. Though I probably should. I’m drunk. He’s drunk. I want to sleep. I want to stay at his house and be left alone. His orgiastic desires bore me.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I gasp. “Very good.”

We laugh. I cry a little but he doesn’t know.

That is what he says to me the next morning. After I leave his house at the break of down, enter his boat and slip into bed with him. Anger quickly dissolves into the pleasure of our two bodies coming together. He smells so good, like a man should. Robert is the father figure to end all father figures in my life. It’s a shame he is the Devil because he sure fits the Daddy bill pretty well – so big, so fierce.

We have sex. Soberly, beautifully. I know I can no longer go to the Dark Place with him – but this place is full of light and beauty. And he shines because Robert shines sometimes.

His cross keeps dangling in my face and I want to rip it off his neck. How dare he? How dare he use God like he’s used everything else? It can’t save him now anyway.

“Take the cross off, you liar.”

“No.”

“That cross should burn your skin. Don’t negotiate with Jesus now, you hypocrite.”

“Better safe than sorry, angel.”

The cross swings, the boat rocks, the sunlight pierces through the windows and we fuck comfortably. Like two people who’ve fucked comfortably many times. It’s the best sex we’ve ever had. Perhaps because the stakes are higher. He is dying of pancreatic cancer and has less than a year to live.

“So how does it feel having sex with a dead man?”

“Good,” I look into his wild blue eyes. “Very, very good.”

When I say this, a smile crosses flashes across his face that I’ve never seen before, like a man pleased with himself, a man who for one moment rose above his addictions and allowed himself to be sexual and intimate with a woman he loves. It’s the smile of a man who is proud of himself, proud that he pleased a woman. I know I will remember that smile forever. He tries to hide it by looking away.

“Stop hiding. I see you smiling. I know you feel good.”

He hugs me. We laugh. I start to cry a little but he doesn’t know.

Special Thanks and credit to Steven Stahlberg’s 3D image “One Last Time”

Juggling for Nothing – A Social Experiment in Letting Go

 

Are you the workhorse in most of your relationships? Are you initiating almost every conversation and maintaining every connection in your life? Are you sick and tired of the one-sidedness and unrequitedness of it all?

Yes, it’s as if you’ve been doing this mad juggling act for years and no one seems to care. Worse yet, they’ve grown to expect it.

Women often juggle in order to feel needed or fit in. They juggle for survival. I read once where dogs are generally friendly because they have to be, in order to be assimilated into a pack. Dogs have been faking it, in a sense. Women and dogs, desperately putting on a show so the pack won’t turn on them or leave them behind.

What if you let the pack turn on you?

What if you turned on them instead?

What if chose to stay behind?

What if you stopped being so damned…concerned?

It’s not easy when you let the balls drop. Suddenly you are alone. A sterile, eerie quiet settles in. (But you suspected that would happen, didn’t you? It’s been there all the time anyway.) The phone stops ringing and conversations are quickly replaced with dull, silent exchanges. You begin to talk to yourself and masturbate more because at least there’s some natural give and take there.

You feel yourself slowly becoming invisible. Can you handle that? Can you stop your act and see where you really stand, even if it’s in the middle of nowhere?

As a bored social experiment, I stopped saying hello. I stopped making phone calls. I stopped being so polite. I stopped trying. Anyone who didn’t reach out or initiate became suddenly suspect and expendable.

My brother, whom I live with, was the first to go. Since I usually greet him with a polite “good morning” every day, it felt surprisingly easy to stop. Since then, not one word has been exchanged between us. Oh well. One less ball to juggle.

My neighbor was an easy second. She doesn’t like me and I don’ like her. I used to say hello to her just to be civil. Now we say nothing and I like it. Another ball dropped, easy.

Her 10-year old son always looks like a deer in the headlights when he sees me, as if I’m a crazy unicorn or something. I usually smile and wave and he runs away. Well, truth be told, that routine is getting old. Now when he stares at me blankly, I just give him the finger. (Really, I just ignore him but sometimes I want to give him the finger.)

Romantically, it was a harder sacrifice. Keeping the connections going with a few lingering old flames offers up moments of delight, sweetness and romance…but it inevitably exhausts your self-esteem. You know you’re doing all the work. You keep waiting for the day it will be more balanced. That you’ll juggle together. But maybe they just don’t have the balls.

Perhaps many of us try so hard because we secretly believe we don’t belong here – that we have to cosmically and constantly earn our keep. We’re feel guilty over small infractions and apologize excessively. We couch our words until we have nothing left to say. We spend our time suspended in a state of anxiety, wondering when they’ll find out that we’re a farce, a mistake. When that discovery is made, we’ll be asked “to leave.”

Or maybe we’re secretly self-centered – giving to others so we can “get what we deserve in return, dammit.” When we don’t, bitterness and disappointment seeps in. Someone else let the ball drop and we’re quietly pissed.

Perhaps we’re just good people who assume the world will be equally good and kind to us in return. We’re earnest but exhausted performers, wondering when the next act will begin so we can take a much-needed break.

Where’s the goddamn clowns?

There’s this woman I know from high school. Sylvia has been clinging to the same man for over 20 years. He’s a bit of a recluse and told her decades ago that he never plans to “settle down.” She brings him food, clothing, gifts. She’s moved away from her family so she could be closer to him. Yet he provides her with nothing.

When they go out to eat, they still split the bill, even after all the meals she’s prepared for him. When I ask Sylvia why she hangs in there, she says, “I think he’s really misunderstood. He’s interesting. I get him.” I want to dump my cheap Chardonnay over her seemingly selfless head. Decades have gone by based on this delusion. (Trust me, he’s about as interesting as dried mud.)

She’s been juggling for so long, her body is slightly contorted and she looks old beyond her years. Whenever I see her, I consider her an anti-hero of sorts. She’s everything I don’t want to be. She will juggle for nothing until the bitter end.

If she stopped doing for him, nothing would happen. He would not call, he would not care. He’d only miss the free meals and passionless sex. She, on the other hand, would be painfully aware of the crushing emptiness. The spotlight would be on her, still, alone but finally free.

Then again, the loneliness might be too much for her to bear. But isn’t it there anyway?

One time, many years ago, I told my friend Krissie about a guy I liked and how he began acting strangely. I asked her to interpret something he said to me. About midway through our girly analysis, Krissie stopped me and said, “You know what, Beth? When you have to decipher someone’s actions or words, you’re already off-track. Fuck him.”

Deciphering someone’s actions or words is another form of juggling. Interpreting. Processing. Figuring out. Trying, trying, trying to understand. Is that relaxing? Rewarding? Is any of that the equivalent of good sex and intimacy? No, its exhausting, outwardly-focused mind play that you become addicted to and demoralized by.

I don’t want to be a circus act performing for a sleeping audience. So I’m letting the balls drop around me, one by one. I’m walking off the stage and out the back door and standing alone in the sunlight. If I disappear that’s alright, I guess…I don’t know. I’ve never let myself disappear before.

I’m just letting the balls drop. If they bounce back, fine. If they bounce away, better yet.

12 Myths about Men and Women Debunked with my Little Hammer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whenever someone starts a sentence with “Men are…” or “Women always…”, I cringe. Sweeping generalizations about the sexes are silly at this point. We’re all bleeding into one another, changing, morphing. Plus, these stereotypes tend to be sexist in one way or the other.

So I’m here to smash a few of them with my little hammer.

1. Men are attracted to looks and women to power and money.

Well, someone forgot to send me the memo or I wouldn’t have spent over 15 years dating a bevvy of broke-ass artists. And guess what? I love hot-looking guys, with or without power. And money means very little to me. (Trust me, I wish it meant more.)

2. Men are ruled by their…libido

Puhlease. Most guys are becoming increasingly desexualized in this computerized, fat-ass age. In order to be pursuant of women, you have to possess a certain moxy and prowess. In short, you have to have balls in order to be ruled by your cock. (Sorry for language. Dick. Pussy.)

Besides, by denying women of a strong sexual drive, we no longer have to fear their capabilities. They’re too busy at home knitting and worrying about mildew to fuck your neighbor.

3. Women take forever in the bathroom

I spend time with a lot of guys. There isn’t one of them that is as quick as yours truly in the bathroom.

4. Men are from Mars, women are from Venus

Many of you know how much I really, really dislike this book. It’s up there with “He’s Just Not That Into You.” (Oh really? Like the stark reality of him not contacting me wasn’t enough to drive home the point?)

I don’t believe men need caves anymore than women. That book is read predominantly by women who have to play some sort of game of emotional Twister in order to secure their unfulfilling relationships. “Oh Trish, leave Bob alone. He’s in his ‘cave.’” Cave this. Until men begin reading similar books (which they don’t – really) then develop your own flexible philosophy…that will undoubtedly change near constantly.

5. Men just can’t help themselves or men will be men or boys will be boys.

I call bullshit to this carte blanchery. It’s as if men are silly little puppies and women are in a special club of revered, highly self-disciplined angels. Guess what? I often can’t help myself. I’m a big tangled mess of compulsive behavior. Guess I’m not getting into the Angel Club anytime soon.

6. Women look pretty naked, men don’t.

Take off your clothes, send me the photos and I’ll be the judge.

7. When women have sex with one another, it’s titillating to watch. When men do, it’s gross.

Not for this woman. I like watching men have sex. I’m doing it at this very moment. (Shhh…here comes the good part.)

8. Women like to process and men just want to watch football.

Luckily, I know very few men that are into football. I know several women who are very into it. I do tend to process. But I have a substantial amount of female friends who quickly retreat to their “caves” when I want to talk to them about something personal.

9. Women look for long-term commitments and men hate to be tied down.

This is changing more and more. Women seem to be doing alright alone and aren’t suffering from wedding bell blues. The thing I find disturbing is that many of the men I know who are “commitment phobes” have very little to offer. Nothing like protecting your nothingness!

10. Men are hunters and women are nesters.

First of all, I ain’t a bird. And I’ve been “hunting” for decades now, thank you. It’s a little thing I like to call “survival.” With that said, I love nesting – making my home feel comfortable, cooking, hosting, etc. Maybe I can find some nesting man to steam me a cappuccino, rub my feet and fetch the daily news.

11. Men like a lady on their arm but a whore in the bedroom.

Nothing like having your own personal whore who pretties herself up in social situations. All for your pleasure, master. Maybe I’d like a whore in the bedroom and a gentleman on my arm.

12. Men just like the chase.

Men must really get off on marathons then.

But seriously, the implication here is that we must constantly be semi-detached and on-the-run in order to keep a man’s interest. That sounds exhausting and just another way women need to adapt in order to keep their pappy happy.

I do recognize there are some very real differences between men and women. And of course, that’s a beautiful thing. But most of these stereotypes are as constricting as a corset.

I know some very sensitive, football-aversive, overly processing men who can’t wait for a lifelong partner and some whisky-swigging, cave dwelling whores. And most who fall in between. And they all change as the years go by – evolving, devolving, what have you.

Personally, I’ve been around high-heeled, high-pitched women talking about weddings and Tupperware and felt like a real tomboy next to them. I’ve been around some fierce, powerful women who make me feel like a little pansy girl. I like all the relational sensations. But the more we rid ourselves of this Mars/Venus bullshit, the more freedom we allow ourselves to change.

I’m open to change…even though I look frightening.

 

Love Means…

I’m not sure why you stopped talking to me. It happened slowly, methodically, like rust. There was no big fall-out, no noteworthy event. Suddenly, you and I were no longer speaking. The divide formed.

Women are weird. They’re passivity runs deep. But you and I are different. We’re the outspoken women who yell when angry and sob when sad. We cry out. We express. What happened? Our voices got pale and garbled suddenly. The lines fell down.

Maybe it started when you received the diagnosis. I knew it. You knew it. Even as teenagers, you knew you’d get breast cancer. Your mother had it and you just felt it in your bones. Your bones were my bones, so I felt it too. It was no surprise.

The size was a surprise, though. A baseball, they said. A fucking baseball. I moved from San Francisco to New York, in part to be closer to you. But somehow, my own survival became an issue and I wasn’t as bedside as I wanted to be. Perhaps that’s when it began, the divide.

When they removed your breasts, you showed me your flattened, sutured chest in your kitchen. There was nothing you could show me that would shock me. You are my best friend. Your scars are mine.

“No, they’re not, Beth. They’re mine. You still have breasts.”

I tried to understand the difference that was forming but somehow I never grasped it the way you wanted me to. Perhaps I was unable. Perhaps I am just too self-centered.

“When am I ever going to have sex again, Beth? Who’s going to want to have sex with me now?”

You always loved sex, almost to a fault. You put the horniest sailor to shame.

“I want to have sex,” you’d say many times in the past, apropos of nothing. “I want to have sex now.”

“Kris, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe there will be someone at the party tonight.”

“There better be because I want to have sex.”

“I heard you the first time, Kris.”

Breastless, you felt sexless. And I didn’t know how to give that back to you. Your sex drive was your lifeline.

“I’ll get out of New York and come visit you for Christmas,” I told you, during our last phone conversation. (No one tells you it will be the last time you’ll speak on the phone. No announcements are made. But it would be our final phone call. You would accept no more of my calls after that.)

A year passed. Calls placed. Letters. Pictures. Anything. Friends tried to intervene.

“She’s getting worse, Beth. You need to come see her.”

“She doesn’t want to see me. She hasn’t responded to me in a year. I did something very wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The secondhand stories grow worse. You can’t walk that well. Your bones begin to snap. Your face changes, shifts, hollows. You are 42 and dying of breast cancer. This massive clock in a pitch-dark sky keeps ticking in my ears.

You always served as the big sister – a role you didn’t always relish. I was the emotional mess and you were the semi-reluctant anchor. Maybe this time you wanted to be the emotional mess and it was too late for us to change roles. Is that why you’re mad at me, Krissie?

Maybe my problems were too dismaying. You yelled several years ago, as I relayed to you a recent event where I put myself in jeopardy with drugs, men, sex, wine and recklessness. “What the hell is your problem? What would possess you to put yourself in that situation?”

Unable to answer, I just felt shame. Shame that you, my closest friend, saw the train wreck that was my life and could no longer tolerate it.

I’m racing down a highway in South Jersey, trying to get to you. You have hours to live, they tell me. Hours! I race and race but cannot erase.

When I get to your house, your mother is waiting on the steps, fragile, shaken, deeply worn.

“Please, Beth…just be careful! Don’t upset her. I know you two…please, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I think of the other times in my life when a gatekeeper intervenes – someone to warn me before I walk through a doorway and face death. How the gatekeepers sound the same. When my mother was dying, it was my brother-in-law. “You need to know, Beth…she looks differently since the last time. It’s…”

“Get out of my way.”

When I enter the shrine, your air-conditioned bedroom, with the curtains drawn and music playing, your eyes light up.

You’re not mad at me! You’re not mad at me! Those eyes are happy to see me.

I crumple next to you, exhausted, in your hands, totally in your hands. You try to splash cold water on my face because you see how red I am, from racing, crying, humiliation. Leave it to you to worry about me and my comfort at that moment Leave it to you to be so much of a better person than me.

Then you say something that stuns me:

“I don’t know how to say I’m sorry,” you utter, in this unrecognizable, garbled voice.

“You? You don’t know how to say you’re sorry to me? I’m sorry. I’m the bad friend. I’m the selfish one. I didn’t show up enough and….”

“No. That wasn’t it. That’s not why…”

“Then why?”

You try so hard to find the words but it’s exhausting, stretching and reaching for words, words, words, and you are so tired. You look me pleadingly, as if to say, “Read my mind, Beth. I can’t work any harder.” Rest, please. Stop. Stop!

“Does it matter, Kris…does it?”

“No. No, it doesn’t. At all.” That comes out very clearly. In your old voice.

And we let it go. At that very moment. Our silence breaks. All is forgiven. The birds fly out the window.

I sit down and sing songs quietly to you the rest of the afternoon as you sleep restlessly, fighting some imaginary blanket being pulled over. I sing all the songs we love to sing, over wine, over food, over cigarettes, over stories, over love, over loss, over life. Our anthems, our songs from our humble, beautiful and difficult Jersey lives.

I could tell you enjoyed it. A slight smile sometimes. I sing our songs like little lullabies and put you to sleep.

One of our songs:

Sara – Fleetwood Mac

Wait a minute baby…
Stay with me awhile
Said you’d give me light
But you never told be about the fire

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now its gone
It doesn’t matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

And he was just like a great dark wing
Within the wings of a storm
I think I had met my match — he was singing
And undoing the laces
Undoing the laces

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now its gone
It doesn’t matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

Hold on
The night is coming and the starling flew for days
I’d stay home at night all the time
I’d go anywhere, anywhere
Ask me and I’m there because I care

Sara, you’re the poet in my heart
Never change, never stop
And now its gone
It doesn’t matter what for
When you build your house
I’ll come by

Drowning in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown
And now it’s gone
It doesn’t matter anymore
When you build your house
Call me home

All I ever wanted
Was to know that you were dreaming
(There’s a heartbeat and it never really died)

Am I the Wal-Mart Baby Slapper

Unchecked children drive me nuts. When I have to tell someone’s kid to reign it in, I want to send a bill to the parents for services rendered. So when I went to the block party at the end of the street this Labor Day weekend, the last thing I wanted to do was parent someone else’s little monster.

This freckle-faced hellion is emotionally disturbed- a pretty vague psychiatric diagnosis for a smart, cunning and hyperactive 12-years old who gives the word “brat” a whole new meaning. In the past, he has screamed in the middle of a gathering or blasted music full volume, for the sake of attention. He also sneaks alcohol at parties, which I was one of the few people to notice.

When I saw him standing at the entry way of the party, I let out an audible sigh. My night was about to be undone by an inebriated, troubled and pretentious 12-year old, desperate for attention.

Last year, he collected the “donations” for the block party. The adults put him in charge because of his hyperactivity. He has the perfect disposition to run around, take $10 from each attendant (for the band supposedly, since the block party hosts don’t provide alcohol and the dishes are brought by the attending neighbors) and dutifully give the money back to the parents (yeah, right.)

As I entered, he ran toward me immediately, demanding $10. I told him I’d give it to one of the parents at the end of the night and please leave me alone. He proceeded to very much not leave me alone and ask me every 20 minutes or so until I demanded that he back off.

Several people I knew came up to me and complained about this kid’s behavior. One family, visiting from out of town, had to pay $50 to get into this shindig! That’s when I got mad and pulled the child aside and had my Wal-Mart moment.

“You overcharged that family. Go get $30 from your parents and give it back to them. Now!“

The child ran away from me, crying, “You called me a thief. I’m not a thief. I’m not a thief!”

Well, that’s when the suburban chick armies descended upon me.

The friend of the mother of the child marched up to me with a kid in tow, asking me in that disturbing, sing-songy way, “Excuse me…is there a problem?” I looked behind her and saw several other local women glaring in my general direction.

“That child is treating the attendants rudely. And he also overcharged that family. There are 3 children and two adults. They brought their own beer. And no one should pay 50 bucks to get into a block party.”

“Did you pay?”

“No, no I haven’t. I was planning on paying when I left. My pocketbook is in the car. I forgot you guys charge for this. Besides, I live down at the end of the street and know one of the hosting families very well.”

The hosting family I referred to are the Sumners. Their sons are the infamous Brothers I write about frequently and surf with often. They are like real brothers to me and we spend a lot of time together.

“Oh, so you’re here for a free ride,” she shot back.

“Yes, you got me. I get my kicks from freeloading at block parties. Listen, I was planning on paying. And see those guys there?” I said gesturing to the Brothers, red plastic cups in hands, leaning against a garage door. “I often house and feed them and lend them my car and have, on occasions, given them the shirt off my back. I’ve done more than my share of contributing.”

“I don’t care who you sleep with. There’s a $10 fee to attend.”

Whoa. Stop the presses. What?? Sex life? Who said anything about f-u-c-k-i-n-g? That’s when my Walmart slaphappy hand began to twitch.

I looked at her dead in the eye.

“You’re stepping over a line with me and you better back off. My non-existent sex life is none of your business. And for whatever it’s worth, I don’t sleep with any of those…boys. This is about a child who is out of control and I simply said something about it.”

“Are you a parent?”

“Does it matter?” (Oh here we go: the holier than thou “You don’t understand because you don’t have a kid” speech.)

“If you did, you’d understand that he’s an emotionally disturbed child.”

“Well, I’m curious why you allow an emotionally disturbed child to handle hundreds of dollars at an adult event.”

“Do you want to do it? Feel free! Next year, you’re the designated money collector. Happy? Are you happy you made a troubled child cry his eyes out?”

No, I wasn’t happy at all. And I knew there wouldn’t be a next year. Not here at least.

As I remain in this middle class suburban purgatory, I’m continually reminded of how little I belong and how my mere presence bothers people.

Who is this single female not saddled down in an unhappy marriage with unruly kids to fill an ever-aching void? Why does she hang out with men half her age? And why does she look so damn hot? (I added the last rhetorical question for my own ego’s sake today. Sue me.) This “burn the witch” attitude would remain, no matter what I did, no matter who I did or didn’t fuck.

When I realized our neighborly little conversation was going nowhere, I excused myself and began walking back to my car. The Brothers tried to stop me but it was too late.

How dare she question my morality? How dare she take the word of an emotionally disturbed child over a grown woman? If I was that troubled 12-year old, my mother would have demanded I apologize to that 42-year old woman, not the other way around! But I knew no apologies would come my way. I knew I’d be gossip fodder for this gaggle of desperate housewives until their husband’s next affair or cross-dressing party.

As I walked down the street, tears intermingled with the new mascara I bought that day began to roll down my face. Suddenly, I heard a laugh and looked to my right. There was my old, dead friend, walking next to me.

“What’s so funny, Kris?”

“That you’d let this bother you. At all.”

“I know, I know.

“Beth, you don’t care about these people. You’re beyond this. See it as a sign to move on.”

She opened the car door for me and got in the passenger’s seat and lit a cigarette. (Cancer isn’t an issue for her anymore, thank god.)

“Come on. Let’s go back to your house and watch some Law & Order and drink some wine. That always makes you feel better.”

“Should I run back and give that woman ten dollars?”

“Fuck, no. Beth, you’re not going to win no matter what you do. So you might as well live out your reputation as a freeloading slut.”

“So true.”

I hugged her vapory essence and she continued to laugh. Not in a mean way, in that celebratory “fuck it” way.

I began laughing too. Alone, in my car.

Small Gestures, Small Flowers

Mark Dixon’s “Two Friends”

 

Clint came over for coffee yesterday morning.

I had just returned from a brief trip back to my hometown to see some old friends. Emotionally fragile, I tried my best to engage in conversation with them and listen to their stories, though my heart wasn’t in it. I’d become too accustomed to living on an island, where my emotional sores fester in peace, alone. Social interaction feels foreign and pained at times.

 

When I returned, the house was a mess. My brother and my roommate had trashed it resoundingly in the few days I was gone. The tired Cinderella motif played out in my head, as I rushed around in the sweltering heat, cleaning up, trying to make my habitat feel like a home, even just a little.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and my house smelled of rotten food. No one had taken out the trash while I was gone because apparently you need a fucking PhD to figure out how to perform this Herculean task. Putrefying bodies after a mass suicide in the tropics smelled better than my kitchen yesterday.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and I knew he would. He looks forward to our talks and we’re friends with similar “issues.” Once he saw my truck pull into the driveway from my trip, I knew his arrival was imminent. I rushed around, trying to clean up. I want my friends to feel good when they enter my house, not nauseated.

But he got there too early and the scent was unbearable. I apologized, my face red with anger and mild humiliation. He tried to help but had to leave the kitchen at one point because the smell was so bad. Finally, trash was removed, coffee brewed and sanity restored.

(But was it? There’s a price for constantly having to make things right when you’re already busting at the seams. Needless caretaking is backbreaking and taxing. Nobody talks about the price-tag.)

Over coffee, Clint told me of a woman he had hooked up with the night before. This was a big deal. Neither of us have seen much action as of late. I gave him a high five for “taking one for the team” and asked for details.

He said it was awkward a bit, actually. He felt a little unskilled, “rusty.” His mind was whirring with a million thoughts the whole time.

“I used to be able to seduce a woman much easier. I used to stick my tongue in someone’s ear with confidence. Now…”

He trailed off and looked thoughtfully into the freshly Windexed table.

“Now my mind…it has a life of its own. I can’t control it anymore.”

His last words punched me in the gut, resonating with me too deeply. My paper-thin veneer began ripping. Tears filled my eyes as he continued his story. He looked up at some point. “Are you alright?”

I burst into tears. “No, no I’m not” I laughed, in that undoing sort of way. “I’m not even close to alright. What you said about your mind having a mind of its own. I don’t know what to do. I’m…falling down. I have been for a while.”

He reached out and held my hand on the newly Windexed table, the smell of deathrot slowly fading away with the summer breeze.

“It’s going to be alright. We’re going to be alright.”

His hand felt so warm and firm and good. All that was good was in our hands. Warmth and love and connection and friendship. Nothing felt better. He held my hand and let go of it at just the right moment, not a second too early.

Isn’t it amazing, what a small gesture can do? Even old embedded pain or anger can dissipate in the soft breath of an instant. It’s funny – you’re so sure those wounds are a permanent splinter in your soul – and yet one kind word or gesture can yank it out in a flash. It’s almost a miracle.

I’m always waiting for flowers. Flowers from people who hurt me. A note or a box of candy. Or a word of love. A wise explanation. A touch of acknowledgment. Then I’ll feel released. Then my spirit will rise again.

I’m always waiting for flowers. From the people who left me, who didn’t apologize, who disregarded my feelings, who didn’t show up, who may have used me, who didn’t honor me.

I don’t even like flowers that much. It’s the symbol of flowers I always await. But they don’t come.

Clint came over for coffee yesterday and saved my life a little. He gave me the symbol of a flower. With a touch of his hand. It was that simple.

Clint and Beth, Long Beach Island, Summer 2009

Clint with small flower, Summer 2009

The Sexiest Men in Rock & Roll – A Scientific Study

“You want this.”

Some think sexiness is in the eye of the beholder. But is it? Here at Silly Lists of Nothingness, we say its an exacting science that can be proved in labs with women in white coats using complex formulas that are beyond you, so don’t worry pretty little head.

This isn’t a case of “I think he’s hot” as much as this guy is definitely hot – like, scientifically. These guys work it and they own it. We also threw in a few hot rock stars that are non-traditionally sexy but radiate that sexy vibe, which means there’s hope for us all.

Here’s the criteria which lead us to our findings:

• They ooze sexiness. They know they’re sexy and show it off. They’re cocky, sometimes literally.

• They look good in tight pants.

• They look good in tight pants.

The Top Ten Hottest Men in Rock

1. Jim Morrison

Topping our list is the Lizard King himself. Jim Morrison stands heads and shoulders above the rest, according to our esteemed panel. In fact, he sets the standard for the rest of the list. The man oozes sexiness, from his leather pants to his pouty lips. He even passes out on stage sexy. Not everyone can pull that off.

2. Sting (The Early Days)

Young Sting was a HOTTIE. Tantric sex Sting of today is a little too rich and self-involved, not like the lean and hungry Sting of yesteryear. Just the video for “Don’t Stand so Close to Me” alone created lifelong English teacher fantasies for women worldwide.

3. Jared Leto

“Big ego, maybe…but I’m smoking. Just try to deny me.”

4. Michael Hutchence of INXS


“I’m feeling cocky….can’t you tell?”

5. Rod Stewart (Early Days)

“I plan on fucking a lot. I mean, a lot, a lot.”

6. Trent Reznor

“I want to fuck you like an animal.”
Likewise, I’m sure.

7. Mick Jagger

“Please…this list was invented for me.”

8. Robert Plant

“Yeah, right, Jagger .”

9. Elvis Presley

“Easy, boys. I clearly started the whole thing.”

10. Billy Squier

“Stroke me.”

11. Freddie Mercury

“I’m non-traditionally sexy but I got “it” in spades.”

12. Chris Cornell

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

(Cornell wasn’t going to make the list but as our team of scientists reviewed more photos, it was decided amongst our team that he would “not be thrown out of bed for eating crackers” as Dr. Lanci put it.)

13. Prince

“Bitch please. I should be number one.”

14. David Lee Roth

“Need I say more?”

The People You’ll Say Should Have Made the List and Why They Didn’t

…scientifically:

1. David Bowie – While he is elegant, stylish and charming, he isn’t sexy per se. He’s got a little bit of an alien element to him as well which isn’t sexy, at least on this planet.

2. Jon Bon Jovi – First off, we did say “rock.” And Jon Bon Jovi is good-looking – no doubt. But not sexy. He’s kinda cookie cutter good-looking, like a Ken doll.

3. Jeff Buckley – He’s a little too poetic and sad to be “rock out with his cock out,” as Dr. Lawrence so aptly put it.

4. Kurt Cobain – Raw beauty indeed – but too damaged to be sexy.

5. Skidrow’s Sebastian Bach – A little too pretty for his own good.

6. Chris Isaak - Good-looking in a 50’s sort of way, but not sexy.

7. Bruce Springsteen - Earthy, gritty…but not sexy. (Though the album cover with his ass on it is a step in the right direction.)

8. Steven Tyler – Sequestered to this list due to poor online imagery.

“This isn’t fair.”

Thanks to my esteemed colleagues Dr. Ruby Lawrence and Dr. April Lanci-Leseur and Beth Mann, whose level of professionalism is remarkable and most importantly, scientific:

“Leave the science to us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(And Candy, you’re always number one on my list.)

It All Went Downhill When….

1. We Stopped Bagging our Own Groceries

Perhaps it was different where you came from, but where I grew up, we worked with the cashier. It was our food after all and besides, it saved time for you, the cashier and the poor sap behind you. Now people mindlessly stand there, plastic card in hand, wishing she’d move a little faster.

Possible Societal Implication? We’ve become spoiled, apathetic babies who will soon expect the cashier to cook our food and spoon-feed it to us.

2. Men Started Shaving their Chests

I’m not sure when smooth chests became de rigueur but its a little weird. What’s with the need to be totally hairless? I, for one, find chest hair on a man to be a sexy thing. Then again, women have been aiming for baby-like hairlessness for quite a while so why shouldn’t men experience the “joy” of a good hot waxing?

Possible Societal Implication? We’re desperately trying to escape the fact that we are, in essence, hairy beasts. Or we’re trying to become babies again. Our constant pursuit of youth (which hairlessness signifies, I guess) affects men as well as women. Even babies are feeling ancient.

3. Vehicles Began Making Too Many Sounds, other than Beeping

I won’t even get into the horrendous and needless noise pollution created by useless car alarms or the myriad of chirps constantly going off as people try to figure out how to activate them. I’m trying to figure out when it became mandatory that all trucks go “beep beep beep” when in reverse. Why didn’t we get to vote on that? What, were blind people and children getting plowed down left and right before this new form of audio torture?

Possible Societal Implication? We’re overly regulated and no longer know how to use a rear-view mirror.

4. Libraries Became Noisy

It may be different where you live but our library is no longer allowed to enforce a silence policy. Our library in the summer makes a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday seem tame. What’s next? Keggers in the church? Orgies in the classroom? Is no space sacred? Libraries used to be a sanctuary – a place for the mind to settle and focus. Now children run in maniacal circles while their parents talk loudly on their cell phone (on the other side of the library. Shhh…they don’t want to be disturbed!)

Possible Societal Implication? We’ve lost any sense of self-discipline or sanctity of space. The need to spill over has become so widespread, that you’ll probably bring a cell phone with you to your grave. (Reception sucks 6 feet under, by the way.)

…oh and many of our kids have become undisciplined monsters.

5. Antibacterial Products became Commonplace

Clean wasn’t clean enough for the anal-retentive, sexually fraught homemaker. Germs are everywhere and this is war! If she could scour her hands with bleach, she would. But for the time being, these industrial strength germaphobe products will protect her from all the dirty, invisible things out to get her.

Possible Societal Implication? The idea of uber-sterile cleanliness has become an obsession because we’re control freaks and spend too much time indoors. And women need to be fucked better overall.

7. Our Workdays Went from 9 – 5 to 8 – 6

Even though the average workday is slowly becoming a thing of the past, it’s very Big Brother that our 9 – 5 slowly morphed into an 8 – 6. As if we wouldn’t notice! But we didn’t, really. Now Dolly Parton’s tune sounds almost antiquated.

Possible Societal Meaning? We’re still a slave to the man.

8. Those Stupid Blow-up Christmas Things were put on Lawns

Come on. They’re not cute. They’re not quaint. They’re stupid and tasteless. I don’t even think kids like them.

Possible Societal Meaning? We are inundated with such generic nonsense that we’ve lost any sense of aesthetics or taste.

Ho, ho ho, I’m a tasteless eyesore!

9. People Stopped using their Turn Signals

What, are they too good for you? Well, then don’t trouble those tired little fingers of yours. I’ll use my telepathic skills instead.

Possible Societal Meaning? Turn signals indicate a sense of consideration and concern for the other. That’s going, going, gone.

10. Parents started Talking on their Cellphones While Pushing a Baby Stroller

My brother mentioned this one. He wondered whether a child subconsciously feels the disconnect that happens when a parent mindlessly pushes a stroller while talking on the phone. Regardless if you believe it, one thing for certain: this is not quality parent/child time.

Possible Societal Meaning? Our cell phones have a life of their own at this point. They’re stuck between our legs, plastered to our face and checked maniacally. Our need for connectivity has made us extremely disconnected. And sure, kids feel that.

11. People began using Giant Plastic Wheelbarrows for a Day Trip to the Beach

Every summer I watch men and women break their backs lugging these massive plastic wheelbarrows packed to the gills. Can anybody pack light anymore? Do you really need the effin’ kitchen sink with you? Those same people insist on air-conditioned rental units with cable television and internet service. Why leave home at all? Pesky nature, not cooperating with your needs again!

Possible Societal Implication? Gluttony and dependency on stuff to the nth degree. We all need dumped in a jungle with a compass and Swiss Army knife.

12. Food Became Too Orange

Have you seen a Cheeto lately? It’s not just orange: it’s shockingly orange. Listen, I can pig out on snack foods with the best of them. I’m no health food nut. But you have to wonder how you can blithely consume something that may in fact glow in your intestines.

Possible Societal Implication? We’re all going to hell in a neon orange hand basket.

Your intestinal tract after too many Cheetos

Amanda Dreams

Amanda dreams of riding undulating silver worms in the desert. She is wearing ornate filigree glasses and talks with Egyptian women, somehow knowing the language. She has wild orgies with ever-changing partners. She is suddenly a man, then back to a woman, then a man again. Body parts are made of dazzling metal, hot to the touch.

I dream I have to name all the parts of a chicken in front of a small, restless group of people. When asked what a giblet is, I panic. “I don’t know. I don’t know what a giblet is!” Everyone laughs at me. “I really like chicken liver though,” I mutter. But no one hears.

Amanda has a dream that she is running from rooftop to rooftop, with neon green magical sneakers made of material that allows her to make these treacherous leaps. Her laughter echoes all around her. She feels like a superhero.

I dream I’m looking for a washcloth. I forgot to wash my makeup off and look everywhere. When I do find one, it’s dirty. I figure it’s better than no washcloth.

I also frequently dream of bathrooms. Hideous bathrooms. I’ve had these dreams much of my adult life. I have to go and I’m forced to walk barefoot in some abysmal lavatory that hasn’t been cleaned in centuries. There are no magical sneakers or undulating silver worms. Just shit, overflowing, everywhere.

Is my psyche dull? I seem to have a deadbeat subconscious that kicks out dreams that are as fanciful as a Brillo pad. Often they are just a boring rehash of a boring day: my car isn’t starting. The cable company is calling. I try to explain that I already sent the payment, but my voice goes dead on me and I just have to hear them yammer on.

I try to find meaning in my mundane dreams. I’m sure Freud or Jung would. Or perhaps I’d bore them too. They’d ask me to discontinue therapy because my psyche just wasn’t up to par. “You just have a boring psyche, Mizz Mann,” said in a thick German accent. “Vee cannot help you. Call us when you have a better internal life.”

This morning I dreamt I waited in long, long line at a department store, in real time. There is a girl I went to high school with in front of me. She has more clothes than me and I feel envious that I can’t afford more. I don’t even really like the sweater I’m buying. When I finally get to the cashier, she is sound asleep.

Vaclav Blaha, “It’s Raining Red”

Who’s your Daddy, Beth Mann?

(This was a piece I did for Open Salon for Father’s Day)

Paul E. Mann

Dad:

I haven’t spoken with you in so long. Things are such a mess. And I need your help.

I seem to be crying too much, feeling overwhelmed and broken. I don’t really think anyone cares about me. Everyone will say they do…but they don’t. Not in a real way. Not in a lasting way.

When you left many years ago, I thought you went to be with a better family, with a better 6 year-old girl. There must be something wrong with me, with us. And I worried, constantly, what bad thing would happen next. You see, when someone leaves you suddenly as a child, you live in a constant state of the “other shoe dropping.”

That worry may be killing me, Daddy. And I don’t want to die. I don’t want to want to die anymore. Life is pretty and I’m afraid I’ll miss it.

For much of my adult life, I was very lost. But its alright. I’m beginning to see myself a little more clearly because of all the shit I’ve been through. I am becoming more whole, as far as fractured people go. I’m trying.

But when people leave me in any way, shape or form, I become so defeated, so distraught. And guess what? It seems as if people do leave me more, as if I’m living out some awful destiny. Like I’m perpetually a little girl losing someone, perpetually in a state of grief. Too many years have gone by like this, Daddy, too many.

I worry that sometimes my heart will literally break. My heart started beating funny last year and I was so scared, Dad! I thought for sure all the heartache and tears had worn away my heart muscle.

That’s why I’m writing to you. Change must come. Or I may not make it.

When you lose your father, you don’t even dare dream things. You just figure something is very wrong with you and dreams are for little girls whose daddies stayed. Nothing works for the girl whose Daddy left. She’s a perpetual Cinderella, sans a saving Prince.

I want to let myself dream again. I want to fall in love and get married and spend every day feeling wonderful that I found the man of my dreams… big love. I want to be confident and speak my mind without feeling stupid or ashamed. I want to be at peace, not frightened and anxious. I want to laugh so hard, it hurts. I want to feel safety. I want a deep sense of home. You see, when you left, home left too and has never returned.

The year my father left

Maybe we wouldn’t even get along had you had stayed, I don’t know. But I remember you being a very gentle and just man. Kind. Am I wrong? You loved nature, animals, singing. You loved laughing. You were well-liked and humble. Mom was the dark horse but you were the jovial, peaceful one. (You left us with a real troublemaker, I can tell you that. Damn you for that.)

My mom and dad

My father in a comedy skit, with broom

It was humiliating growing up, not having a father. And now that mom is gone, I’m an official orphan. Now people say, in this slightly patronizing tone that only I recognize, “You can spend the holidays with us. We’d love to have you.” The royal “we” that everyone has and I don’t. I hate their invitations.

Father’s Day…whatever. Another day to feel amiss and discordant with the world. A day like any other.

So how can you help, Dad?

Please convince me of the truth.

You didn’t leave me. You died, Daddy – you simply died, like humans do.

Had I been allowed to visit you in the hospital or go to your funeral or visit the cemetary in which your bones lie, had I even felt your spirit around me a little more over these years, perhaps I’d own my life more fully, more richly. I would have grieved once, not constantly.

I so wish you were here, even for 5 minutes. I’d like to show people you exist. You see? I have a father too! A good father!

But since you can’t be here, please send help my way. You can do that, can’t you? Death shouldn’t stand in the way of you being my father.

Until then, I’m just a butterfly, kicked about by the wind.

Love, Beth

The last photo of my father. He died 2 weeks later.

Surfing, Sexism and Self-flagellation

I have been surfing for about 7 years now. Taught myself.

It’s a very difficult sport to master and I’m not even close to where I want to be. But I work on it, constantly. I surf because it maintains my sanity. Without it, I’m left swimming in a sea of dark mental chatter that threatens to drown me out entirely.

I bought a short board last Christmas. This is a very big deal. Short boarding is for the hotshots, the pros, the fast ones, the shredders, the rippers. Short boards are difficult to ride and require more control and manipulation. You “carve” a wave instead of coasting down it and build momentum with fast turns.

I’m 42 and female. I bought a short board that many men my size can’t ride.

My first official short board (6′0) by shaper John “JC” Carper

Long boarding, on the other hand is easier. It is how many people learn how to surf, though I did not. It’s a bigger and slower, experience. You can catch waves more simply. Its easier to find your center of balance. It’s graceful and an art in and of itself.

In a nutshell, short boarding is like driving a touchy race car and long boarding is akin to taking a Cadillac out on a Sunday drive.

Two totally different animals.

I spent the better part of the bitter winter struggling with this board, wiping out repeatedly and spending agonizingly long moments pinned to the ocean floor in 38 degree water temps. I’ve been held under so long that I couldn’t speak afterward, my facial muscles constricted from the cold.

Sitting in my truck, heat blasting and ego deflating, I’d wonder if my new board is simply beyond my skill level. It’s just another mistake I’ve made. And a costly one – boards aren’t cheap…long or short.

And the men out in the water didn’t help. They’d paddle up to me, icy breathed, saying, “You really should try a longer board. It’s easier.” Of course, I knew they’d never say this to a guy. I paddled far from them and practiced. All winter. I stayed away from “the group” until I felt more confident. I didn’t need their critical eyes on me, like watery vultures preying on weakness.

It’s important to hold your own with other surfers. The better you get, the more you’re “allowed” to surf with the good ones at the better spots. And they give you no breaks. They’ll yell at you if you pull off a wave (meaning you chickened out at the last second) and they expect you to keep up with them. It’s very “in club” and very competitive – male or female.

Very slowly, I improved and joined back up with other surfers. I could catch waves, drop in, make turns but still hadn’t mastered sharp turns, where you use your back foot as the pivot. My board still feels like glass under my feet. It goes so quickly and my response time needs to improve. But I hold my own.

Still, the chorus of voices chant, “Get a long board, Beth.”

An aerial – something I can not do…yet!

Luckily, there is one voice of dissent: Kurt, the youngest of The Brothers:

Kurt, trying to look like a “70’s porn star” as he put it.

Yep, he’s my only ally. Friends and I have lengthy discussions wondering whether Kurt may in fact be part wild. He’s a highly kinetic dude. Think Spicolli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High meets a hand grenade. He’s an aggressive and good surfer. And a real sweetheart. He believes in me. He’s my crazy little lifeboat.

I surf with him the most. He’s watched me get tossed about like a rag doll all winter. It sucks failing repeatedly but having someone watch you fail repeatedly sucketh that much more.

A better photo of Kurt so he doesn’t kill me.

Kurt has constantly maintained that I could learn and master this board. I just had to stick with it.

He’s heard people tell me I should get a long board and he gets equally defensive. “Why should she get a long board? She’s good. She’s aggressive. She just needs practice.” I could kiss him when he says this.

Yesterday, one of the nicest local guys I surf with paddled up to me (right after I caught a solid wave and was feeling rather proud) and I could feel it, before he even said it.

“You know what you need, Beth?”

“Don’t tell me, Chris. Let me guess. A long board?”

“Exactly! How did you know?”

My face froze like it did in the winter, but this time with anger. I was pissed.

“I knew, Chris, because I hear it all the time. Even though you all see me catching waves on this board. Even though I’ve don’t even like long boarding. Even though, if I was a guy, you wouldn’t say that in the first place!”

“I just see that board slipping away from you sometimes.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Just in general.”

“Have you watched me lately? Did you see that last wave? I’ve done nothing but improve on this board. Besides its 7 inches taller than me…it’s not even that short of a board for my size. What, do you want me on a big, fat, pretty cruiser board? Should it be pink with ribbons too?”

He muttered something about not meaning anything by it and paddled away, looking a little hurt and feeling badly.

And so did I. I don’t like snapping at people. But a girl can only take so much.

The voices inside my head began their usual battle.

“You shouldn’t have been so mean.”

“Well, when can I speak my mind? When can I just tell people to back the fuck off? When can I be angry?”

Of course, this kind of battle rages on, regardless of surfing. It’s almost as if the more I find “my voice” the more I alienate people. And then I berate myself for…being too much myself. I can be an angry, self-righteous and opinionated bitch. And I don’t see any signs of changing these traits. If anything, they are becoming more pronounced.

But then the guilt kicks in and my inner shrew shrieks in frustration.

“What do you want, Beth? Do you want to be yourself or do you want the world to love you?”

“I want both. Isn’t it possible to have both?”

“No. It’s not. You just aren’t that nice, that likable.”

“But I am. I am. I swear, I am!” the gentle, quiet soul in me protests. “I’m very kind.”

I tried to be nicer to Chris the rest of that session though I was the one who felt insulted, degraded. It’s the twisted way in which one lives apologetically.

“Sorry I spoke up. Sorry I got angry. Sorry I exist. Sorry I cried. Sorry I scared you away. Sorry I yelled. Sorry for my clumsy humanness. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

What a dilemma we women find ourselves in – or at least this woman. You either smile and hear limiting messages for the fortieth time or you finally speak from your gut and feel like shit about it afterward. I’m trying to eliminate the “feel like shit” aspect.

I’m trying to learn to short board at 42. It’s very hard but I’m getting it: short boarding and telling people to fuck off.

Me on a shorter board: 6′7 last summer – photo by Laura Maschal

(Me, several years ago on a 7′2 – my biggest board and not a long board. I’m much better than this now – you’ll just have to trust me!)

Perfunctory Sex with Jared Leto

(As 14 of you may know from my previous post, I magically created actor/singer Jared Leto out of thin air with my supernatural abilities, only to send him running because of my rudeness and general lack of caring. Well, last week, Jared forgave me and asked me out to dinner. I happily obliged.)

He wanted to be called “Shaun” for obvious reasons: so people wouldn’t hear me saying “Oh, Jared this” and “Oh, Jared that” and blowing his superstar cover. I’m fine with that. “Shaun” was also a “park ranger” and living in the “Pine Barrens of South Jersey.” Sure, sure, Jared. You hone those little acting skills of yours.

I wasn’t so fine with the fact that “Shaun” was only about 5′7, maybe two inches taller than me. I don’t have a preference for certain physical traits. If I connect with someone then I can easily look past “imperfections.” But tallness? That’s one I can’t seem to get beyond. I need me a taller man.

And alas, I can’t say that’s all Shaun had working to his disadvantage. He also wore a baseball cap into a fine dining establishment. The Mean Miss Manners inside of me wanted to slap it off his head, with a “What the fuck are you thinking?” And the cologne…marone! He could choke a horse with that shit. Unless you have exquisite cologne, don’t wear it. But who’s going to tell Jared Leto this? Not I, sir…not I.

We did have sex later that night. I really needed to check it off my 6-month To Do list. Was it earth-shattering? Nah. It was adequate. Perfunctory. I had perfunctory sex with Jared Leto. That can’t be a good thing. But if you haven’t had it in a while, you’ll take your sex like a big, fat pill and swallow hard.

As Shaun dressed to leave, I looked at his lithe, young and slightly petite body. My…I think his waist was actually smaller than mine and I’m hardly a big girl. My sheets smelled of his Italiano cologne. Annoyed, I began thinking of the tons of laundry I’d have to do to remove D’Odor the next day. Jared Leto was not all he was cracked up to be. Hell, he wasn’t even Jared Leto.

Or perhaps it was me. This Shaun guy was perfectly fine for a fun fling. No, I wasn’t interested in him in that heart and soul way – but he’s still a warm, breathing and naked body in my presence. Couldn’t I maximize this experience? Carpe fucking diem? I’m a sexy girl. I do sexy things. Why can’t I do it now? Have I lost my groove?

As I walked him to the door, he turned around to kiss me quickly before his departure. “Did you have a nice time, Beth?” he asked somewhat nervously.

It was then I took a sexual chance and allowed my Scorpio side to rise from me like uncoiling, taut snake…or a clownish, undersexed Jack-in-the-Box, take your pick.

Grabbing his head, I stuck my tongue in his mouth like I meant it…because I did. My groove was at stake. His responsiveness in the form of a raging hard-on only encouraged me more. I grabbed his ass and pulled him toward me, as hard as I could. His hands slipped under my flimsy dress and my knees gave way a little. And I felt my old self again.

“Wanna do it again?”

“Yes, Shaun. Let’s do it again.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name all night.”

“Shut up and take off your clothes.”

Jared Leto, Malibu Magazine Photoshoot 2007

How I Scared Jared Leto Away

(Let me just say, this post may be just a flimsy excuse to post videos and photos of Jared Leto. Just look at the photos if you’re feeling lazy.)

“Beth, you know you want to slap my pretty little face.”

I believe in magic. I have since I watched Bewitched when I was a kid. But since I can’t twitch my nose, I realized, if you want something to happen, just envision it, vividly, talk about it, write it, say it out loud repeatedly. That’s all a spell is after all…and then live as if you know its going to happen.

That’s how Jared Leto entered my life.

I’ve had a teenagery crush on Jared for several years now. I’m not proud of it. It’s kind of a “gay” crush to have. It seems I should crush out on someone cooler. He seems like a bit of a self-involved Hollywood brat. Unfortunately, I think there’s something about his utter cockiness that actually appeals to me. That attitude that says, “Beth, you know you want to slap my pretty little face.”

Last week, a friend was concerned about my sagging spirits because of a recent break-up of sorts and asked what would help me. I thought for a second and said, “Jared Leto. I want Jared Leto to pull up in a big, black car in front of my house. I want him to stick a single leg out of the car (which will be covered in tight, soft and worn jeans) and tell me to get in.

Of course, I’d oblige and have a steamy night out with Jared Leto. He’d have his hands all over me the entire evening. He’d stick his tongue in my mouth in an aggressive and bold manner. That cockiness of his would take on a whole new meaning.

He’d wear this:

Get in.

No, no…maybe he’d wear this instead:

I said, get in!

At the end of the night (which would be the next morning), he’d drop me off and I’d feel all-better! Happy and high and heart-healed from Jared Leto’s scalding hot then icy cold energy. Of course, we couldn’t be together. No, no…he’s far too narcissistic for my tastes. But I’d be healed, redeemed, SAVED by Jared Leto. I’d let go of the real man ruthlessly and stupidly stuck in my heart like an old splinter and my confidence would soar once again.

Well, last week a friend emailed me a photograph of a guy she knows on the mainland. She wrote underneath “Remind you of anybody?” Sure enough, this guy was a dead ringer for Jared Leto! She sent him information about me on the sly and he sent me an email, asking me out. See? Just ask for Jared Leto and ye shall receive Jared Leto.

We exchanged phone numbers and the next day, he sent me a text. Since I already plugged him into the phone, it was quite exciting to see a “New message from Jared Leto.” We texted back and forth and he said he’d call the next morning.

Well, the next morning comes along and no call from Leto.

I wish I felt disappointed. I just don’t care that much about meeting new people. I have a real ” Leto comes, Leto goes” attitude. I know its prudent to hook up with someone, to break the spell of another, but it takes effort. Laziness and defeat easily overtake me. I’ve never been the “go find yourself a man” type. They tend to fall into my lap, sometimes quite literally.

I proceed to have an afternoon of surfing that lasts until the evening.

By the time I get home, I am famished and over Mr. Jared Leto. I hurriedly make a meal and sit down to watch some old Law and Order when see my phone ringing. Sure enough, it’s Jared Leto calling. Let it go to voicemail. You need food, you don’t feel like talking and screw Jared Leto anyway.

But I couldn’t help but be lured in when I saw “Jared Leto is calling.” I pick up.

“Hey Beth. I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. I had to go into work at the last minute.”

“Oh…what’s your real name again?”

“Matt…as opposed to my fake name?”

“No, I just meant…Matt, I’m eating dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How about I call you back in a little while.”

“I think I’ll be sleeping then.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Okay, bye…ah, Matt.”

I hang up, realizing that my cavalier attitude just cost me a chance to hook up with the very thing I asked for…or at least a version of it. I wonder what’s wrong with me for about 30 seconds then shrug it off and return to the safety and serenity and plot predictability of Law and Order.

Later that night, I realize I was a bit of an idiot. That I’m hanging on to the hopes of someone I need to let go of. That I waste too much time deliberating over loss and love. That I’m getting complacent and in order to meet someone, I may have to be…oh, what’s that word…nice.

And I have to try. It hurts like hell to try; it feels unnatural and strained but like a flabby muscle, its gets stronger…hopefully.

I call him.

“Listen…Matt. I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Yeah, you were pretty rude.”

“I know, I know…I’m kinda new to this dating thing and well, it seems…I’m just not very good at it. If we go out, you know, on a date, I promise to be as sweet as cherry pie.”

“Hmm…I’ll think about it,” he said.

Silence.

“Hey, Beth. I have to go right now. I have some laundry to do.”

“Laundry?”

“Yep. Laundry. Talk to you later.”

Touche, Mr. Leto. Touche. Beth Mann got the old blow-off by Jared Leto and deservedly so. The Universe had provided me with a hottie but I didn’t do my cosmic duty and receive him properly. Totally and utterly my bad.

“I’m busy doing laundry, Beth.”

“Touche, Jared Leto. Touche. Could you do mine too?“

There’s a scene in the middle of this where he almost kisses a mirror image of himself…sigh. I love it. Pretty good tune too.

What Kind of Tears do you Cry?

My friend Beth crying Daily Bullshit Tears combined with Tears of Elation after finding out she wouldn’t be held entirely responsible for her recently deceased husband’s tens of thousands of dollars worth of hospital bills.

Have you cried today? This week? This lifetime? Crying is our internal pressure valve, providing relief when there’s seemingly none in sight. An emotional and baptismal waterfall. A simple way to feel like a whole, emotional being again. It’s been in our medicine cabinet, long before Xanax and Lithium and Prozac.

Here are the Top Ten Types of Tears:

1. Daily Bullshit Tears are pretty self-explanatory and commonplace. They fall from your eyes when your health insurance company tells you they won’t cover an expensive procedure or when an old lady slams on her breaks in the middle of a highway, forcing you to hit her vehicle and you know you will be held responsible though it was clearly her fault. Daily Bullshit Tears tend to roll down your face silently and with little fanfare, while the officer hands you a speeding ticket and walks away, swaggering.

2. Bitter Tears feel good but also burn as they roll down your face. They are born from anger commingled with acute pain. These tears are cathartic but can also twist and contort a situation or a memory so you feel the maximum amount of victimhood. In short, Bitter Tears aren’t always accurate but feel good nonetheless. Bitter Tears are usually caused by profound disappointment in another, scorned love, scorched feelings and dashed hopes. They are most commonly released after a divorce or a break-up or a thoughtless action or comment. But beware; these tears can become increasingly caustic and have a limited shelf life before they turn into depression and Endless Tears.

3. Endless Tears are alluring but dangerous. It’s why the song “Stop your Sobbing” was written. These drops seem to replenish themselves from a never-ending well of pain. And while crying is one of the most magical self-cleansing acts we can perform, excessive crying creates a pool that becomes deeper and deeper. Drowning is a distinct possibility. Dry off and pull your bedraggled soul out, if you sense this occurring. Force yourself out into the light of day. It will hurt at first, so beware.

4. Vintage Tears grab a memory from the past and flood you, making it feel like it was yesterday. Vintage Tears force you to realize how quickly time is passing and how precious life really is. They can be caused by deep regret and remorse for a dark period in your life or for words never spoken or even for pleasant times that are no more. They work well when revisiting a painful family memory and are perfect when missing a dead pet.

5. Depths of Hell Tears are released when someone dies or when dealt a devastating blow. They accompany sobs that sound animalistic and wrenching, meant to reach God’s ears directly. My mother cried Depths of Hell Tears when she found out my father died. I was 6 when she picked up the phone and was given the news and fell to ground, emitting a sound that one doesn’t easily if ever forget. Sometimes I cry Vintage Tears remembering that moment.

6. Hysterical Tears are very rare and special. They are manifested when laughter meets terror. It’s like going perfectly mad for a moment. I experienced Hysterical Tears once during a difficult rock climbing adventure. I was midway up a very steep climb and looked down and became seized with fear. I couldn’t seem to climb any higher. I looked up and saw my friend urging me onward. I began laughing and crying at the same moment, totally terrified and unsure what to do next. It was a sensation I’ll never forget.

7. Empathy Tears fall when sharing the pain of others. These tears are perfect while watching the news or seeing an animal in distress. They can often be collective tears, shared with the world. When asking Beth (pictured above) if I could use her photo for this post, I began tearing up. I remember all too well the horrible stress she was under and the relief she felt when the Universe gave her a much-needed break. It’s still hard for me to look at that photo.

8. Misplaced Tears happen as you are going about your business and then something as stupid as a light bulb dying or banging your elbow causes an overflow of tears to come gushing forth. It’s not the fact that you have to change the bulb or that your elbow hurts; it’s more a matter of that trivial thing pushing you over the edge and you releasing the stress of what is truly burdening you.

9. Frozen Tears. Poor men have a fair share of these tears in their personal freezer and it’s not entirely their fault. We’ve created a world where men aren’t supposed to cry but are still expected to be “emotionally available.” It is sad indeed that many men (and women) don’t experience that giant sigh of relief that comes after a good cry. Frozen tears are dangerous and lead to compartmentalizing and walking zombieism as well as a plethora of other serious health problems. Frozen Tears are often surprisingly dislodged by a good movie or sad song, so there is hope.

10. Tears of Elation are cherished tears actually explode out of you when you least expect it. These are deeply healing tears that touch the aching little child inside all of us. They can rush out when we’ve given up all hope and something good magically happens. Or when romantic love prevails in the end. Or when a child is born or two right people are married. Or when you feel very wronged – but someone rights it so damn well. Tears of Elation heal the depths of your soul and give you reason to live.

Of course, categorizing tears is hardly an exacting science. Any tear can be beautiful and therapeutic. The clue you’re on the right track? You should feel better after crying, not worse.

Sometimes tears can be wrongfully placed. You may think the lover who scorned you is wholly responsible for your pain when, if you dig a little deeper, it may be a family issue or a feeling you’ve been battling with your whole life. Tears are best cried when you can identify and own the actual source of the pain and cry from that place. It’s usually a little more than Joe or Jane Done Me Wrong.

If someone cries in front of you, make sure you don’t freeze up or try to stop them. Shouldering someone’s tears is a privilege and as important is as crying them yourself. Someone is entrusting you with their pain. Hug them until they are out of tears. Let them pull away first. Heal people and you heal yourself.

Quotes on Tears

“I cry a lot. My emotions are very close to my surface. I don’t want to hold anything in so it festers and turns into pus – a pustule of emotion that explodes into a festering cesspool of depression.” ~ Nicolas Cage (Bitter Tears)

“Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe.” ~ Anne Bronte (Endless Tears)

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.“ ~ Dr. Seuss (Vintage Tears)

“Where grief is fresh, any attempt to divert it only irritates.” ~ Samuel Johnson (Depths of Hell Tears)

“I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter, but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.” ~ Cat Stevens (Vintage Tears with a hint of Hysterical Tears)

“I laugh because I must not cry. That is all. That is all.” ~ Abraham Lincoln (Frozen Tears)

“Those who do not know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either.” ~ Golda Meir (Tears of Elation)

Thanks to The Other Beth, Cartouche and Lea Lane for their contributions.

The Hazards of Showerheads

The Brothers are a rag tag crew of 3 young guys at the end of the street that have adopted me into their family. While I’m grateful to get a sense of what real brothers feel like, they often try my patience with their sheer idiocy…I mean, youthful ramblings.

A “hot topic” that is sure to incite an argument among us is their views on the differences between men and women. I try to remind myself of their age but also believe that if they don’t change their thinking now, those thoughts may cement themselves into their twisted little minds and never dislodge. It’s charity work on my behalf. For the world.

After we finish surfing at the end of our street last Sunday, I try to hurry off the beach and leave Clint and Kyle behind. I can often sense when their ridiculous thoughts are brewing and do my best to disconnect from them and run for cover. Kurt, the youngest, remains in the water, burning off his boundless and wild energy.

Clint: Beth. Wait up.

Alas, I have lost my window of opportunity. As we walk off the beach together, we pass a beautiful girl on the beach. They check her out intently.

Clint: Man, I can’t help it. I must be shallow. I just love beautiful women.

Beth: Clint, we all love beautiful women. It doesn’t make you shallow.

Clint: You love beautiful women?

Beth: Sure. Why not?

Kyle: I didn’t know you swung that way.

(Childish laughter ensues.)

Beth: (despondently) Yeah, you got me. I’m a full-bore lesbian. Ladies beware.

Clint: I just feel like I should be a little more…complicated or deeper.

Beth: Appreciating beautiful women doesn’t mean you’re not “deep.” It means you’re a 27-year-old heterosexual man.

Kyle: I don’t know, Beth. Now that I have a girlfriend, it’s just such a burden. I try so hard not to check out other women, but I’m a man and I can’t help myself.

Beth: Shut your trap. Now.

Kyle: Oh, here we go again.

Beth: Kyle, don’t date a woman if you feel like it’s such a burden. Undoubtedly she senses that. Or find an open relationship. Or a woman that you’re happier with. But don’t insult me – or your girlfriend – by telling me it’s just the “burden of being a man.”

Kyle: Beth, I wish I could shoot some testosterone into you so you could feel what we have to go through on a daily basis.

Beth: Because women have no sex drive on their own. Because women don’t check out other men. Because only men have the market on being horny.

Kyle: Men are horny all the time. You just don’t get it.

Then something snaps in me. To be denied my sex drive after months without good sex is a profound insult to injury. My volcano begins to erupt.

Beth: No, Kyle, you just don’t get it! I haven’t had sex in 5 months! I’d have sex with that fire hydrant if it looked at me funny. I’ve done things with a shower head that verge on the dangerous. My bicycle seat turns me on and planting seeds in my garden has developed a whole new meaning. I’d fuck circles around you right now, Kyle. Circles! I do “get it” because I too am “horny all the time!”

I let out a giant sigh. At this point, we’ve stopped in the middle of the street and the boys are stunned by my outburst, mouth agape, surf boards dangling under arms.

Kyle: Okay, okay. You’re horny all the time. Just relax. I’m sorry.

Suddenly I feel on the verge of tears. I hate that I used the word horny. I don’t even like that word. I always found it coarse. My best friend Krissie used to say it a lot. “God, I’m so horny.” Even though she was my dearest friend, I would suddenly see her as a cat in heat. If I didn’t watch, she might rub her ass up and down my leg and begin yowling.

As we walk home in partial silence, I try to recover. Did I just have a sex-starved breakdown? When I reach my house, the guys continue on their way. I stand in the middle of the street, unsure what to do next. Maybe I should begin yowling. Maybe leg sex is in my future. I walk to the back yard and into the outdoor shower – one of my favorite places to hide out. I turn on the water and dream of carrot seeds and bicycle seats.

Why I Miss Shoplifting

(Play music video below at end of post before reading for full soundtrack experience.)

Even though I have a mild crush on the cop up the street, I know it can never be. First off, he reminds me of Father Karras from The Exorcist and I refuse to pursue someone based on my love of a possessed priest in one of my favorite movies.

Secondly, no matter how “chummy” (as my Mom would say) we become, I know he’s packing heat and could slap a pair of handcuffs on me…and not in the good way. In short, cops will always make me just a little uneasy.

This is because I’m an outlaw. A bandito. A troublemaker. If a sign reads, “No Trespassing” I consider it a playful dare. If a light is red and no one is around, of course I go…of course. If a bottle of pills says, “Don’t mix with alcohol,” I think the establishment is trying to deny me of a perfectly good high.

Growing up in South Jersey, I shoplifted during most of my teen years, as a hobby. My friend Vicki Franceschini and I worked as a team and were pretty damn good. (Well, frankly, I considered myself a far better thief than Vicki. Vicki was always so obvious – looking this way and that, acting cagey.)

(Vicky and I being troublemakers in NYC circa 1988, right before we snuck into the 40th anniversary of Atlantic Records concert at Madison Square Garden and had one of the best nights of our lives.)

I preferred the casual technique. I’d steal earrings while talking to the woman behind the jewelry counter, sometimes even gesturing with the earrings before I’d slip them into my “never-ending sleeve.” I figured the obvious approach would always win out. I mean, who is bold enough to steal from under your nose, right?

My never-ending sleeve was attached to my favorite London Fog trench coat. It was too big for me so my sleeve acted as a vacuum cleaner, sucking up lipstick, underwear, hats, scarves, toiletries…I could even fit a few books up there.

Stealing books led me to my first bust, by my mother. She picked up my coat from the living room couch one afternoon and it unloaded itself, mainly with brand new books. It was tough to explain away. (Go ahead. Think of something, quick.) Oh, the look my Catholic mother gave me. That moment of utter silence. God-awful. (Though you’d think someone would give me some credit for stealing books but nooo.)

The second bust was pure carelessness on my behalf. I stole a pair of shoes from a little shoe store in a mini-mall, the old fashioned way: put on the new shoes, place your old ones in the box then back on the shelf. Slither out the door. (This was before the days of sensors, etc.)

Well, I made it out just fine but made one tragic mistake. Because I was high at the time, I had the munchies. I saw a Little Caesar’s a few doors down and just had to get me some of that Crazy Bread (damn, I loved that magical, mystical bread.) Waiting in line, I turned around and saw two of the shoe store managers walking up and down in the sidewalk, peering in the windows.

I dropped to the floor, which made the Little Caesar’s staff a little suspicious. I mumbled something about “feeling faint” but it was no use. The shoe store managers marched into Little Caesar’s and took me back to the scene of the crime. Again, that moment of silence. What do you say? Some things in life are hard to explain away.

(Vicky and I being proper Jersey burnouts circa 1987)

I don’t steal anymore…and I never stole from people, per se. I was always the “she could steal but she could not rob” type. But ah, what a good, ol’ fashioned high! After a fruitful session, Vicky and I would toss the booty on her waterbed and just lay on it all, like happy, overfed animals.

Now, I try to do something rule-breaking or trouble-making at least once a week, just to satisfy the punk in me. But it’s so much tamer. Sure, I’ll still make a prank phone call, for some late-night kicks. And just a few months ago, I knocked on my friend’s door and ran away, simply because I could. I’ll proclaim loudly, “You sir, are a jackass!” to a friend or stranger (works best with British accent), just to see the look of surprise in their eyes. And I’ve been known to lift up my shirt on occasions, for no particular reason except shock value.

And if I’m ever around a sign where you can rearrange letters, I’m like a kid in a candy store.

The sign at the restaurant up the street last summer read:

COME ON IN!!

LOBSTER TAIL AND STEAK

CAESAR SALAD AND WRAPS

LUNCH AND DINNER

The first time, I had to act quickly since there were patrons in the restaurant, who upon leaving would read the simple:

EAT ME PIE!

When Ruby visited, we spent a little more time on it and added some gore value:

COME ON IN

BABY TOTS!

CAESARIAN WRAPS!

The final installment was my favorite because it left something to the imagination:

BLOW ME CAKE PARTY!

TAIL!

Breaking rules is fun and good for you. We should break as many as possible. Say outrageous things in crowded places. Make a public nuisance of yourself. Get naked, whenever. While you’re on the phone with someone annoying, do a blowjob gesture. They’ll never see it. Stop being so good. What are you trying win some good contest?

This world and the people in it are meant to be toyed with. Why would God have invented water balloons or thumbtacks? The next time someone says, “You can’t sit there” sit there anyway, grind your ass repeatedly into the seat and gleefully sing, “Oh I can, I can! Look at me! I can do anything!”

Because you can do anything. Don’t let them tell you differently.

(Vicky and I breaking into her parent’s “liquor room.” They put a padlock on the door because of our previous break-ins but they forgot about the window. Their mistake. That’s Amaretto we’re drinking. Blech.)

You too can get the rush Vicky and I did, back in the day, when she’d jump in my car, new jeans sticking out of her coat, yelling “Drive! Now!” Screeeeech…

When my good friend Scott leaves his grandparents house, they always say, “Drive fast, take chances.” Now, that’s a little wrong. I realize that. But “wrong” is just another way of keeping you from a good time. Don’t you forget it. Don’t let them rob you of all the cheap highs out there. There’s nothing but your own standards holding you back from real freedom.

(This post is dedicated to the biggest troublemaker I’ve ever known, my dear friend, Vicki Franceschini (left, me to the right) who died suddenly in February, 1992 at 23 years of age. May she never rest completely in peace…it’s just not her style.)

(Listen to loudly for inspiration…and thanks to Ruby and The Other Beth for all of their bright ideas.)

When Dolphins Bite

“Me? But why would you choose me?”

“Your therapist suggested you. You’re an artist and she thought you really needed an opportunity like this. She thought it would be really healing for you.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say. It sounds wonderful. What do I need to do?”

“Well, you’ll have to come into New York this week, for an interview. It’s short notice but we just got your name and we’re actually extending the interview process just to meet with you.”

So, days later, as I sat on the train heading into the city, I actually felt the warm buzz of excitement for the first time in a long while. For what, you ask? Well, this well-funded women’s organization hosts a retreat once a year, where a small group of females are invited to participate. This year, the trip would be to a lovely, remote Bahama island. It’s entirely paid for and the focus would be on recovery, healing and recharging.

As I sat in the posh office in Manhattan, two very hip women explained to me that the days would be full of workshops and classes, along with massage, specially cooked meals, meditation and swimming with the dolphins.

“Dolphins!?” (I think I shouted this.)

“Yes, every morning a boat leaves. You can swim with the dolphins every day if you want.”

A lump began to form in my throat.

Many years ago, while on a cross-country Greyhound, a crazy woman told me that I am clearly part of a special dolphin race and should be revered by all. She proceeded to give me her generic cigarettes as a sign of respect and honor.

I decided not to tell the hip women in NYC that I was part of this special race.

“I do love dolphins,” I said instead.

“Well, we’d love to have you. But of course, we want this to be the right decision for you, so if you want to think about…”

“NO! I want to go. I want dolphins. And massage. And healing. Now! Where do I sign?”

As I headed back to the Jersey shore, my Cinderella side was feeling quite pleased. Finally things seemed to be turning around, after a long winter of isolation, too much work and some straight up, unadulterated pain and loneliness. I fantasized about the trip ahead:

In the Bahamas, maybe I would take part in some touchy feely exercise that would involve finger paints and seaweed. I’d put my standard, run-of-the-mill mocking sarcasm aside for once and begin to release the old, infected anger and pain that hangs on my back like a 200-pound moldy cloak.

And I’d do some soul-searching there, too. I really would. I’d reconnect with the God of my choice. Maybe even two Gods, what the hell? The more, the merrier.

In the Bahamas, the constant chattering in my head would magically morph into gentle whispers and loving, Universal voices. I’d look at the people surrounding me with a sense of reverence and gratitude instead of my usual “Why do you exist, you humanoid annoyance?” mentality.

In the Bahamas, I’d let go of the grief that constantly haunts me, surrounding everyone from dead family members to dead friends to dead pets, all of whom I still miss every day and dream about too much at night.

In the Bahamas, I’d stop expecting genuine apologies (accompanied by flowers) from the 100+ people who owe them to me. I’d understand their shortcomings and disregard for my feelings and want to bitchslap them nevermore! Goodbye, anger! Goodbye, resentment! It’s been a long ride, but it’s time to release you via some contrived ritual that involves group hugs and crying salty tears into the outgoing tide, capped off by frothy pina coladas at sunset.

And I’d get off this godforsaken island at the Jersey shore for a little while. Granted, I’d go to another island but it would be a different island. A remote island made just for me. I’d be surrounded by like-minded people – not overly entitled middle-class, fat families with screaming children and oversized vehicles.

I’d get out of my old house that is often, quite literally, falling in on me – one I constantly try to fix but its disrepair outweighs my ability and finances.

I’d get away from my new neighbors, whose demonic child rides his effin’ Big Wheel in front of my window 482 times a day, purposefully trying to drive me off the deep end, I’m sure. “Either you go or I go, Mario Andretti. Either you go or I go,” I say to him daily.

And most importantly, in the Bahamas, I’d laugh it up with my fellow dolphins, finding my joyful heart once again. I’d be renewed and supported and loved.

I’d be whole again, goddammit!

At home, as I tried on my newly purchased “I’m healed and all better now” bikini that will match perfectly with my new and improved mental health, my cell phone rang.

It was the healing ladies from NYC.

“Hello, Beth.” (They speak in this cooey, relaxing voice. Just their voices alone make me not want to impale myself on a white picket fence.)

“Do you have a few minutes?”

The cooey lady went on to explain that there’s been a little problem. That one of the facilitators dropped out of the trip and they had to cut a few people.

“We want to make sure there’s a safe circle for the women in the group and we can’t do that when there’s not enough facilitators.”

Feeling that old, familiar, icy blood feeling, I asked her what she was really trying to say.

“Unfortunately, since you were one of the last people we interviewed, we had to cut you from the trip. We’re really sorry.”

Swallowing hard, I asked how something like this could happen. If they were so focused on “women and healing,” then why do I feel extremely traumatized? Can’t they get another facilitator?

“Beth, we’re a very tight organization here. Our team needs to be very familiar with one another. We couldn’t hire someone if we weren’t 100% sure of them and since the trip is only a month away…”

I remember uttering “but the dolphins” for some unknown reason. And then I felt the tears rising. I knew I could swallow them, like I do on a regular basis…you know, shove the pain in a little deeper like a well oiled emotionally constipated machine. But then I thought, “Fuck her. I’m crying!” And I did.

We’re really sorry, Beth. We do have a smaller retreat in October. You could…”

“Please, please, don’t talk to me about October.” I managed to say.

October, I thought. Fuck October. Perhaps you don’t understand, hip lady with tattoos, but my crazy is NOW! It doesn’t wait until October. Getting through a fucking day is a miracle sometimes, let alone months. October. I piss on your October.

“We’re really sorry, Beth,” said the cooey voice.

So there will be no dancing with the dolphins and delicious, healthy meals made especially for me. There will be no massage on the beach or naked swims at midnight, where the old, tired me would effortlessly wash off into the tropical healing waters. There will be no protective feminine circle surrounding me, caring about me and encouraging me to shine like the little star I am.

There will just be more of the same for now. Oh wait, more of the same PLUS some additional crushing disappointment. But hey, that’s life. Sometimes you’re offered a trip to the Bahamas so you can let go of decade’s worth of psychic baggage and then sometimes, an asbestos-laden ceiling tile falls on your head because your roof desperately needs repaired.

Sometimes it’s just a fucking Big Wheel, going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

The 26 or 27 Most Annoying Phrases of All Time

You hear them everyday. And perhaps you utter a few yourself. But they’re annoying and need to be stopped. This is a campaign. Climb on board or be left to the sharks.

Thanks to the well-paid staff at Silly Lists of Nothingness for their contributions (Ruby, Joe, Anthony, Andy and Laura)

And as a SPECIAL BONUS, we’ve also included phrases that even though they are technically annoying, you can still get away with them.

The 26 or 27 Most Annoying Phrases of All Time:

Smile.
(Said only to women. What do I look like, you’re personal wind-up doll?)

Chill Out.
(Surefire way to make me want to bite someone’s face off.)

Sweet!
(Frat boys invented this and it needs to die a fiery death.)

It’s all good.
(It’s not. It’s clearly not.)

Everything happens for a reason.
(Oh, shew. And here I thought it was unadulterated chaos.)

Don’t go there.
(Don’t tell me what to do.)

Let’s touch base.
(I still say this. But I cut myself when I do.)

Dude…
(Hanging around a bunch of surfers, I hear it constantly. Not your dude. Heard one surfer call his own mother a dude.)

You can’t (fill in the blank)!
(Said by people with teeny amounts of authority. “You can’t sit there.” Oh yes, I can. I might not be allowed. But I can. I can do anything I want. Watch!)

Could you not (fill in the blank)?
(Generally said by haughty, passive aggressive women.)

No offense but…
(No doubt an offense will directly follow.)

Classy!
(Just like “rock and roll”, if you have to say it is, then it isn’t so.)

You rock!
(Refer to above.)

Sorry but (fill in the blank)
(Sorry will NEVER go with BUT! Never! One or the other, man, one or the other.)

I’m not going to lie…
(Oh well, bully for you. Guess its my effin’ lucky day.)

Um, can we talk?
(Cringing just typing that one out.)

Wait till your father gets home.
(My mother used this on me and it pretty much prematurely aged me a full decade.)

It is what it is.
(Really? Wow, deep.)

Not so much.
(As in: “I love heroin; my wife, not so much.”)

Due diligence.
(Up there with “growing your business” and “leveraging.”)

Just kiddding!
(Said in creepy, sing-songy way. Reply in same manner: “No you’re not cuz it’s not funny!”)

NSA
(No strings attached – BULLSHIT!)

So what do you do?
(Always annoying when its the first thing out of someone’s mouth upon meeting. I like to answer with “Wet myself.”)

“You know what you should do?”
(“Oh, PRAY tell! My very survival is dependent on it, I’m sure.” Andy and I particularly hate this one.)

Well, that’s different.
(As in “Well I guess your gonna think for yourself instead of following my path of mediocrity.”)

To be honest….
(Usually followed by a blatant lie or a REALLY inconsequential personal factoid. “To be honest, I’d never wear a pair of red shoes at all no matter what season it is.”)

Annoying Phrases You can still Get away with:

Smooth!
(Said in raspy voice while inhaling really strong weed or drinking tequila.)

What you talkin’ bout, Willis?
(Timeless classic. Go ahead. Use it today.)

You’re not the boss of me.
(Say it to anyone. Especially the boss of you.)

Bitch, please!
(Like a string of pearls, it goes with anything.)

Don’t tell me what to do.
(Perfect response to “Have a nice day.”)

Oh no you didn’t!
(With accompanying sassy head movement.)

Kiss my big, black ass.
(Big, black ass or not, give it a try. It’s funnier sans black ass.)

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
(From a horror movie…which one? Said in rapid, whispered, succession when you’re angry and can’t do anything about your situation.)

Word.
(Use by itself or “Word to the mother” or “Word to the mother ship” – all serve as urban versions of the dated “Right on, man.” Also can be said in place of “Amen” at religious services.)

Whatever.
(A quick way to dismiss someone almost entirely in one fell swoop.)

Shut your piehole!
(Weird but workable.)

Takes one to know one.
(Childish, sure…but it still holds its weight. Also included: “I know you are but what am I?”)

My ass and your face.
(In response to “Do you have a match?” I like using the inverse of “My face and your ass” for added weird effect.)

What a square!
(From the 50’s. Used with finger demonstration. I’m trying to bring this one back.)

Your mother sucks cocks in hell.
(Another timeless classic, thanks to The Exorcist. And it’s so true.)

To the Prince of Darkness!
(Used at formal celebrations when glasses are raised for a toast. Sure to raise an eyebrow or two.)

Your mother does what?
(This needs to be said quickly and almost unintelligibly, after someone has said something you didn’t quite understand.)

Suck it.
(Short and effective.)

There. I said it.
(After declaring your dislike for something insignificant. “I don’t like Coldplay. There. I said it.”)

Christ Almighty!
(Passed on from the generations, this one.)

For fuck’s sake!

Your mother.
(Short and to the point. Anthony wants to bring this one back.)

Screw you!
(Insert full name or “asshole”! We lost “screw” somewhere back in the 70’s. Time for resurrection.)

Not today, Sophia Loren, not today.
(Insert “asshole” or name of a famous person of the recipient’s cultural heritage. i.e. “Not today Sophia Loren, not today.” This was yelled by my friend Kimberly at the Italian team during the World Cup.)

Well, pardon my sarong, Harold!
(This was yelled to me many years ago by a homeless woman in NYC. She stopped walking, turned around to face me and shouted, apropos of nothing, “Well, pardon my sarong, Harold.” It may be one of the most random experiences of my life. Use it in an “Well, excuse me!” fashion.)