Sexual Harassment or Cheap Thrill?

The same two seagulls wake me every morning. It’s a mother/son team. I could set my watch to them, if I owned one. They know the second I open my eyes. Then they let off a series of ear-splitting calls, basically saying, “She’s up. She has food. I want it. Stay away!” It never bothers me. Especially not today.

I went for my echocardiogram yesterday, the first in a series of tests I will have this week on my “beat of a different drummer” heart. I was a bit worried since it's been acting strangely as of late. I rarely go to the doctor, don’t take antibiotics or other medication and self-treat almost every ailment I’ve ever had, which hasn't been many. But I do go to a heart doctor to check my irregular heart every so often.

Anyway, back to the sexual harassment. So the guy performing the echo has the same birthday as me! Same day, same year. Wild. A fellow Scorpio. Always cautiously intrigued by male Scorps. They are very sexual beings and exude it like crazy but overall, kinda snaky.

So I have this pink paper top thingie, open in the middle so he can access my chest easily. He tells me to lie down on my left side and face the wall. He reaches from behind me, with this magic marker-type thing with a metal, rolling head and cold gel on top. He places it right under my left breast and I let out a little squeal and start giggling. I totally forgot that my heart resides behind a breast!

He puts his hand on my right shoulder and says, “Relax.” Sure Scorpio Heart guy. Whatever you say. Echocardiograms – something new to add to my “Strange Things that Turn Me On” list.

He probes his thing under my breast repeatedly, all the while bracing my shoulder with his hand so I don’t move. He tells me to be prepared because I’m about to hear the sound of my beating heart. Ah, poetry.

Well, not really. It sounds gross and sloppy and big and throbbing and…I ask him if he can turn down the stereo. I don’t want to hear this tune but he can’t.

Listening to all the crazy bubbling and gurgling, I assume the worst and share it with my fellow Scorpion.

“It sounds like mitral valve regurgitation. Clearly.”

“What?!” Looks like someone has been playing on the Internet. Roll over on your back.”

Now I have two choices. Hold the little pink thingie just so, that way my breasts aren’t totally exposed. Or just let it all go, man. Go for it. Show off those cute boobs of yours. Do it!

I roll over on my back and let the pink thingie fall away. He looks in my eyes for a second and I look back as if to say, “Yep. You got a live one today. She hasn’t had sex for a while and she’s going to grab her cheap, little thrills where she can get ‘em. Probe away!”

He continues poking and prodding underneath and around my breast. The gurgling big sounds continue to play. I get used to hearing the sound of my heart. I fold my hands behind my head and relax into the whole experience. No, I wasn’t attracted to this guy. But yes, I sure like men touching my breasts. Hence why my gynecologists have been men as well. It’s a two for one deal in my opinion.

When he’s done, we smoke a cigarette…no, we don’t.

He says to me, “My dear, you have a lovely, athletic heart.”

And I almost want to cry.

“I thought so.”

“It’s just a little quirky. You still have to talk to the heart doctor but…you sound fine.”

Hmmm…you’re not a heart doctor? I start comically fantasizing that he’s some man from the psych ward on the 7th floor who put on a white coat and sauntered on in.

“I have really cute breasts, too.” I say.

No, I didn’t. But I wanted to! I was this close, I tell you. This close!

“Pleasure meeting you. Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday to you.”

Death, Flight and Spalding Gray

I hear a voice, a strange, disembodied voice that says to me:

“I need to be alone with you now.”

This is a dream I had last week. Everything was fine up until I heard that voice. My friend Ruby was dream visiting and we were hanging out in my backyard, talking about any old thing.

Then I heard the voice and I had to move toward it. I told Ruby that I had to go now, that I had no choice. The voice sounded to me like Satan at first - very powerful, very dark, almost enchanting. But then again, perhaps he sounded neutral.

Strangely, it didn’t matter what entity spoke these words; I knew that I had absolutely no choice but to go. He was simply too powerful. I wasn’t scared per se. Everything felt very matter of fact about it. It was that “Oh, it’s Thursday. I have to take out the trash” feeling.

As I walked to the front of my house to be with him, I started to dematerialize. I knew that at that moment, I no longer…was. My first thought was not “Farewell, dear life.” My first thought was…flying. I bet I can fly now. Fun with death! So I simply focused my mind and instructed myself to rise.

And I did. I begin to rise, to fly. I’ve done this several times in my dreams and of course, it’s the most thrilling thing ever. Mainly because it feels so disturbingly real. In my waking life, for years, I’ve tried to take flight or move objects across the table. I figure if I can do either, I will believe fully in magic. In an afterlife, in a god.

Last week, heart doctor said my arrhythmia has changed considerably, that’s he’s a bit concerned. My heart never did the whole “bump, bump” thing. It does it’s own thing. But lately, it makes me cough sometimes and worse; it causes some pain in my chest. Heart doctor asks me if I’ve ever passed out and woke up and didn’t know where I was or how I got there. Desperately wanting to answer him with several pithy responses (“Bitch, please.” “Well, no…not this week.” “Oh, what…you haven’t?” etc.), I opted for a simple “no” because heart doctors aren’t the funniest lot.

“I need to be alone with you now.”

I am flying. But you have to maintain it. You have to keep your focus. I keep rising, rising – hundreds of feet, maybe thousands, over my backyard. I look down and see the garden, the swinging chair, the clothesline…and I start falling. Quickly. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. You can’t hit the ground. You don’t exist anymore.

I wake up startled. My heart is racing in its own weird way. I can’t escape the implications of the dream. I try to think of other things it could mean but it’s tough. This dream seems like your average, garden-variety death portendy dream.

I pick up the book next to my bed to ground myself. Spalding Grey. Dead man. Whatever. His book mostly contains little suburban rich white people anecdotes. It’ll be fine.

This is what I turn to:

Then just the other day I had a hopeful fantasy. What if, when we are dying, instead of our breath stopping, it instead shifts from us into the breath of the universe. Yes, I suddenly had a peaceful sense that the whole universe was actually breathing and that at our last breath we can, if we choose, breathe into it and become one with the great swelling and retracting breath of the universe. I felt almost hopeful. I thought that maybe that’s a positive image I can give Forrest [his son] to work with, my fantasy of what is beyond the apparent death of breath.

Then in no time I thought, who really wants to become a part of an eternal egoless universal energy field? It feels too much like spiritual communism [funny, Mr. Gray]. I couldn’t lay that on my son. No, I think, now tired of thinking about it all, all I can do is hold him and say, “We don’t know. It’s a mystery. I love you and everything is going to be alright.”

It’s odd but that voice that says, “Everything is going to be all right,” that’s the one I choke on. I have no problem telling Forrest that I love him, and then when I try to say, “Everything is going to be all right,” I feel so distant from myself, so faraway and down the hall.

Now the late-afternoon stupor is taking me over and I begin to fall into my nodding nap. In my nodding nap the disembodied voice of death enters [oh great]. This voice is as fearful to me as Chucky the doll is to Forrest, only I can save Forrest from the fear of Chucky, and no one can save me from the fear that this disembodied voice of death engenders in me.

The disembodied voice whispers, “Hello, Spalding, here I am again, just as you are relaxing, to remind you that all that you know and feel and remember will one day disappear forever. Gone, gone forever gone. And all the substance that surrounds you now will cave in like so much sand and sea to fill the place where once were. It will all be as though you never existed."

I toss the book across the room.

“Go to sleep, Beth.”

Dear Diary

(I saw my friend Amanda this week and she wanted me to post one of her favorite old Thrush TV blogs of mine, so here goes:)

Dear Diary:

I logged onto to some “dating” site a few days ago and promptly found an offer from "two very hot guys willing to satisfy one woman's darkest and wildest fantasies."

So I wrote:

"Yeah, I'll take you up on your offer. When can we satisfy my darkest and wildest fantasies?"

A bit later, I received an email:

"Whoa, not so fast! Let's talk a little first. Get to know one
another. How about all this snow?"

I responded:

"Oh yeah, snow…crazy. When do you think you two can fulfill my darkest and wild fantasies?"

(Now, I realize this all sounds a bit forward but I was actually being pragmatic. The winter was bearing down and I felt the need to store up on sex, much like a squirrel stores nuts. And this way, I’d get twice as many nuts.)

They responded:

"Wow, you're a real take charge gal! LOL. Okay, well, how would you like to do this? Your place or ours?"

"How about your place. Or better yet a hotel. Let's embrace the anonymity of it all. How about this Friday night?"

A few minutes passed by...maybe longer:

"I can do Friday night but not until after 9. I have a business party. Tom can't do Friday night at all because he's getting a root canal that day and doesn't want to be uncomfortable for our "meeting."

This was becoming what is referred to in the industry as a real "buzz kill." Root canal? Uncomfortable? What were we going to talk about next? Fabric softener? Flossing habits? Lactose intolerance?

"Okay, fine. What about Sunday night then? (Saturday night I was planning on...nothing. I just didn't want to look too desperate.)

They responded:

"Well Tom can do Sunday night but there's an Oscar party that night I don't want to miss. Do you like the Oscars? I do."

I took a deep breath before answering:

"Actually, I don't give a rat's ass about the Oscars or Tom’s dumb old root canal. I do care about my darkest and wildest fantasies being fulfilled. And pronto. But its obvious you do not have the showmanship to live up to your promise. I wish no further contact. You're a mad disappointment."

They had the nerve to respond:

"Oh well...your loss."

I answered:

"I think I'll live."

They responded:

"You're a retard."

I responded:

"It takes one to know two."

And that's how it ended. In a blaze of juvenile insults that included the word "retard."

I poured myself a glass of barely respectable wine and sat down on the living room couch and contemplated my situation.

I knew the next time I pursued a sordid sexual experience, it would be with two guys who would never tell me about their dental work. Or their love of the Oscars.

The men who I would meet one imaginary night in a blank and bare hotel room would have missed their mother's funeral for our "meeting."

They would be two strapping, bold and serious men who take their ménage a troises seriously. Is that so much for a girl to ask? For people to take their ménage a troiseses seriously?

It was to be a cold winter after all.

The Club

I had a quiet dinner with several of my female friends a few weeks back. One woman’s husband recently died at 33 years of age. After he was gone, she found out he had been lying to her about something for years. She has nobody to vent to now, except us. It never scratches that angry itch entirely, though.

My other friend is recently married and already unhappy, feeling like anything she expresses to her new husband is met with retaliation and disapproval. She’s taken to keeping her mouth shut and feeling depressed and defeated. I’ve never seen her so withdrawn.

The final woman in our group is actively searching for a man, dating all the time, feeling like her life is always lacking. The men she does meet often tell her how they're "not looking for a relationship" after dating her repeatedly and of course, having sex with her. She drinks a lot and is starting to get a little bitter, maybe.

And then there's me. I’m single and pretty independent. My mother never raised me to be super concerned about marriage and the like. I date occasionally and would like to find the right person, but live my life with a certain reverence and force, regardless. I try to have no preconceived notions about the other sex, though it’s hard at times. I don't want to be bitter, though it often feels a heartbeat away.

As the night came to a close, they arrived at the well-worn conclusion that “men suck.” It’s not like I haven’t heard that before, in a myriad of ways. Men are liars or cheats or whatever. It breaks my heart a little every time I hear it and fills my mouth with an acrid taste.

I wonder what solace women glean from thinking that men suck. Do you become comrades in misery? Is there some truth that I’m naively trying to deny?

I don’t want to hate men. Because if they across-the-board suck, how can I be in love with one? How can I understand someone that I’ve turned into a letch? How do I care and open my heart to men or hell, simply even have fun with them, if they’re all inherently jerks and assholes?

I’ve been lied to many times and deceived on many levels, some subtle, some as obvious as a vase being cracked over your head.

I’ve also felt insecure around men in my life many times. I’m a sensitive person and I can tell when I’m being shut out or moved away from. And it’s always hard, especially if they seem to be moving toward something or someone else.

It’s a sad moment. Suddenly feeling so small and alone.

And there's not much you can do about it. You can’t clip someone’s wings and instruct them to focus on you the way the way you want. You need to allow them to do their own thing. Hell, not allow – it’s not even up to you.

Have I ever been the looker, the strayer, the distancer and the deceiver? Of course. But somehow, it never felt the same.

Several of the songs I sing in my women’s choir this semester include lines like “men are deceivers ever” and “ladies better beware” stuff. And it’s hard to sing them. I fear the words will embed in my head like a tick and I’ll slowly become a member of the “men suck” club.

I prefer to use something proactive to expel my bitterness of the disproportion in this world. Martial arts certainly helped. I trained hard and sparred men much bigger than I. It felt good to have a seemingly healthy release for the anger that builds. Because it does build. Any woman who tells you it doesn't is lying. Unfortunately, they released on me as well and I had my ass kicked resoundingly many times.

But you know, every once in a while, as I was getting pummeled repeatedly, I’d wait. And wait. I'd see that smug, condescending smile on their face that read “Nice try, little girl.” Then wham! I’d send a searing roundhouse kick to the side of their head. I’d hear an audible “Ugh!” fly from their mouth and it felt good. Real good. I wanted to say, “Don’t ever be that sure of yourself, asshole.”

If men suck, then what do we as women do? Shine on Mt. Olympus in white, virginal robes or something? If they suck, don’t they ultimately get some carte blanche that I’d like to have sometimes? “To suck” sounds easy and free. Like a lazy day where you get to do whatever the fuck you want. I want to suck too then.

We’re just humans. We all share the basic elements – love, greed, honor, whoredom, misery, disillusionment, whatever. I’m abundantly sick of this “men are from Mars” crap. We all know what that means, right? It means men are essentially distancing and emotionally unavailable and we had better learn to adapt if we want to “keep our man.”

Anything in service to the king.

I’m tired of understanding the differences. They’ve been forced down my throat my whole life. I see the differences every day of my life. I certainly don’t want to read a fucking book about it. And of course, its mostly women reading these books in some desperate attempt to "understand." Men are busy making money and ruling the world.

Underneath it all, I fear if I join the club, I won't be able to dream about my fairy-tale soul mate if essentially, he's a jerk deep inside. It’s hard to let go of that dream of deep, earth-shaking, ever-lasting love to make room for more jadedness. That cup is full, thank you.

Yes, it’s true. Men do seem like they lie a lot and are never happy with the woman they have. They seem like they get away with emotional murder with little sense of recompense. Many seem to have the equivalent of a 6-year-old when it comes to relating. They seem to move away from you when you need them the most. You stand there alone and confused and convince yourself that "need" and "vulnerability" are dirty words.

And it’s true, I see women constantly, constantly, constantly settling and adjusting for them and I see men doing very little in return, with a certain “if you can't stand the heat” attitude. And of course, it makes me angry and want to join the club.

But that bitterness grows and poisons you and you’re left with such little hope for
human connectivity. I for one, don’t want to give men - or women - that kind of power. I just want everyone to be as shabby and perfect as me.

I know. I want everyone to join my club. Club Beth. Membership is free. You can be president and I can be president. You can be the secretary though. I don't want to be the secretary anymore.

The Devil's Haircut

There are a few dependable escape routes for me when life gets rough. Several of them are self-destructive and involve strip clubs, Patron and a blonde wig. But there are a few safer bets: shopping, going out to eat, getting massages by small Asian men with strong hands and getting my hair done. Hair salons are therapeutic and people touch me and stuff.

After going through one of the more grueling weeks of my life, I decided to treat myself to a haircut. My regular stylist wasn't in so I settled for some woman named Daisy, because I liked the name. How could a Daisy muck up my hair?

Once I sat in her chair, I knew something was wrong pretty quickly. Daisy, a middle-aged Jersey woman (with a questionable haircut herself), started combing my hair in silence. She says, apropos of nothing:

"My friend just died of brain cancer."

Okay. Not your average conversation starter but I can swing.

"I'm sorry." I muttered.

"It's alright. I'm doing better. I was doin' pretty bad but I'm better now."

"Oh, good."

"Well, I was doing better. Then I started getting these headaches all the time. What do you want done today?"

"Um...just a trim. Please."

"Splitting headaches. At first, I thought they were just sympathetic. My friend just died of brain cancer."

"Yep. I remember."

Snip, snip, snip. Scissors, sharp. Handfuls of hair fall to the ground.

"Just found out I have a tumor on my pituitary gland."

"Where's your pituitary gland?" I ask.

She takes her finger and taps her forehead three times.

"Here."

Oh mother of god. This is a joke. There’s a camera somewhere, right?

"It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm being treated with medication."

Snip, snip. Sharp. My pretty hair, falling quickly.

"Just a trim!" I remind her.

"I just didn't want surgery. After my friend. The one with the brain cancer."

Tears begin to well. I convince myself that it's only hair. It will grow back. If you have to, Beth, you'll just shave your head and start from scratch. No big deal.

I flash back to my earlier years, when my mother would line her 5 children up at the barber's shop. I would scream in terror, she'd tell me years later. The only kid who had barbershop issues. I was also the only thumb sucker as well. (At least that neurosis would prove to be more helpful later on.)

When she finally finished, I gently, ever so gently, point out that one side is definitely longer than the other.

"Maybe one side of your hair just grows longer than the other," she posits.

Crazy logic. Crazy, crazy logic. Just agree, Beth.

"You're right. One side definitely grows longer than the other. My whole body is like that."

She trims the longer side, annoyed and silent.

I pay for my cut and walk out to my truck, where I promptly start sobbing. I think I'm going back to the strip clubs, where it’s safe and warm.

Nights at the Round Table

So I have my young crew of knights I hang out with here at the Jersey shore. They are lead by Sir Kurt, one of my favorite young guys ever (he's going to be 21 next month. Lock your windows.) I hang out with them because they have this virile life energy and I vampiracally like to suck them dry, simply by being in their presence.

No, not really. They're just fun and spirited and life hasn't beaten the shit out of them yet, so their reactions and opinions are essentially pure and silly.

A few nights ago, I performed our weekly ritual - drinking cheap beer, sitting around the table, giving them advice on women. It was a night like many other this past winter, at least at first. After a round of shots of some nasty unnamed liquor, we sat in silence for a moment.

Finally, Kurt spoke.

"Beth, can I ask you something kinda personal?"

I'm already laughing because we're sitting with 8 other people.

"Sure, Kurt, feel free."

He hemmed and hawed and finally spit out:

"Are you infertile?"

I almost spit my beer out.

"Am I what??"

"Are you infertile...like do you have problem making babies or something?"

"Uh, I know what infertile is, Kurt but thanks for the medical explanation. No. Why?"

"Well, we can't figure out why you're not married or why you don't have kids. Like, you're 41, you're really cute and you're cool and shit...so what went wrong?"

Hmmm...how do I answer? Do I even have an answer?

I tried:

"Well, there are all sorts of women out there, Kurt. Not all of them want kids. Not all of them even like kids, believe it or not. Some like monkeys more. And not all of them want to be married."

"Hmm..."

I'm not saying I don't want those kind of things. It's just different for me. I just don't...it's not my whole raison d'etre, you know?"

They look blankly. (Note to self: don't use French expressions with this gang.)

"Um...I guess I just haven't gotten around to it. I've been busy. Doing stuff."

More blank stares.

I went for the more humorous approach.

"Do you guys want to make some babies with me? Is that what this is about?"

This was met with red faces, uncomfortable laughs and fidgets. Finally, one of the youngest dudes says, dead seriously, "Sure, I'll give it a shot."

"Kidding, I was only kidding."

"Oh."

I left that night, wondering why I had to answer a question like that in the first place. I hear this kind of thing often. "How hasn't someone snatched you up?" Like I was some little daisy that simply had to be plucked.

I don't deny the desire to meet someone special and make a lovely home together and have tons of sex simply due to its ready availability. But I also don't want to feel like some freak of nature for not doing what everyone thinks a female at my age should do. I mean, I just learned how to skateboard last summer (by Kurt, of course). So where do I fit into the social female schemata?

I could have explained to them that most of the marriages I see seem flat and loveless; that most of my friends have settled on one level or another for the sake of an obligatory dream and now walk around listless and half-baked.

I could have told them I never cared enough to settle.

I could have told them that I've only recently felt "grown up" and am still working out the kinks.

I could have told them I was preoccupied by the complications called Life and didn't have the the time or luxury to look very hard.

I could have told them, simply, that no one has asked me.

It seems as if the world always has to brand you, one way or the other. And maybe I'm happily brandless. Or unhappily branded. Or unhappily unbranded.

Maybe I'm still in search of my Grail.

Maybe I found it.

Strange Things that Turn Me On

I’m in the backyard this morning, hanging sheets on the clothesline. It’s a perfectly crisp, mid-March day - the sky a stark blue and little racy strands of clouds. The air is so clean and sharp. It’s the champagne of all air. Suddenly, as I pin one end of my white sheet to the line, I feel surprisingly turned on – like aroused, sexually. Something about the external stimuli overtook me and I feel sensually overwhelmed.

It got me thinking of other random turn-ons that have little to do with writhing bare bodies and all. I remember being turned on once while making pesto. Yep, pesto – like for pasta. Standing at the counter in my kitchen, old 40’s music drifting from the radio. I began blending basil leaves with those little nuts - pignoli nuts, right? Oh, yes. And olive oil. All the while drinking this rich, dark beer. The scent was transcendent, the atmosphere perfect. Wham. Turned on like a light switch.

Chocolate and good red wine – a tried and true recipe for most, no? Same holds true with a lovely fire burning. Mix the three together and I’m as easy as Sunday morning.

Surfing - easily the more sexy sport. It certainly beats golf and bowling in the titillation department. Tennis surprisingly has its share of turn-on appeal in it – in its own methodical, hard-hitting way.

A hot bath could fit the bill - pretty sexy but in a more hypnotic way. Every time I take a bath, I bring a book or a magazine in with me but I never end up reading it. Once I sink into the water, I’m mesmerized. I glaze over, thinking of...pesto and fire.

Peppermint tea, cocoa butter, the smell of pine or eucalyptus, someone whispering something in my ear or playing with my hair, my old English teacher, black and white movies, priests, vampires, laughing really hard, putting makeup on men, a kitten purring next to your face, blankets (but a really good blanket, not just any old one), Sherlock Holmes, hickies, wasabi and raw fish, Michael Moriarty's acting style in the early years of Law and Order, the smell of a fetid bay, destruction, a horn section, the word “effervescent.”

And how about a little subservience? Like when you are told what to do but not in that standard S & M “get on your knees” way." (Though that certainly has its place.) Someone casually telling you, “Go get me a drink.” Like they feel comfortable enough to make a demand of you. I know it’s a fine line, but it’s nice to see some occasional possessiveness and grabbing and bossing. Taking what is yours, in a sense – that can be sexy in doses.

And then there’s sex. Sex turns me on sexually. The kind of sex you’re thinking about several days later, while a friend is telling you about some dental work she's having done and you keep saying “Uh huh, uh huh…” but you’re really thinking of that one moment when he grabbed your hair and stuck his tongue…and then she asks you a question that you’re forced to answer and you don’t really know how to answer because you haven’t really been listening so you say “Hmm...” because that seems like a neutral enough response to fit most situations.

Oh yes, sheets blowing in the wind.

The world is our oyster, friends.

My Sleeping Tom

Last night was a night like many others at the Jersey shore – playing on the computer in my bedroom, drinking wine and wondering why you don’t like me. When suddenly, a sharp knock is heard! My brother, shouts “Beth! Beth!” I finish my last sip of wine (and it was really good bottle of Pinot Grigio, so I take a moment to savor it) and meander to the door. My brother points frantically into my room and says “There’s someone at your window.” And then darts out the front door to chase after the “perp.”

I quickly follow and pretty soon my brother and I are in hot pursuit. It gets very dark here at night and even with streetlights, it’s tough to chase down the assailant. As I tear down the street, I blindly follow the sounds of his crashes and bangs in the neighboring yards. Since he had a 30-second or so head start on us, we don’t stand much a chance. Plus, I guess I got a little lazy. Chasing perps is a lot of work. (I'm kinda happy I got to use the word “perp” again).

As my brother and I walk back to the house, out of breath, I ask him what the hell happened. He said he opened the side door to take out some trash and saw a man, perched on an overturned trashcan, staring in my bedroom window. The guy flew once my brother saw him.

The police came by with dogs and everything. I felt like a real star. It was like Law and Order in my own backyard! They tried to track his scent from the trashcan but lost him after a block or two.

So I had a peeping tom – wow, it so 70s! Is it capitalized? Peeping Tom? I mean, who has Peeping Toms anymore? One has stalkers nowadays. They’re all the rage.

How did I not sense someone staring at me? I mean, how long has this been going on? He could have been staring at me doing nothing for months! Last night, I was particularly uneventful. He saw me get progressively drunk and stare blankly into a screen. Thrills and wonders abound.

Wow. To think I may have bored a Peeping Tom. Perhaps he started dozing off on the trashcan before my brother startled him awake. Maybe I grossed him out a little. I do remember picking my nose once or twice.

Now had he caught me earlier in the day, he might have been privy to a private bedroom performance, which are quite titillating, I believe.

Today I sang a lovely, heartfelt rendition of Barry Manillow’s “Two Ships” – tears and rowing motion and all. That was followed by a rousing duet sung by Barry Gibb and Barbra Streisand – I sang both parts, of course. Interpretive dance followed. So while it might not have been that “peeping tom worthy”, there was some action in my bedroom today! Things do happen here! He just came at the wrong time. (Double entendre unintended.)

I jest about this when I realize there is a level of seriousness to it. By the time you read these words, I may be bite-sized body nuggets in someone’s freezer – a virtual human TV dinner. And of course, I can't help but note the irony of leaving the big, dangerous city to the "safety" of a quiet, seashore town.

I also must confess some sadness as well, because I locked the front door of this house for the first time in decades last night. Creep.

Unfortunately, my only real concern is that this incident might inhibit my natural tendencies to do absolutely nothing in the privacy of my bedroom, which I truly resent. There’s always some jerk infringing on your natural expression.

The little trashcan is still overturned outside my window. I’m keeping it out there today, like some badge of honor or something. Maybe it’s an invitation as well. Do it again, asshole. I’ll bore you to tears next time. I’ll stare blankly into the computer for hours and this time, I won’t even turn it on. My Sleeping Tom will nod off, flaccid dick in hand, wondering why he “came” here in the first place. That's when I'll make my move.

Belle of the Rock Bottom Ball

(special thanks to Ruby for her contributions)


Somebody has to get away from the Jersey coast and right quick before that somebody ends up in a poorly lit rehab with a bunch of old fishermen and ex-Wendy’s employees.

I’m caged in this old house. Caged, I tell you.
And when I go out, a demon is unleashed.

Picture this:

You’re in your 40’s, living at the Jersey shore in the winter. You were born here, so it’s like returning to a tub of dirty bathwater – lukewarm, comfortable but essentially gross. Oh… and let’s just say you’re kinda cute, too.

You decide to go out because you never go out anymore. You usually stay at home and watch more Law and Order than you think humanly possible. You drag your sorry ass out of bed, run an old brush through your hair and put on a little lipstick, which you know has to be around here, someplace…somewhere.

You go to a local bar for Happy Hour which casually bleeds into Happy Hours. You strike up a conversation with someone with a slightly demonic feel to him, though you’re not quite sure why. Perhaps it’s his beady eyes, his hot breath or the way he keeps saying “I think I’m the devil.” You decide you better part ways with this demonic drunk before he drags you to fiery pits of hell. As he goes to the bar for some more tequila shots, you grab your bag and hightail it out of there.

But the night is not done for you, is it? Though it certainly should be. You go to your friend’s little brother’s apartment, where a party is in full swing. Little brother is 20 as are most of his friends. It’s occasionally good for a laugh, visiting his place. And it gives you a chance to gaze at the little boy bodies bouncing around, testosterone coursing out of their sweet skin.

Beer pong becomes part of the equation for fun this evening. Sure, beer pong. Do I have to remind you that you are 41-years old and playing beer pong with beer that YOU had to buy because guess what? You guessed it…most of your fellow beer pong players are under 21. Oh, the unflinching beauty of it all.

(If there’s a cop reading this, this is a totally fictionalized story told in the second person. You can’t prove anything.)

You excel at beer pong and wonder why. Maybe you were a professional beer pong player in another life, you ponder. Maybe you’re just on your game tonight, baby. The boy you are playing against keeps lifting his shirt, attempting to distract you with his ridiculous abs, as if he knows why you’re really there. This only improves your game. In between winning shots, you start making out with him. Go home, heathen girl, go home.

Someone invites you to take a hit from “The Gravitator” which is an insane pot-smoking device designed to generate the biggest hit of weed you may ever take in your life, leaving you coughing spasmodically for 10 minutes.

At first, you appreciate the newfound high…until you realize that the buzz is developing a life of its own and is going way, WAY too far. Everyone starts glowing. The floor starts slanting, realigning itself, slanting, realigning itself. You ask it to stop…loudly. The floor doesn’t respond. But the little boys and girls begin to look at you queerly. You tell them to stop glowing or you’re going to leave. They laugh nervously. You sit down because, well…you pretty much have to. A pretty girl comes up to you and asks you if you need something. Water, you utter, water.

You’re in trouble. You can’t go home now. It’s midnight and there is no one here to tend to you, since they are in their own special, ego-centered, 20-something land, where it’s every man/boy for himself. Praying to God seems like the best option.

Please, God, I’m so sorry. Please just let me go home.

God begins laughing and shaking the walls and you cup your ears and say “Shhhh!!! Shhhh!!!” The boys and girls look over at you again, in slight disbelief that in any way, shape or form, you are their elder.

You make a run for a bedroom down the hallway and lie down where demons will skip gleefully across your face for the next 3 or 4 hours.

You continue to pray.

Please don’t let me get sick here - that scary bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in months. Please god, really. I’ll be a good girl from this point forward. I’ll take care of myself better! I don’t know why I did this to myself…I’m just bored, maybe a little sexually frustrated and…and I didn’t mean for this to happen!

You repeat aloud the mantra: “I’m not going to Heath Ledger, I’m not going to Heath Ledger” as your heart pounds louder and your breathing becomes shallow. You hear the boys and girls in the other room. If you didn’t know better, it sounds like they’re chanting. You fear you may be sacrificed, so you best not fall asleep.

At 3 am, the poor kid who owns the bedroom opens up the door, wrapped in a red blanket and ready to sleep. He doesn’t know what to do with you and stands in the doorway awkwardly. You tell him to get out, devil. He leaves quietly.

Your mind flipflops from the poster of Bob Marley (who has been staring at you menacingly) to a recent conversation with a friend who has noticed this strange, rebellious phase you’ve entered. He thinks you’re trying to recapture your past. You tell him, no, I’m not. I never had my past. This is the past I was supposed to have - now. Time went backwards on me, breach. A childhood saddled with adult responsibility, 20’s mired in disconnectedness and insecurity, 30’s saddled with dysfunctional, one-sided relationships that I’d sell my soul to maintain.

And for once in my life, it feels like my time and I don’t care who says or does what. The past has been finally falling from me, like snakeskin. It’s like getting out of prison, I explained to him. I’m free, man! I’m free! You can’t have me anymore! It’s mine, I tell you. It’s all mine! Get out of my way!

Trying to recapture your past? You're trying to capture your present, for once.

It’s 4 am and you finally pry yourself from the strange bed, grab your coat and tell Bob Marley good night (who seems in a much better mood). You walk into the living room and wake the kid on the couch, wrapped and sleeping in his red blanket. You tell him he can sleep in his own bed now. The remaining 20-somethings, sit at a bottle-covered table and stare at you in silence. You begin laughing at their wide-eyed, nervous gaze. You laugh until you feel like you might get sick…so you stop laughing.

You could feel awkward or slightly embarrassed but you don’t. You simply look up at the smoke-covered ceiling and give a quick thanks for the strange and beautiful and bizarre hybrid that you’re becoming, that maybe only you can see and appreciate. But that’s alright, isn’t it? If only you can see her? I think it's alright.

You look at the kids before walking out into the bitterly cold night.

You say:

This is what freedom looks like, boys and girls. It’s not always pretty.

Seagull Flies

I will lie down in autumn
Let birds be flying
Swept in a hollow by the wind
I’ll wait for dying
I will lie inert unseen
My hair same-colored with grass and leaves
Gather me for the autumn fires
with the withered sheaves
I will sleep face down in the burnt meadow
Not hearing the sound of water over stones
Trail over me cloud and shadow
Let snow hide the whiteness of my bones

- May Swenson, In Autumn


I walked out of the dunes at 6 a.m. in the dead of winter. My neighbor, being the eternal watchdog of our street, was there to greet me.

“What are you doing out there?”

I couldn’t speak. I was too moved by the events that had just transpired. He saw me struggling for words.

“Community service, I’m guessing?”

I nodded. Community service sounded about right. I was returning a seagull back into the wild. A baby seagull that was thrust upon me the night before, wrapped in an old sweatshirt.

Several days ago while walking on the beach, I came across an injured baby seagull. His wing was broken. I don’t know why I thought it was a “him” but I guessed. He flopped around frantically, in the deep, truck-made grooves in the sand.

I have a real problem when animals are in distress. It turns me inside out, floods me with grief and empathy. As a little girl, I dreamt of being a vet but had to give up that dream, due to this profound oversensitivity.

As I nervously tried to gauge the extent of the bird’s injuries, a fisherman at the shoreline turned around and watched me. He really annoyed me. People can be so rude. He just stared at me for the sake of staring. Like a dolt. He didn’t want to help the bird or me. He was just a fat-assed spectator and I was his sport. Finally, I looked at him and hissed, “Take a picture!”

I left the beach. The idiot, the injured bird, feeling flooded, watched, helpless. I went to the police station and told them about the injured bird. These guys are nice, though cops tend to make me nervous as a matter of course. The one cop always reminds me of Father Karras from The Exorcist, which elicits a good feeling in me, for some unknown reason. I left the station, thinking I did as much as I could do for the baby gull.

Later that evening, I took one last bike ride to check the waves, sure that at this point, the cops or whomever had “taken care” of the gull. But the bird’s fate landed at my feet once again. I almost tripped over him as I entered the beach. He was in worse shape. Not moving, but alive.

I stumbled backward, off the beach and raced home to tell my brother, who is a little more adept at animal rescue and not as sensitive me. He jumped in his truck and left for the beach to check him out. I thought, damn, kill the poor thing if you have to…just don’t let him suffer anymore. And with that, I let the gull go once again and proceeded to cook my dinner.

Several minutes passed and I heard the front door slam. I rushed to the living room to get an update, chopped onions in one hand. My brother promptly handed me a sweatshirt. He mumbled a few words about “keep it covered, find a sizeable box and it doesn’t look good.”

Injured baby gull in my hands, old, panicky feelings start to arise. Still, I’m happy to have my hands on it, finally.

As I rocked him back and forth, I thought of the gulls that perch on the roof next door. I shout at them from time to time “Come here! I want to hold you!” Because I do. I want to hold their fat, beautiful, living bodies. Just to feel their weight. I didn’t want my little dream of holding a gull to be like this.

I pulled the sweatshirt back a little. He was such a big, baby bird. And quite healthy it seemed, up until today. Chubby and wild. His beak was so grand, so large. I touched the top of his head gently. We were both in shock.

I went on my computer looking for advice, while he lay in my lap. I tried to feed him but he wouldn’t take the food. I tried to put him into a box but that scared him and he started flopping about. So I left him on the couch, wrapped loosely in the sweatshirt and an old towel. I left him alone, finally realizing that my mere presence might be taxing him.

Later that night, I woke to go to the bathroom. I walked through the living room and saw the bird motionless. He was sleeping. And tomorrow, I will take him to get help. There was something in the air though, the weight of the lie I was telling myself. The stillness, the flatness, the dryness of death. I crawled back into bed and lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of his safety and the help I’d get for him the next day.

When the cold winter sun barely rose, I went to the living room. He was dead and we weren’t going anywhere, except to bury him, which I wanted to do quickly. I placed him in the back seat of my truck and drove up to the beach, where I had seen him less than 24 hours before, alive.

I buried him in the dunes. You’re not supposed to go on the dunes. But today was different. I allowed myself there to bury the bird. As my cold hands made a shallow grave, I dreamt of crawling in there with him. We could disintegrate together, the natural dissolution of our physical beings. Our bones would eventually meet but we’d be gone.

The bird was going to die, no matter what. Maybe I made it worse – taxed and stressed him. Maybe I should have left him alone to die on the beach, his home, not my living room, my home. I rocked it thinking it was me, that rocking would feel good if I broke my wing. But the bird isn’t me. It’s a wild creature and maybe he didn’t want to be fucking rocked like a baby.

I’d like to be rocked like a baby, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’d like to be rocked by a wild creature carefully tending to my broken wing. Maybe I’d get better or maybe I’d just let go, like the baby gull did, tired of the stress and the pain. And that wild creature could fly me to dunes and bury me lovingly. The watchdog neighbor would ask him what he was doing up there. The wild creature would squawk at him loudly and fly away.

Death, at its essence, has very little fanfare. It’s too natural. The bird died and I continue to coast through space and time and another uninspired winter on this planet, flopping about, moving closer and closer to a simple, quiet core. It’s such a thin line. Isn’t it, my chubby little gull?

My Bryan Adams Story

Something got me thinking of Bryan Adams whilst in the kitchen this morning. I think because I accidentally cut myself with a knife and it felt so right, I don’t know.

I harkened back to many, many summers ago when I saw him perform with a number of other bands at the late, great JFK Stadium in Philadelphia.

I was very close to the stage, sipping from a flask of Southern Comfort and looking up at this performer, realizing he could easily fall into the category of “less than attractive” rock stars (move over Joe Jackson and Todd Rundgren). Anyway, Philly is a tough town with rowdy crowds and someone took the liberty to toss a bottle at Mr. Adams, while he was crooning about the summer of ‘69.

No sooner had that bottle grazed his shoulder – I mean within a millisecond – and the little guy tosses his mike and flies off the stage, his arms out like a bird and a horribly menacing, twisted look on his face (kinda similar to the expression he had before the bottle hit). He landed on the guy and started wailing away on the poor, drunk sap like there was no tomorrow. I thought “Damn, who knew it? Bryan Adams is a little bad ass. Musically irrelevant but a bad ass nonetheless. Interesting…hey, I’m gonna puke.” And I did.

I stumbled away from that experience with this important lesson learned: Be careful when you toss bottles at people because someone might just “Bryan Adams” you by surprise.

Help!

It's an emergency.


I was chopping up broccoli and the knife slipped.


I cut my finger and it’s bleeding bad.


I’m all alone.


I never felt so alone.

My Hopes for the New Year

I'm keeping it small this year. Real small. I'll pass on world peace. I'll say no to saving the environment. What I'd really like to see is:

The end of the "Got Milk" ads.

They make me sick. They have from the beginning.

First off, why is there a need to promote milk in the first place? I mean, it's like bread. You don't have to push the stuff. It just is. The weird people who continue to drink another mammal's milk way past nursing will continue to drink it.

Second off, it's just gross. I don't care if it's Catherine Zeta Jones or Spike Lee; soupy, white crap hanging above people's lips is just plain gross. Are we supposed to "connect" to that image in some personally historical way? Like I'm supposed to say "Oh yeah...that's what milk does. Gets stuck under my nose. That's funny. Milk." No, I don't say that. I say that's gross. It's gross when it happens for real and it's gross in an ad.

And lastly but surely not least, how the f$#k long can this ad campaign last? I mean, come on...stop beating a dead cow, already. What, has it been 20 years or something? We get the point! Milk under your nose! We get it!

God bless America.

And yay for world peace.

Laughing at the Frozen Rain

This house is an old house – drafty all the time. It’s November and my bedroom is cold. I have a heater in it and I straddle it for an extra blast of heat. It burns the insides of my legs sometimes. It’s getting colder here and so am I.

Danny drove to the island to see me last night. He is a sweet man – easy-going, honest, simple. I’ve known him since my teens. We dated briefly; for a week, I think. He broke up with me in front of the girl’s bathroom in high school. I cut school, went to the woods and smoked a joint and cried and then laughed. And then laughed some more.

We ran into each other not so long ago and he wanted to get together. He looks different now. He still has beautiful blue eyes. And two kids and a new divorce. He’s an electrician with a failing business. And he’s moving back in with his mother. All the makings of a match made in heaven.

I’ve heard it said that the older you get, the more your personality sets in stone - less pliable. The little pains of life fuse with the big pains and you didn’t take the time to dislodge them, cry or scream them out. So they compiled and calcified and they now occupy a dead space where kindness used to live. Oh how poetic.

I want to be flexible. I want to, I want to. But I’m not.

Danny slept in my bed last night and I wanted to kill him. He’s a big guy and he seemed to grow as the cold night progressed. His arms became virtual bear traps. And while he didn’t snore, he breathed louder than I thought humanly possible. Almost dragon-like. He also smelled like baby powder twice removed – like some weird, adulterated version of baby powder. I told him earlier that night, “Hey, you sure smell like baby powder – like a lot.” He said it was his deodorant. Deodorant indeed. This bothered me.

Toxic Baby Powder Bear Trap man literally had me in a chokehold at 5 this morning. His arms were too heavy to lift up. I thought I might suffocate…him.

And on top of feeling like a smashed pea, I felt a little confused. I’m supposed to like this warm “other person” sensation in my bed, right? It shouldn’t feel like a burden – I mean, literally, like an immense physical burden, right? I wanted to roll over and whisper softly into his ear “Hey, can you get the hell out of here?”

When Danny woke up this morning, I had been up for an hour sitting at my desk, bleary-eyed. Looking well-rested, he stretched and asked, “Do you know what you need?”

I toyed with several responses in my tired little head:

“A silencer?”

“For you to get the hell out of my bed and stop baby powdering your scent all over the joint!”

“To be never asked again, ‘Do you know what I need?’”

“To stop dating, cause y’all annoy my ass.”

I went with the simple but classicly acerbic, “Oh, pray tell.”

An electric blanket, he says.

“The blankets that you kicked off the bed usually keep me warm enough.”

He laughed and stretched and got out of bed and kissed my cheek.

------------------

Over breakfast, I asked him if I seemed like a bitch to which he replied, “Yeah, you’re a bitch a little.”

Well, then why do you want to date me, I asked.

“I don’t know. Um, I don’t know.”

I told him how I appreciated his well-thought out answer.

“See – that kind of thing. Makes you sound like a bitch a little.”

“Hmm…I always thought that was just biting sarcasm.”

I took a bite of my Scrapple (a very strange meat product that I’d rather not talk about.)

He suggested I lighten up a little and stop acting like I know everything.

“Me, me? I know less each day! I seem like a know-it-all?”

“Yeah, a little. Well, you do know a lot. So it makes me feel like a hick, like some Jersey blue-collar guy – which I am, I know. You know about wine and music and film, which I like to call movies. I drink beer and lay wire. So yeah, I kinda feel stupid around you.”

He looked down into his coffee and I suddenly felt like a piece of…Scrapple.

“I’m…sorry if I made you feel that way. I would never want to make someone feel that way.”

“It just seems I get on your nerves a lot.”

“Danny, everything gets on my nerves anymore and I don’t know why.”

“But maybe you just don’t like me the way I like you. Or you wouldn’t be so touchy.”

The truth of his statement hung silently over our heads.

I remembered caring more when I was younger – I cared about what I said and how I was perceived because I so wanted to be…wanted. But that concern has quietly unraveled over the years. It’s been replaced by a deep and contented sense of not caring. It feels good speaking my mind at all costs. Sure, you disenfranchise just about everyone but you breathe a big sigh of relief.


There’s this little Fury who lives inside of me now. Perhaps she’s always been there. Her rusty restraints have finally fallen off and she tears around my room, spitting fire and clawing my face. I can’t stop her. I don’t even want to try. I’m hoping she’ll exhaust herself and melt away and left will be a pliable, sweet person.

Until then, she and I will sleep happily together. She touches me. Her lips are icy and her tongue is like a hot poker. She is the best lover and hater I know. She doesn’t steal my cover - she is my cover. She pulls my hair hard and whispers nasty words in my ears. I am forced to relent. She and I watch reruns of Xena, the Warrior Princess together and plan our great escape. There will be tons of carnage and fire, we hope.

The Brothers

I never really had brothers. I have two biological brothers but I never really had brothers. My family is as disconnected as apple pie and hammers. I do remember some brotherly activity at first – when I was cute and young. My one brother would tease me like brothers do, I suppose. But somehow it was all the teasing and beating and none of the loving. A friend said to me last week “You should hang out with your brother more” to which I replied, “You should hang out with the mailman more” because it’s the about the same difference.

Apparently, the Universe didn’t like the fraternal void in my life, so it plopped some brothers into my lap. Last year, when I moved to the Jersey shore, I befriended three brothers at the end of my street. They took me in immediately and from that point forward, we’ve always known each other and never miss a beat. We surf together, drink and carouse together, plan and occasionally execute petty crimes, dive from high places, watch sunsets, eat burgers, wrestle, talk girls, talk boys, talk smack. Being with them is like roaming with a pack of stealthy dogs.

The brothers are very close even though they say awful things about each other privately. I wonder how that’s possible – but it is. It seems they are allowed that kind of backbiting because they live and breathe each other and it’s a technique to dispel built-up anger. Ironically, the insults they level toward one another tend to be the same, down to the choice of obscenities. Sometimes I want to tell them that, but I don’t.

They are a rag tag crew and steeped in boyness; they wear the same clothes over and over again, they always have scratches and bruises from one thing or another, they are naturally athletic and will jump off of anything into anything. They fart, they curse, they hit. Their observations are sweet, ignorant or sublimely ridiculous. They laugh endlessly at things that aren’t funny. They drive any vehicle well. They like explosives and light them casually. They’re virile and pretty with lithe, toned bodies and they spit. They drink cheap beer, smoke cigarettes like truck drivers and sleep like rocks.

Recklessness is like breathing to them - light and easy. They’re boys, barely men, with something distinctly untamed in them. And for once in my life, I know what its like to have brothers – real, live, beautiful beasts of brothers, shaking cages and breaking down doors.

Last week, we drove to a local surf spot at the end of the island. They were being particularly boy-like, commenting on every (and I do mean EVERY) female we passed by. At first, I wrote it off – I mean, if you are lucky to inherit brothers this late in life, you take the good with the bad and the ugly. But it became increasingly annoying. I don’t like women being objectified…and perhaps I also felt out of the loop. There was no woman I felt the need to comment on, and the men we passed weren’t much to look at, with their middle-aged paunches, sweat socks and god-awful baseball caps.

Finally, I cracked. “Listen, can you guys knock it off! Your comments are childish and annoying and ignorant. It’s offending me and I’d like it if you stopped!” The car went dead silent. I felt relieved, took a deep breath and drank in the quiet - which lasted about 15 seconds in total before one of guys saw a local “hottie” and the comments started flying again. Tenfold…yes, I think they actually increased. Pretty soon, it was a virtual male chorus of sexual comments – “Look at her this” and “I’d like to do that.” I dropped my head to chest and just sighed, defeated.

After dropping them off like a load of dirty laundry, I reflected on the moment. I guess I could have felt insulted, unheard, disrespected. But instead, I felt that strange surge of flattery and kinship. Only brothers would feel comfortable enough to disregard your comments so openly. There was a little, silent vote that took place after my proclamation of contempt. They decided amongst themselves that:

a. They could swallow their weird urge to confirm their heterosexuality with one another every 5 seconds

or

b. They could continue to be themselves in front of me, as they’d always been, for better or for worse.

Even on the losing end of the vote, I felt like I won.

Because they love me. They tell me they love me easily; like a breeze, like a laugh. They all tell me they love me. With them, I take more chances. I scream and kick and claw with them. I am myself. They are the calm in my storm and my storm and I love them, too. I have a feeling I always will. I suppose that’s what it’s like to have family, to have brothers.

The youngest one has recently taken over a sweatshirt of mine. And I let him, even though I really like the sweatshirt. Because it feels good when he wears it. It feels good on me.

God in Little Objects

God in Little Objects

Joy! I just bought a pair of kitchen scissors. What are kitchen scissors, you ask? Well, they are scissors…but for the kitchen. And they bring joy. Because you cut stuff instead of chopping stuff. I feel fancy and adult, owning these kitchen scissors. Who would have thought such a simple tool would yield such giddy delight?

I was moderately happy when I bought my first cooler many years ago. Not kitchen scissors happy but in the same ballpark. Sort of “Oh look how responsible I am. Look! I own a cooler now. I can put food in the cooler and it will stay cool. Look at me! I’m an adult.”

I don’t feel happy about the pumpy thermos thing I bought for my coffee. I thought it would offer me something: convenience, portability of my hot coffee. But it hasn’t…or I don’t care about those features as much as I thought. It simply collects dust in the corner. It’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging.

My cheap wetsuit makes me immensely unhappy. It’s cheap and it sucks. So every time I put it on, I remember my tendency to scrimp on things that matter to me and I feel testy. My wetsuit matters: It keeps me warm in cold water and I surf. That’s important. I hate my cheap wetsuit. It’s tight and it constricts me.

My friend at the end of the street has been acting differently. He’s a guy and I’m not and I thought we could just be friends but instead some weird “why don’t you have sex with me” vibe has developed and put a strain on us. He’s become emotionally detached and into these head games.
He’s slowly becoming a coffee pumpy thing, collecting dust in the corner.

My mother, I thought, would provide me considerably more happiness. She had a great and unusual personality. But she was pretty self-centered and depressed and dramatic and I often fell quietly by the wayside. She was the kitchen scissors I always wanted. She was the wetsuit that makes me grimace. She could have been the cooler, at least. Maybe she was. Maybe I’m just mad.

The liquid soap I bought smells of orange blossoms. Every single time I use it, it makes me feel like a child; it’s such a simple, pretty scent. I feel innocent and delicate. The wetsuit makes me angry and self-punitive. My mother should have been quieter and softer sometimes, for my sake. The guy down the street, he reads a book called The Game that teaches him nasty tricks that men can play on women so they can score.

My kitchen scissors currently provide me more happiness than he does. Which is sad because they are scissors and he is a man. He’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging. I miss his orange blossom scent. I’m getting a new wetsuit soon but you only get one mom, constricting neckline and all. I don’t own that cooler anymore. I don’t know where it went.

My kitchen scissors are God this week. Luxurious and sharp. Amen.

Weed Killer, Friend Killer

In an attempt to make friends on my little island off of the Jersey coast, I often cruise the streets. Cruising isn't just for people in search of a sexual conquest; it's made for any lonely gal, new to an area, trying to connect. And while cruising is a little strange in a small town, it is still a perfectly viable way to meet people.

So there I am, walking down my little street and I spot a potential John! And she's a woman! (This is particularly great, because I seem to be just fine attracting 20-something surfer boys who want to celebrate my new "Cougar" status but I miss the kinship of a good, ol' gal). I stop in front of her house and admire her garden. Her name is Emily.

She's visiting from NYC and will be here throughout the summer – a much-needed break, since she is a professional dancer, nursing a long-standing injury. Wow…and she's in the arts. Good deal, since I'm an artist too, damnit.

We talk for several minutes and I can tell we hit it off just fine. Later that night, she comes over for a little scotch on the rocks and we sit in my backyard talking under the stars about everything under the stars. I sleep that night a little more soundly, knowing there's a female only doors down, with which to bitch.

Several days, I meander by her place (I don't have to cruise anymore…my days of ill-repute are over). We talk for a few minutes, but I can sense a chill in the air. Hmmm…She said noticed on her way out of my backyard that night that my brother had a can of the weed-killer Roundup next to our house. Well, yes, yes, we do have Roundup. Well, we don't – my brother does, I explain.

She goes on to tell me the vast amount of ecological damage that Roundup does on a small island like this. That there are easier and more natural ways to get rid of weeds nowadays. Half-lives are mentioned. Endocrine disruptors are tossed around. Glyphosate herbicides bandied about. Fish immune systems fired my way. My head is spinning. "But, but…it's not MY Roundup, I tell you. It's my brother's! Poison ivy! Not me!"

But it's too late. The damage has been done apparently. I'm stunned that someone would hold my brother's weed killer against me. A New Yorker, no less! Hours later, as I lie awake in my bed, I retort mentally. "Well, if you're so ecologically correct, Ms. Dancer Thang, then why did you take a $225 car service here? Why not ride a horse? And those cigarettes you're smoking, the last time I checked, weren't exactly an unborn fish's best friend."

The next day, I cruise by her place (I'm back to my old tricks again). She weakly lifts a hand toward me – not quite a wave, more of "This is as much as you get from me, Weed Killer Girl."

I continue on to the beach for a swim and pick up a bunch of cigarette butts as I exit, something I do often and with little fanfare. I fantasize about taking the butts and spelling out the words "Mother Earth, My Green Ass" in front of her door but I drop them in the nearest trashcan instead.

The Airport Story

And it was such a simple thing he did, such a simple act. One that allowed my soul to bleed freely. One that deepened my breath finally. One that would serve as a lighting rod for my jagged, little heart.

And it was such a simple act. Between two people. Two humans. When everything can be so difficult. When disconnect is the norm. When lifelong friendships can unravel quietly and fade into yesterday. When families gather awkwardly, with nothing to say because it never was said and all the words just froze up somewhere along the way. Because we’re all so busy, aren’t we? And we always have things on our minds.

My dear friend Ian arrives from California today. He lives in the woods with his wife and his kids. When I’m with them, I relax. Because I’m loved. Because I don’t have to be anything even close to perfect. Because together, we know how to love one another and show it. And it’s simple. It flows and heals and crashes over me, again and again. It seems so simple, that kind of love. But it’s not always that simple, is it? To feel love like breeze on your face.

Phone rings. Detach. The hardware is broken again. Computer voices with too many choices. Buffalo-Ranch-Flavored Doritos and Rainbow-colored Goldfish for the Kids. Because the Kids don’t have enough dyes and poisons and why not, in the form of cute glowing orange fish? DVD players in big fat cars, because we don’t watch enough, do we? Women with cell phones melting into their faces, into their glands. Words, because women are talking too much. We’re all talking too much. Disconnect.

Ah, my friend Ian. Haven’t seen him in years. Drove thru mazes at 80 miles per hour to see him, to get to him. Think, think. What exit? Right or left? Exit what? Is he a departure or an arrival? Why can’t I think of the answer easily? Is he a departure or an arrival? My mind gets so fuzzy anymore.
It’s alright. Our moment will happen soon and wake me up again. My simple moment is arriving any minute.

I wait by the baggage claim. Bloated, ruddy people. T-shirts that say things because there’s not enough ads shoved in our faces, is there? Walking billboards on warbling, big bellies. Big blobs of never-ending “feed me.” Feed my hole. And I can’t figure it out anymore, how to find anything good in people. I simply can’t see it. Where the good is, underneath the ads and the fat and the words and the voices that could crack glass and the cell phones and the greed.

But he will be here and I will have my moment with him. It’s not that big, but it’s huge. His name is Ian and he is beautiful. He lives in the woods and he radiates and he loves easily. Over the next few days, I will seem like a live wire of flighty emotions around him and he won’t understand that it’s love disguised, because my heart is weak and flabby from underuse and dull with common pain.

I will wish, after he leaves, that I would have told him more, more of what he means to me. I will wish my love wouldn’t twist inside of me and turn into touchiness and oversensitivity. He loves easily and I do not. I think too much and I am too dark because the world disturbs me and the depth of it’s ugly sickens me and shuts me down.

Ian! At the end of a long runway of orange-green carpet, many miles from me still, I see him. I feel so small and shaken from stress and caffeine. He looms looks so large and walks so slowly. His eyes suddenly catch me. Come on, Ian, I think. We’re late and why can’t he hurry like me? We have Things To Do now that you’re here. Let’s jam it in until we’re unaware of it all!

He’s getting closer and I see him smile.

I’m sorry for my simple story. Because here is the climax, here is the simple act: he opens his arms. That’s it. He opens his arms fully, as wide as mountains and I’ve forgotten such a basic gesture. And suddenly, my body starts shaking, from the inside out. Someone is walking toward me with mile-long, outstretched arms. Welcoming me, inviting me. Me. My human invitation.

I hear a little voice inside of me scream. Scream! Scream from the pain and joy of it all. Shake, because it is rare, this simple act, in my life and I can’t imagine why. My shoulders go slack and I feel like I might fall to the ground. I let my friend wrap his big arms around me. And I know, for one brief second, I’m home.

Nobody does it. And we’re all dying for it. Because phones vibrate and people hurt animals and we can’t speak properly anymore. Because the trash keeps flowing and the babies keep coming. Because we’re all crumbling apart and we pretend like we’re not…and we’re proud of our detachment. Because our hearts are icy and our eyes are glazed. Because we douse our homes in floral-scented bleach and smiley-faced bug killer. Because we believe the bullshit.

I fall into his arms like a broken doll and let the mountains wrap around my tired, trembling shoulders. A million forgotten tears fall on the worn and ugly carpet. He smells like a man and his face is warm. We are all warm bodies with big, forgotten hearts. And my friend’s hug will be the single-most important moment for me this year. I wish I would have told him that.

The Fall and Fall of Kenny Blane

Kenny Blane had a fast black car with orange flames painted on it. He would pick me up from high school and I’d slide onto his slippery seat and bask in the curious looks on everyone’s faces. We’d tear out of the parking lot and cruise – which in our little New Jersey town was rather limited. But we felt big anyway.

He scared me. Kenny was several years older than me and seemed so worldly and desperately cool. He was quiet by nature and I was quiet with shyness. So we’d drive around in silence. Then park. People referred to us as “going out” but even then, I didn’t quite understand what they meant. How could two people “go out” when they didn’t talk? Wasn’t that a prerequisite? Apparently not. But I knew he had a purpose in my life at that time - so I could lose my virginity and be done with it. One mighty checkmark on my Life’s Things To Do list.

And lose it I did, one winter’s night at his house. I guess I lost it. Frankly, I don’t know if I did technically, but it was close enough. Close enough for me to announce it to my hawkish female ensemble the next day at the pinball arcade. Like a teenage game of musical chairs, I had claimed a non-virginal chair, sat down on it and had nothing more to worry about it.

Until he broke up with me a week later. To date the worldly Collette Taylor, who’s name, I think, describes her better than I could. Devastated, I’d sandwich my head between two speakers every night and sing the same lovelorn Led Zeppelin song and sob and sing and smoke alternately. I think on some levels – back then at least – breaking up suited me more so than dating. It was so dramatic. So operatic. Friends gave me cigarettes and attention and we carved Colette into teeny little pieces with our mere words.

Yesterday, Krissie called me at my apartment in New York.

“You’ll never believe who I saw at the bar today. Kenny Blane!”

Krissie, an old and dear friend, has worked at the same bar for quite some time and has often told me of people she’s run into from our past. Unfortunately, they are usually sad and scary tales. Our gang was a kind-hearted crew, but vulnerable and unparented. We relied on each other and drugs and alcohol to put a hazy warm glow on a rather dismal upbringing. As years passed, many of us couldn’t seem to move on, as if the drugs and booze froze us in New Jersey suburbia and time. As if we only had 4 or 5 good years in us and after that, well, we were at Krissie’s bar for eternity.

Kenny Blane unfortunately was to be no exception. I sat down and prepared for the worst.

“Well,” Krissie continued, “He was at the bar, not drinking anything, probably because he couldn’t afford it, and eating a bag of 25 cent Doritos. I kept looking over at him because for a bit, I didn’t even recognize him. His right arm kept reaching between his legs and I kept thinking he was grabbing for something, like a bag.”

“What was he grabbing for, Kris?”

“Well, he was…he was…playing with himself.”

“Playing what with himself?” The concept momentarily alluded me – a crossword puzzle, perhaps?

“Like, masturbating.”

“What!?”

“I had to ask him to leave.”

“But I lost my virginity to him.”

“Beth, that doesn’t mean he can masturbate at the bar.”

“I full well realize that, Kris…but why? Why would he do that?”

Krissie went on to explain that he never really stopped using drugs and his life spiraled downward like a blind drunk on an icy hill. His faculties worn, his discretion poor. He smelled badly too, she said. Somehow, the real clincher for me was the 25 cent bag of Doritos. I think I can wrap my head around your life tanking so badly from drugs that you lose any sense of public decorum – but to eat Doritos at the same time, with the other hand? That just seemed wrong. Multi-tasking at its worst. And casual to a fault.

Oh how the mighty (at least in my eyes, back then) have fallen. I don’t judge him. I fall with him. Those people were my terribly flawed family at the time. If Kenny Klein is masturbating at a bar with a bag of Doritos, then I too am masturbating at a bar with a bag of Doritos. I am no better and he is no worse - even though by outward appearances, it would seem so. We all have our Doritos and our public masturbation. We all pacify.

That night, I sat in a wine bar in Manhattan and I reflected back on my strangely magical and dark teenage years. He wore a leather jacket…that’s right…that jacket. He smelled faintly of motor oil and leather. Wow. I took a sip of my overpriced pinot. And he had those long, lanky legs, perpetually in jeans. Hmmm…I ate some peanuts with one hand and slowly reached my hand under the bar and touched myself with the other. In memory of my lost boyfriend and my lost virginity. Nobody seemed to care or even notice. This one’s for you, Kenny.

The Shelf Life of a 24-year-old Boyfriend

Two weeks ago, my roommate and I went to the club across the street to meet some boys, dance, look hot, feel hotter. This clean-cut, painfully young college boy rigorously pursued me throughout the evening, though I was smitten with the DJ (who was a little more age-appropriate.) I thought I'd scare off the young boy once I told him my age, but much to my dismay, this only made my little suitor more attracted to me. I relented and took him home that night and drank him in like a glass of fine (albeit young) wine.

Still recovering from a break-up with someone nearly twice this boy's age, I couldn't help but notice how much good that night did for me. First off, 24-year old boys are cute. Really cute. They radiate this virility and their bodies are like rubber balls. They're musculature is like twisted metal. And when...how far should I go with these sordid details? Well, when you have sex with a 24-year-old, his erection feels like steel - like his life depends on fucking you. There’s something deeply carnal and immediate about it. Its like being stabbed by a pretty dagger.

But more than the standard young hottie stuff, I liked how obviously he liked me. Lavishing me with attention, compliments, physical touch - and it kinda shocked me that those elements felt so FOREIGN to me. Like I contend with so many defective, bored and uninspired men (we can ALL have that too world-worn quality), that when you get the warm, fuzzy stuff - the attention and affection, it almost feels weird! (And please don't tell me I attract them - there are tons of men out there who have the emotional availability of a toothless comb. I just happen to know a lot of them intimately…or not so intimately, as the case may be.)

So I rode my fresh daisy high for the rest of the week - getting tons of romantic text messages and emails from him. I didn't really even need to see him, you see - it was simply the knowledge that this expressive, young Rubber Ball was out there, bouncing around and actively liking me. I breathed a little deeper, my step lightened - I felt the way one is supposed to feel in Spring – a feeling that often alludes this Scorpionic lover of Winter, bare branches and moss-covered tombstones.

But alas, our "love" was not to be long on this earthly plane (shocker, right?) My friend Ruby and I went out one fateful night last week and met up with the Rubber Ball. Ruby had just found out her dad has cancer and is re-adjusting from a 3-month sojourn to an orphanage in Africa. She was drinking deeply and singing Karaoke repeatedly. At one point, Ruby yanked the mike away from some college student and announced to a stunned crowd that her dad has cancer and “Screw you!” While I relished in the punk rock-like awkwardness of the moment, I also knew my good friend was in trouble. Rubber Ball really saved the day and tried to talk her down from an unfolding fit of rage, confusion, disillusionment and...did I say rage?

Well, I was really impressed by my Rubber Ball’s gentleman-like abilities and told him the next morning via text. Unfortunately, he was confused by the number I was texting from and thought the thank-you was coming directly from Ruby. He proceeded to tell "Ruby" how close he was to kissing her that previous night and how he looked forward to seeing her again. How he admired her behind greatly and how, while he hooked up with Beth, he hoped that didn't deter the two of them from "talking." I tried furiously to stop him. No, Rubber Ball, don't bounce all over my castles in the sand! My New Spring…it just sprung! But stop, he wouldn't. I had to call him and break the news that he had made a most fateful and tactical error. He reacted defensively and well, like a 24-year old. I acted like a 40-year old and promptly broke up with him.

Love is fleeting, we all know. Lust is even quicker. And a crush on a 24-year old can only last 24 seconds. Or 2.4 days. So their shelf-life is about as long as fruit fly’s existence. But for those 24 seconds or 2.4 days, you feel this flash of sexual energy that can literally hurt, it feels so good and life-affirming. And after the disillusionment passes, you are grateful to share your inner 24-year old girl with an actual 24-year old boy. And kiss him good-bye...and find a more honest 23-year-old!

Just kidding…kinda.

My Coffee Maker Beeps 4 Times When It's Done Brewing & I want It To Stop

In a seemingly never-ending attempt to upgrade my life to "adult" status, I bought a new coffee maker to replace my beaten-up, old one.

And she beeps.

She beeps when she's done brewing a pot of coffee and I don't understand why.

Four times...four LOUD beeps. Every morning.

Because there's not enough noise pollution already I suppose.

Because I guess I really needed a loud proclamation at 8 am, announcing "Your fucking coffee's done!!! Your fucking coffee's done!!!! You're fucking coffee's done!!!! You're fucking coffee's done!!!!"

Because I guess, if it were not for the beeps, I'd simply FORGET that I made coffee.

Because perhaps I wouldn't HEAR only ONE piercingly loud beep.

Because I guess the "Sneak-a-Cup" feature just wasn't enough to get me my coffee as soon as possible (that's actually a really great feature, but shhhh....I'm trying to say something.)

I'm trying to say this:

I don't want my Coffee Maker to beep. It makes me tense and the coffee's supposed to do that.

I don't want my Coffee Maker to beep. Because I don't!

I don't want my Coffee Maker to beep. Because the world rattles me enough. Shit.