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.)

Clint Called me a Slut

“I didn’t call you a slut. I’m just saying you might want to…to tone it down a bit,” Clint mumbles into the phone.

He’s referring to my photos on MySpace and Facebook. I take them myself, of myself. They are only slightly scandalous. A solid PG-13, in my opinion.

“I’m just saying that you send the wrong messages to people when you put those kind of photos up. Guys get a bad impression. People like you and me, we’re more…normal than that. Just accept that you’re normal.”

Funny, I don’t feel particularly normal. I had called Clint because I was feeling very down this evening. I usually just ride it out on my own but every once in a while, I gamble and reach out.

Clint is the oldest of the brothers I hang out with at the Jersey shore. He’s sort of a James Dean meets Kurt Cobain type. He has trouble speaking what’s on his mind, fretting, frustrating himself then finally saying something he considers all wrong anyway. Lately, he’s found God and thinks I need to trim a little of the excess evil out of my life.

“I mean…come on. What guy’s going to…take you…seriously. They are going to think, that you’re a…”

“A slut? Don’t you have to have sex in order to be a slut? I think my monastic, incredibly dull life might stand in the way of me and total whoredom.”

I wish I was a “slut”, whatever the hell that stupid word means. I wish the rumors would fly up and down this dumb island, “Hey, there’s Beth Mann. What a slut! She just won’t stop fucking. Nobody can stop her. She’s literally become a fucking machine.” I’d walk by and switch my ass, and drink in all the disapproving looks, like a form of foreplay.

Instead, I’m at home watching Law & Order SVU and eating popcorn, with the painful realization that I need to feel very connected with someone in order to have sex at this point of my life. (Though I do keep hoping Christopher Meloni will jump out of the screen and put me in handcuffs one day. Sigh. That man is built to bang.)

I like taking pictures of myself, I explain to Clint. It’s the way I see how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, who I am. It’s the way I feel sexy without the sex, which seems to be in short supply.

“Any guy who sees you like that, he’s not going to take you seriously.”

Suddenly I found his shame sinking into my ear, worming its way through my brain. I go to my computer and begin reviewing my “scandalous” shots online. I delete a photograph. Then another.

“Clint, I’m an artist. I take chances. I’m not supposed to worry about people like you and what you think.”

“Well, then don’t. I just think, well, you’re not supposed to broadcast those images to everybody.”

“Well who am I supposed to broadcast them to?”

“You reserve them. For your…your…”

“Your what? I don’t have a your, your.”

Delete, delete.

“Those surfboard photos, Beth. Come on. You don’t think they’re a bit…much?”

I bought a new surfboard several months ago and took a series of shots with them. In the nude. Rebel, they call me.

“They’re nudes, Clint. It’s not like I’m fucking the damn board or something!” Delete.

I knew when I entered the wide world of the Web, it could be a sneaky, gross and suspicious place. But I made a conscious choice to express myself my way, to use my name, to be me. Of course, there are times it feels awkward and vulnerable. Of course, it can feel self-exploitative and stupid and when I’m feeling down, it feels painful and embarrassing, revealing myself to some mass audience of god knows who. But I move past it. I try.

“Beth, those kind of photos are for stars, for artists…”

“Clint, you asshole, I am an artist. I’ve been an active artist for over 20 years.”

“Well…then how come you don’t have more money?”

“Hey, Clint. I have an idea. How about I drive to Philly and lie down in front of you so you can literally kick me when I’m down. It might be easier in the long run. And just so you know, I’m getting a lot of attention lately for my work and…and…”

“Well, when do you get paid for that attention?”

“Are you calling me a slut and a loser? I just want to clarify.”

I find myself deleting a blog entry. It’s one where I…it’s just too much of myself.

I begin to choke up a bit. Shame is so terribly powerful. But Clint didn’t introduce these ideas to me. They were already poking holes in my gut. Like I don’t feel the discrepancy between my talents and my finances? Like I’m not painfully aware that my photos are really just “me on me” action?

“No, I don’t get paid for attention. Well, I do. I mean…I get paid for what I do creatively. I just don’t get paid a lot for it but I’m surviving. And what’s that have to do with my porn shots anyway?”

“We’re just regular people, that’s all I’m saying. Accept it.”

I prepare to delete one final item of the night: Clint.

I’ve been deleting a lot of friends as of late. As I spend more and more time alone, battling my inner demons and demigods, my friends’ input has been falling short. Its as if they really don’t know me anyway and their feedback seems woefully off-track. Clint is my friend and he’s dear to me. He thinks he’s helping or protecting me. He just doesn’t know me. My friends don’t seem to know me anymore.

“You know, Clint. Maybe these are your issues. You’re feeling frustrated sexually, creatively. You’d like to break out of your normalcy rut. And you’re just taking me down with you.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, it worked.”

Clint and I being normal

The 16 Most Overrated Sex Acts of All Time

Here’s the long-awaited (by whom?) and much anticipated (oh really?) list of the most overrated sex acts of all time. You know, ideas that really seemed good at the time.

Thanks to our fine group of contributors and their astute commentary.

1. Sex on the Beach

“It works in the movie but in real life the beach is sandy, the temperature unpredictable, the mosquitoes, the jellyfish, the police…

“Even the drink sucks.”

2. Sex in Watery Places

(This includes hot tubs, baths and yes, even showers.)

“There’s a constant power play going on. Who gets to stand under the shower head? For how long? Then there’s that awkward changing of positions.”

“Hot tubs, ew. There’s a bacterial, chlorinated element that just shouldn’t be part of any sexual experience. Besides, lubrication is a good thing, not something you want to wash away.”

3. Porn Style Sex

“Porn sex is the Olympics of sex. Lots of head tosses, loud moans, constant flesh pounding. It’s more of an extreme sport than a sexual act. Getting banged hard and repeatedly can have its high points but limits as well.”

“Women lose sensation from too much rough sex. Most guys don’t realize that.”

“There should be a sub-category here for girls who have learned how to give head from watching porn. They try to do that head-corkscrew thing…gimme a break.”

4. One Night Stands

(There was a wide array of views on this. Some found one night stands to be quick, easy, carefree and hot. Others found them to be awkward.)

“Well there’s usually too much booze involved. And weird next morning regret.”

“Is she supposed to stay overnight? I don’t want her to stay overnight. What if she stays overnight?”

“I think it takes a little time to discover someone sexually. It’s kind of a long shot that it will all magically fall into place on the first or only night.”

5. Orgies

“Orgies are a total free-for-all and a little too diplomatic for my tastes. You can’t just say, ‘You get your hands off of me. But you, come here.’”

“There can be hurt feelings, big bellies and overall 70’s pervy weirdness.”

“They kind of gross me out.”

“Who has orgies anymore? Didn’t they fall out of vogue when Rome collapsed?”

6. Sex Involving Food

“Two great tastes that don’t taste great together.”

“Some guy poured hot fudge all over me once. It got all over my new sheets, my blankets…I could’ve killed him. I don’t even like hot fudge, man.”

“Food can be the sexiest thing ever…but before the act itself.”

7. Drug Addled Sex

“Drugs make you feel like the Superman of sex. Unfortunately they can also be the kryptonite. It’s like a sexual mirage in a desert…you want it soooo bad, but…you…just…can’t…get…it.”

“Coke makes you think totally unsexy things are sexy. Next thing you know, you’re asking some chick to hit you in the head with a frying pan to get off…gets real weird.”

8. Sex in Tight Quarters

This would include cars, bathroom stalls and coffins (when you house-sat for your friend whose family owns a funeral parlor.)

“Sex needs a little breathing room.”

“Just make sure the car doesn’t have a stick shift.”

“I had my first gay experience in a closet…how cliche.”

9. Sex with a Really Hot Person

“Really hot people are notoriously lazy in bed. Just ask Nicolai in Paris, who had everybody’s head turning. I was so excited he wanted to be with me but when we finally were in bed together, he assumed this corpse-like position, as if to say, (in French accent) ‘You are lucky to have me. Do what you may! I am sleepy. I am pretty.’”

Giving up the need to have sex with a really hot person is how you know you a) are growing up and b) have had enough sex to be able to tell the difference.”

10. Sex involving Clothes Ripping

“Every once in a while, this caveman act works. But most of the time, I think, ‘You ass, you just ripped my good shirt. Ass.’”

11. Sex Involving Video Cameras

“It’s this little thing I like to call THE INTERNET!”

12. Sex on a Waterbed

A little dated at this point, but man, what a design backfire. The whole raison d’etre for a waterbed was hot sex yet it eluded you at every awkward oceanic turn.

13. Tantric Sex

“This is when white people do a lot of hair stroking and face-cupping. And scented candles. No thanks.”

“One guy I was with prided himself on never coming…or circular orgasming or something like that. Cut to 4 in the morning and I said ‘Dude, give it up. There’s a person down here who needs some sleep!’”

14. Sex with a Large Member

Now this one created a stir. Yes, size does count but the female jury states that width counts more, in the long run. A really large penis limits positions (“Ouch, that hurts. Not that way!”) And bladder infections are never sexy.

15. Sex with a Rock Star

“Well, there’s the height factor. All rock stars are 5 feet tall, tops. It’s a well-known fact. Prince is only 3 foot 7 inches. There’s also the neurotic ego element that comes into play [see Sex with a Hot Person above.] Rock stars do make great masturbators, because of their extreme self-involvement. I guess its nice to know you can leave the room in the middle of it all; go make yourself a sandwich, watch TV, whatever. Chances are, you won’t be missed.”

16. Sex with the Legal but Young

“I don’t really understand old guys with hot young girls (i.e. Hugh Hefner.) It involves a level of denial that I just can’t sustain. I always think, “Don’t they know how pathetic they look?” It doesn’t seem sexy, it just seems sad.”

“I don’t think age matters much. I’ve been with young guys who seem really sexually savvy and much more ‘experienced’ guys who seem clueless. It all comes down to tuning into someone. If you can do that, it doesn’t matter what the age.”

The Only Things I’m Not Addicted To

My friend Dea says she has an addictive personality and I smile slightly. Because she doesn’t. Only people with real addictive personalities know that wild, sick, consumptive burn that emanates from some fiery pit in your soul and wants to eat your charred skin for dinner.

Addictions are born from the balls of the devil. Addictions make you want to carve the word “Defile!” on your forehead with a rusty blade, while your mom is forced to watch, helplessly.

Addiction is not a word to bandy about. You either have one or you don’t. No grey area. And there are no cute addictions. You’re not addicted to your puppy or your sweet spouse of 25 years or the great outdoors.

Dea says that’s not true! She’s hooked on coffee. I giggle and she is annoyed. Hooked on coffee…how quaint. Try being high on a pile of coke, smoking your 50th cigarette at 4 am, drinking straight vodka with a twist of lemon (for Vitamin C, of course!) and wanting to fuck an inanimate object just because you can.

Hooked on coffee…silly girl.

So when I thought about Open Salon’s question this week, I almost refrained from responding. The question more suited for my type is “What am I not addicted to?”

What I’m Not Addicted To:

Gambling: Nope. Nothing there. A real flat line. Don’t get it. Don’t get how people would be hooked on gambling. I understand it conceptually…just don’t have that streak. Yay for me!

Ice Cream: I hear stories where people in profound emotional distress resort to Ben and Jerry’s as a way to escape. That’s a cute one too. That’s a cute little addiction for babies and puppies. I don’t care about ice cream. I care about escaping my constantly chattering brain voices with non-dairy items like horse tranquilizers.

Heroin: Shew! Thank goodness I missed that gravy train, huh? As a matter of fact, I think it’s the only drug I haven’t tried. I’ve tried GHB, ketamine, peyote, mushrooms, acid and some fancy “boutique” marijuana called Purple Kush. But no junk in my trunk. Yay for me!

Work: Nope, not a problem. No workaholism coursing through these veins. I work for a bit until my 21-year-old friend comes over and says, “Hey, wannna smoke out and go surfing?” Next thing I know, a whole day went by and I’ve completed an hour’s worth of work but a day’s worth of solid surfing. Yay for me!

Phonics: I’m not hooked on phonics. I like phonics. But I’m not hooked on phonics. Actually, I don’t even know what phonics be. Yay!

Religion: Not hooked on God. I try to parlay my ragingly addictive personality into something positively spiritual but alas, God is dead and I stand alone, sipping my wine, staring off into the sunset wondering if I could bum a cigarette from the guy in the car who’s looking at the sunset too.

Love: Might as well face it, I’m not addicted to love. I love love but I’m not hooked on love. I prefer rampant codendency, unavailable men and a constant longing that makes your insides rotate and twist on a daily basis. I choose basking in the glory of abandonment issues that keep you constantly wanting something you’ll never have. Love, shmove! Gimme some of that good ol’ fashioned emotional unavailability anyday! Yay for lovelessness!

But seriously folks, I’ve come a long way, baby. My addictions have died down as the years have passed. They softened and settled. I play with my addictive personality now like an old, bad ass friend. I’ve even named her. My addictive personality is named Sally. Sally Feed the Hole (sort of has a Native American feel, no?)

Sally, say good night to the people:

“Night, night.”

See? She’s not so bad. She just wants a little attention every once in a while.

My Wizard of Oz

The sign of a good movie? It changes your life. It changes the very fabric of who you are. The Wizard of Oz did that for me. It still does! It’s a classic feminine myth that instills in me hope, innocence and belief in pure, raw magic. It guides and shapes me. It still provides me with answers to questions I can’t even begin to verbalize. It goes straight to my subconscious and gets to work, mending me, making me whole and good again.

Judy Garland’s portrayal of Dorothy has danced in my mind my entire life. Unknowingly, for the most part, I aspire to be like her: open, sweet, growing, changing, strong, loving and dare I say, deeply sexual. She is everything I consider beautiful.

Glinda the Good Witch also resides in my soul; a beacon of dazzling white goodness. She is all that sparkles and nurtures. I dream of her kissing my forehead, during hard times. And the Wicked Witch…ah, what a good, bad witch! She remains one of the most perfect bad witches of all time, no? She lives in me too. (Probably too much of the time!)

As a child, I lived for its airing, which it did once a year, some time around Easter. Hiding in a blanket fort with just the television and me, I’d transport myself somewhere over the rainbow. Somewhere far from my home, which was rather barren and bleak much of the time. Somewhere magic ruled and prevailed.

The Wizard of Oz smoothes out the mess for me. It shoots right to my center, right to a sweet spot in my soul. It provides hope to my hopelessness. Magic to my well-worn cynicism. Angels to my devils. It reminds me of who I am, somewhere deep, somewhere over a rainbow – that alternate, perfect universe where I am whole, strong, beautiful and deeply feminine. And magic abounds everywhere, just everywhere! There is no doubt in the land of Oz.

The Wizard of Oz heals the little girl in me, over and over again. Does that sound too corny? Oh good. I hope it does.

Surrender, Dorothy, I wrote on my mirror in lipstick.

I’m trying, I’m trying…every day!

I’ll Never be in Godspell Again

I’ll never be in Godspell again. I’m sitting here, on a rainy afternoon at the Jersey shore, listening to Day by Day from the 1970’s musical Godspell and crying when I really should be working. I’m on my 5th listen.

I was in Godspell in college. It was my second or third play ever. I was ecstatic to be in it. It was a musical! I got to sing and dance! How much better does it get than that? And not only that, I was chosen to sing Day by Day! The best song in the show. The best one! (Though I secretly wanted to sing By My Side too.)

I sang Day by Day proudly, using sign language (for the two deaf people that showed up for the one month run of the show.) I still remember how to sign that damn song. Whenever I meet someone deaf or even hearing impaired, apropos of nothing, I start signing Day by Day, Oh dear Lord, three things I pray” and they think I’m a religious fanatic or just a nut.

The only thing that marred my joyous little performance was a run-in I had with Jesus. Glenn. Glenn Funkhauser. Yep. That was his name. I haven’t thought about that name in years. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning but I remember Glenn Funkhauser’s name…interesting. Anyway, he played Jesus and he was a haughty, self-involved diva of a Jesus. He gave a Jesus a bad name.

At the end of each show, we re-enacted the Last Supper, where we said goodbye to our fair leader. It was a very teary climax and we just loved it. As college kids studying theater, we were just teeming with emotion, so earnest. Our emotional cup runneth over.

So Jesus would walk up to each one of us, tap us on the back, we’d rise and have our own personal heartfelt goodbye with the Lord Jesus Christ, Glenn Funkhauser.

On one particularly emotional night, I leapt up and hugged him with all of my might, crying my little eyes out. He whispered in my ear, “Don’t anticipate. You got up before I tapped you on the shoulder.”

I could have died. Jesus just critiqued me during my most vulnerable moment ever! I wanted to deck the Lord right then and there. How dare he direct me in the middle of a show?! Who did he think he was? God?

After the show, I went up to Glenn “Jesus” Funkhauser and told him to kiss my ass hard. I was livid! I felt spiritually violated.

But other than that, Godspell was a sweet memory during a sweet time. And I’ll never be in it again. I’ll never sing Day by Day again in front of a restless audience. (If you say I could be in the show again if I wanted, you’re missing the point. It was that time, that energy, that opportunity, those people – even that diva of a Jesus. It was that beautiful little glory.)

One actor came up to me after a show one night and said something about “goose bumps” when I sang my song. I thought he meant I gave him goose bumps but he clarified before I gushed too much. He said, “No, you give yourself goose bumps when you sing that song. I can see them all over your arms. I’m standing right next to you.” I wasn’t as flattered but I knew he was right. It’s not every day you get to sing to God so simply, with all of your heart. Oh, time is so stupidly precious.

Time for a 6th listen. I haven’t sobbed the memory out of me yet. I don’t get paid for this melancholy, man.

To Glenn Funkhauser, wherever you are: I hope you know that I’m a practicing Satanist because of you. I eat kittens now, Glenn, kittens!

Day by Day
Day by Day
Oh Dear Lord, three things I pray
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by Day

Many of the original cast members, with Robin Lamont singing (4 of the 10 have died):

Cilla Black (she’s great but I like Lamont better for this song.)

The Only New Year’s Resolution that Stuck

It’s kind of late to be writing about New Year’s resolutions but my resolution to stop procrastinating never stuck, so here we are, a month later.

Anyway, there’s only one New Year’s resolution that’s made a difference in my life, one I made many years ago. It was simply to touch people more. Physically touch them.

I was raised in a family of Germanic descent – not the most touchy, feely type. My brothers still hug me more awkwardly then anyone I know. It can’t even be called a hug technically. Its this weird physical action that actually manages to push you away instead of pulling you toward them. It seems like a physical impossibility but they manage it.

I didn’t want to be like that so I decided to touch people more. Everybody secretly loves it. I love it. It’s natural but we’ve quite literally lost our touch. We’d rather text a hug these days.

I’ve also taken to kissing people on the lips more. Men, women, children, small farm animals…I don’t care. I gave the local bartender a big, fat kiss on the lips last week and he was slightly shocked. He just muttered, “lips” and walked away, disoriented. Gave him something to think about for the night, I figured.

At a restaurant not too long ago, I saw these two women, old friends apparently, who seemed like they were having such a fun time. Laughing, telling bawdy jokes. I watched them from afar, admiring their deep kinship. When I walked by them to go to the restroom, I stopped and put a hand on each of their shoulders. I squeezed and smiled. One woman asked, “Do we know you?” I said no you don’t. And kept walking…okay, so maybe that was a little much.

There was a girl in college…what was her name…Carolyn Carpenter! She and I liked to slap each other in the face at the same time. We did it for years. Not sure why. We just did. It became our thing, unison face slapping, on the count of three. We’d slap each other so hard, sometimes one of us would lose our footing. Ah, the good old days of slapping Carolyn. “If I could turn back time,” Cher sings in my mind.

I also like to tell people I love them more – the ultimate verbal touch. It’s strange how we covet “I love you.” There’s some arbitrary time limit before it can be uttered. It’s just not acceptable to say those words until one year of knowing someone or some nonsense like that. But we all know whom we love, don’t we? When you’re in their presence, it radiates from your heart, rather effortlessly. Love rings as clear as a bell, regardless of time logged.

Years ago, when my mother was very sick, my ex-boyfriend’s family invited her to their home in Philadelphia for a visit. They fussed and fawned over her – just what she needed in her beleaguered state. After one day, one day, of knowing my mother, my ex’s aunt said to her, during a parting hug, “Randee, I love you.” I’ll never forget that. She wasn’t lying and my mother was deeply touched.

Someone from my online writing group told me she loved me the other day and I believe her. How kind to say that. And how simple. Even online, love can develop. That’s sometimes hard to believe and often easy to dismiss. But perhaps online we get a deeper sense of another. In person, we tend to clam up, fidget, become guarded and weird. Online, its our pure mental energy meeting, like some science fiction love story.

Or perhaps love needs physical presence to truly expand. I’m just not sure.

There’s a man, a wonderful musician, I’ve “talked” with online for years. Sometimes when I sign off, after a long night of chatting, joking, flirting and sharing, I can feel him around me, like a mystical vapor. And I wonder whether it would be drastically different if we met in “person.” Some would say yes, it could be very different. But I feel his essence, rather viscerally, nonetheless. I feel his touch.

There was no New Year’s resolution for me this year. This resolution seems to have sufficed for years to come, I do believe. It continues to grow. It’s the best one ever.

I Want Tom Cruise to Micromanage Me

I don’t have the movie star hots for Tom Cruise. I don’t even like him much as actor. He seems like a shiny little alien on Scientology overdrive. But while in a crowded line at the grocery store, I read about his controlling, obsessive behavior toward his wife Katie Holmes and I begin to wonder if Tom Cruise would mind micromanaging me as well.

The headlines claim that Katie (or Kate, as Tom would have her called now, since she’s a “child-bearing woman”) is stuck in a Cruisian prison. As I struggle to manage my many bags of groceries, I wondered how I could become a fellow inmate with Kate.

I bet you I wouldn’t have to fumble with all these bags if I was stuck in a Cruisian prison. I wouldn’t have to break out in a cold sweat as the cashier processed a credit card that’s just about maxed.

It’s easy street with Tom and me. He tells me what to eat and how many bites to take, when to bathe, what to wear, how to wear my hair. He tells me how long to sleep, who I can talk to and where I can go. When Katie, I mean Kate, pulls me aside to plan our great escape, I break free of her bony grip and run back to Tom, asking him what he wants me to do next.

He tells me firmly and with authority how to manage a number of situations in my life, like my health insurance denying my recent claims and my molar needing fixed and my car desperately requiring repair (it’s making some weird whistling sound that gets louder each day.) I ask him how I should handle the juggling act of my credit cards and overdue bills and unreliable cash flow. Tom would have the answers. Tom Cruise would know.

Of course, there’s the Scientology issue. That would be problematic. There is nothing I find more abhorrent than having some whacked religion shoved down my throat. But Tom would like the challenge. Everyday, he’d try to convert me and every day, I’d be this close to letting him. Then I’d say, “Let me think about it.” He’d remind me that he thinks for me now. Okay, fine. So I convert to Scientology. Egad. It’s what he wants! Whaddya want me to do? Who am I to question the ways of Tom Cruise?

I purposefully do things to upset him, like wearing scantily clad outfits and acting garish in public. He feels the need to lecture and punish me. Heck, maybe he even grounds me. I’ve never been grounded in my life. I think it’s high time I was grounded for a couple of weeks. Put me in my place. Give me time to think about my behavior.

Of course, I’d love this controlling behavior to translate into kinky sex, but unfortunately, it doesn’t. He withholds sex. It’s part of his master plan for me (and his whole sexuality issue…shh.) I beg, plead, cajole…but alas, I secretly have sex with my somewhat militant Cuban personal trainer Paulo instead (I have my needs!)

Tom catches me in the act and I’m back to being grounded again, this time for a whole month. I lay poolside, crying every time Tom walks by. “I’m sorry, Tom Cruise,” I sob. “I’m sorry!” He walks away abruptly and I pull out the margarita I have stashed under my lounge chair. It’s a peach margarita. Made with real peaches! My personal chef Kenneth makes them for me on the sly.

My well-managed fantasy life is ruthlessly cut short by one of my over-packed grocery bags breaking open as I leave the grocery store. The contents spill all over the icy cement. Of course, the effin’ eggs have to be in that bag.

As I chase rolling eggs around the parking lot, I look up to the heavens and whisper, “Tom Cruise, help me now. Please!” And you know what? He appears by my rusty 1990 Toyota truck with that eerily dazzling smile of his. I begin to cry with relief. He says, “It’s over. The struggle is over. I’m here now.”

A bodyguard grabs the bags from my arms and leads me into the passenger seat. Tom takes the keys from my coat pocket and starts the car. The whistling sound is gone. It’s gone! Tom Cruise’s mere presence has fixed my car. As we drive home, he tells me to cross my legs. I look like a slut, he says.

My pleasure, Tom Cruise. My pleasure.

Slipping into Toothlessness

It’s midwinter, you’re at the desolate Jersey shore and you’re quietly slipping into toothlessness.

It all starts with a missed shower or two. Its just too cold to take off all those layers of clothes. Besides, you’re not going to see anyone anyway.

Then shaving your legs strikes you as just silly. I mean, you do it every once in a while since its another excuse to touch yourself but really, what a waste of time, when you could be hanging out with the locals at the watering hole up the street, talking about shooting grouse (whatever the heck they are.)

You have 3 robes, all with different purposes. One is fuzzy but so matronly that your grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. The other is practical because its absorbent and serves as a towel when you get out of that occasional shower – two for one! The last one is your fancy, dress-up robe, for when friends stop by (which they don’t because its the heart of winter and no one wants to come to your cold ass house.)

Pajamas slip effortlessly into daywear slip into pajamas again. You start thinking you could wear thermal underwear and high heels to Happy Hour. Which is wrong, just wrong. Though you know no one would care, except the little fashion police in your head.

Wine becomes your new best friend. You talk to it, laugh with it and share all of your dirty little secrets. You don’t ever remember your recycling bin filling up as quickly with so many friends before.

You start considering matched socks a “luxury item.”

Going to sleep at 9:30 is not unheard of.

You’d pay someone $5 to brush your teeth for you.

Pink Floyd’s “feel good” message starts grating on your nerves.

You stare at the UPS man in a way that makes him uncomfortable. It’s not even a sexy look, it’s more lascivious and drooly. Well, maybe he should think twice before dressing like such a teasing little slut.

You figure out a way to pee like a guy so you don’t have to sit on a cold toilet seat. After many unsuccessful attempts, you think you’ve nailed it!

You sweep the front step (in your grandma robe) while having a full-blown conversation with yourself. The local cops drive by and wave awkwardly, including the cute one who looks like Father Karras from The Exorcist. You shout “Hey, you wanna stop over for some coffee? I’ll put on my fancy robe!” But they keep driving.

You keep a bag of dark chocolate chips bedside just in case. Whilst changing your sheets (a Herculean effort by the way), you realize you have been sleeping with several of said chips for quite some time. You eat one because no one is looking and no one cares.

You were this close to baying at a full moon a few nights ago.

There is always sand on you, somewhere, somehow. Always.

Your hair grows longer like the nights, you’d go shopping in your slippers if the one didn’t have a hole in it and you fear the worst: you’ll lose a front tooth and say “Ah, whatever. I got others.”

My Homeless Chic Look

Cookie Day 2008

My friend Marianne invited me to her home for Cookie Day 2008. Sure, sure, I’ll go. Christmas cheer, whether I like it or not.

Marianne was one of my sweetest classmates in high school. Always friendly, always trying, always smart, always pretty. But I was always partying, always cool, always disconnected and didn’t foster our friendship. Over the years, I realized my coolness is vastly overrated and I’m happy to be in her company once again. I sat there, watching her bake dozens of cookies in her kitchen and smiled, now able to really appreciate her.

I almost left Cookie Day 2008 at first. Too many kids, too much commotion, too many strangers. But because of my often-solitary lifestyle, I felt like it was time to try a little. Bit by bit, my armor fell down. I jumped in, started helping with the cookies, kids crawling all over me. It feels quite nice to be out of your element sometimes.

As the day progressed and we were on our millionth cookie, we broke out some wine and turned off the holiday music that was beginning to drive us all mad. We replaced it with, of all things, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I attempted to teach the kids a few key lyrics and we danced about the place. Long Live Cookie Day 2008!

My phone rang in my back pocket and I saw it was Richard, my ex-boyfriend from a few years ago, when I lived in New York City. We just started talking again this year – not to reconcile, but to reconnect, as friends.

How does one describe Richard? He’s larger than life. A crazy, wild cowboy of a man – tall, dark hair, piercing blue eyes. He’s extremely hedonistic and if he lived in ancient times, he’d undoubtedly be a practicing Bacchanalian. But amidst the New York City posing and ultra-coolness, I found Richard to be a breath of fresh air. Unapologetic, fun loving, genuine. A real rebel.

He owns a beautiful wine store in Manhattan, which is where we met, at a wine tasting. I learned that night that he used to be a Navy Seal. He was also in the Secret Service. He’s an expert marksman and sports a scar on his temple where he was grazed by a bullet during his time in Grenada. He’s a dangerous man, in his own right.

You’d never know it, though. He’s comes across as a big, sweet Southern guy who just loves having a good time. Too good of a time. He could never handle me emotionally. He can’t handle himself emotionally. He never invited me into his life the way I wanted. He protected his bachelor lifestyle like a pit bull and I tire of men who have commitment issues when I’m not even asking for one.

I couldn’t talk to Richard for a long while. Too many hard feelings. But with the passing of a good female friend this year, I wanted to reconnect with him and let go, move on. And he was happy to. He loves my company and loves me.

So why was Richard calling on Cookie Day 2008?

Undoubtedly to try to hook up with me again, I’m guessing.

“Which is not going to happen, Richard.”

“I’m just calling to say hi. See how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine. I’m making cookies at a party.”

“Good. You need to be out more. You need to have more fun.”

“Said by a true professional.”

We chatted about this and that but cookies were baking and it was time to get back to some Floyd and wine.

“You go back to your friends, Beth. You have fun tonite.”

“What’s the matter Richard?”

“Ah…nothing. Nothing. They just…forget it.”

“They just what?!”

My blood started running cold. Something was wrong.

“They found cancer. I have malignant cancer. It’s in my lungs.”

The floor started slipping from underneath me. I ran to the bathroom and shut the door.

“Stop it. Stop it, Richard. Stop your lying!”

Richard is also a professional liar. He lies without knowing he lies, he lies so much. It’s taking me years to not take it personally. To realize he never means harm by it. He just wants to avoid trouble, pain and anger – anything negative. Thing is, I’m a professional lie detector and I always felt the sting of his untruth.

“Please tell me you’re lying!” I screamed. Suddenly I heard the party get quiet. I brought my voice down.

“Please, Richard,” I whispered.

“Sweetie, I wish I could tell you I was. I’d lie to get in your pants and since you’re not here, it would be a worthless lie.”

Perhaps the most honest thing I’ve ever heard Richard say.

“They think it’s from the pancreas. They don’t know. I’ll get the scan results back tomorrow.”

“That’s a bad cancer, Richard. A really bad cancer.”

“If it is, I have 2 years with treatment and 9 months without…I’m not doing any treatment. I don’t want my little boy to see me like that.”

Richard has a little boy from a previous relationship. He’s 5 years old.

The pain I began experiencing was incredible. All the times I’ve wanted to kill Richard, all the times I thought I wouldn’t care if a Mack truck plowed him down…and suddenly I couldn’t get close enough to him, I couldn’t reach out enough. Funny how quickly that anger just melts and your left with unadulterated love.

“God, no. No. No. No.” I started sobbing uncontrollably.

The party got quieter again. I huddled next to the toilet, shaking.

“It’s been a good run. I got to meet you. You’ve always been such an angel to me. The first time I saw you, I said, ‘She’s a real, live angel.’ Did you know that? Did you know I’ve always thought that about you? You always seem so good, so pure.”

“Stop. Stop Richard!”

He was drunk, waxing nostalgic. It was too painful to hear.

“Do you remember the night of the dare?”

“Of course.”

Richard and I sat in his wine cellar underneath his store one evening. It was one of our favorite places to hang out. Grand, gothic wine cellar; giant mahogany table, monster-sized leather chairs, candles burning, jazz playing. A real hedonist’s dream.

He dared me to go upstairs naked and ask his employee for the best Cab in the house. I disrobed, walked upstairs and asked for it, as casually as I could. The poor gay man was shocked. Luckily for me, no one else was in the store. I grabbed the $350 Cab, ran to the basement and Richard and I drank it, laughing for hours. It was one of the best nights I had in NYC. It was definitely one of the best bottles of wine I’ve ever had. You see, shocking Richard is next to impossible. The man has seen literally seen it all. And I achieved it.

“That was a great night.” I said.

“Hey, does this mean we can have sex again?” Richard asked, out of left field for anyone, except him.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Even with the whole death…”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“Richard. I’m scared.”

“Go back to your party, Beth. Go have fun. You don’t have enough fun. You’re too sad.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I sobbed.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“Yes, lets get results back first okay?”

“Yes, results,” he said quietly.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay…oh and remember this, Beth: the stars we could reach were just starfish on the beach.”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

As I finished asking the question, I knew. He was quoting from an awful 70’s song, “Seasons in the Sun.”

“Funny,” Richard said, “that song keeps playing over and over in my mind.”

“For that, I am truly sorry.”

We both started laughing. Then crying.

A moment of silence.

“How do you feel, Richard

“I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s…alright.”

“This is anything but alright. But okay, I figured I’d ask anyway. I knew you wouldn’t really answer me.”

I hung up the phone and opened the door. Marianne was standing there, flour on her chin, looking very concerned. I explained to her what happened and soon afterwards, left for a welcome drive home. Dark roads through the woods. Freedom. My mind, trying, trying to clear. Thoughts of the speed of life.

When I got home, I saw that Richard had sent me a text:

“I’m scared out of my mind.”

I am too, my friend.