10 Reasons Why it was Better “Back in the Day”

I'm SO going to sue you for this.

1. Back in the day, you could eat bacon freely. It was the world’s tastiest meat product and we celebrated that obvious fact. Now we have to watch out for nitrates, fat and salt not to mention the pig’s welfare. Back in the day, bacon didn’t come from an animal. It just existed and it was plain delicious.


2. Back in the day, you could drink during the daytime. Nobody cared. Nobody judged. And we’re not talking a dainty glass of wine over lunch. We’re talking a hefty martini or scotch on the rocks, during your workday, in your office, with clients! No guilty conscience, no drunk driving. Hell, there wasn’t even hangovers back then. You just drank and smoked cigarettes simply because you could.


3. Back in the day, kids weren’t so important. They sat at separate tables and were told to speak when spoken to. They didn’t wear little t-shirts with the names of Ivy League schools. They didn't attend private schools or take personal tennis lessons. They weren’t the second coming, photos plastered all over the Internet. They were just kids, with snotty noses and dirty clothes, running around like little wild beasts.


4. Back in the day, you were stuck in a deadbeat relationship for the entirety of your miserable life. You didn’t go to couples counseling or “process” with your partner. You didn’t have to endure a painful search for a new mate online. You put on a good show for the public, wore a constantly strained smile, and cleaned up the broken glass behind closed curtains. 


5. Back in the day, you didn’t answer your phone. It just rang and rang and you didn’t answer because you didn't have to, damnit. You didn’t know who it was anyway, so why take the chance? Now you know exactly whose calling. And you know they know you know who’s calling. Sure you can ignore the call, but everyone knows you're ignoring their call.


6. Back in the day, you were just crazy. There was no fancy label for it. You didn’t have bipolar or narcissistic personality disorder or ADHD or borderline. You just did your own thing, as a crazy person. Sure people talked behind your back but what did you care? You were batshit crazy and too busy arguing with the voices in your head. There was no lengthy discussion with overpriced therapists or medication. Just good old-fashioned lunacy. The public at large was forced to make room for you and your nuttiness.


7. Back in the day, bigotry was out in the open. People spoke of their hate, no matter how ignorant. Sure, it was disturbing but at least it was out in the open. Now it’s buried under a cloak of political correctness and nobody knows who is really bigoted. Even the bigoted people don’t know if they’re really bigoted anymore.


8. Back in the day, there was no teen pregnancy. Or cancer. People just quietly went away. Sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn’t. If they came back, the problem was magically solved and no questions asked. Skeletons remained happily in closet and no one was the wiser. 


9. Back in the day, people kicked each other's ass routinely. Sometimes they did it just for fun on a drunken Friday night. It usually started with a “Hey, you’re out of line.” And then the fighting would ensue. Now there are lawsuits and hospital expenses and anger management classes dampening our natural urge to occasionally level another human being.


10. Back in the day, you had personal contact with people. You had to deal with their messy humanness, their bad breath or poor taste in fashion. You had to be around them for prolonged periods of time, where you went from liking them to wanting to kill them to liking them again.

Now we're sterile and we electronically connect. Sometimes we develop entire relationships with people online not even knowing if they wear cheap cologne or have hair growing out of their nose. We call it connection but we go to sleep, lonely, wanting more. Sigh.

Thanks to Ruby Lawrence for her contributions!

Beth and Ruby contemplating old days

I Like the Pie

I like the pie. And that’s why I couldn’t give it to the old lady.

Marjorie is 85 and lives down the street from me. She makes me things and gives me things. I move large things for her and remove opossums from her garage. (Young opossums are strange-looking but pretty and white and fuzzy and curl up like cats when they sleep.)

Marjorie wears something on her neck. If she slips and falls, an alert center is notified, then I’m called. I wonder what that will be like.

Marjorie needed my help at her church’s flea market. She sells baked goods at one of the tables and it's a little hectic for her. She’s 85 and moves slowly and I move quickly since I'm not 85. So Saturday morning, I went with her and sold sweet things to other old people.

I also bought a sweet thing: a coconut cream pie.

The coconut cream pie was freshly made by a another old lady who is known to be one of the best bakers among the old ladies. They resent and admire her at the same time. She seemed to stand out among the crowd, full of self-confidence and, dare I say, a hint of smugness. It was interesting to me that even in their eighties, people could be highschool petty.

There was only one coconut cream pie that queen baker lady made and I bought it. For ten bucks.

Marjorie and I talked about coconut cream pie throughout the morning.

It went like this:

Beth: I really like coconut cream pie. It’s my favorite.

Marjorie: It’s one of my favorites too.

Beth: I really like coconut cream pie. I’m glad I bought it.

Marjorie: I really like coconut cream pie too.

Throughout the morning, a strange young man kept staring at me. He worked at one of the tables too. His stare was creepy but for some reason, I didn’t mind. I rather liked the attention. It made me wonder if I’m desperate enough to invite stalker types in my life as romantic interests because normally people staring at me gets me very agitated. Unless I desire them. Then I don't mind. But most of the time, I want to say, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

Anyway, the pie. I brought it home. I ate a quarter of it in a matter of minutes. It was transcendent. Queen baker lady deserved to look smug, I realized.

I’m a giving person. It’s my nature. You know the types who don’t have a pot to piss in but still give a visitor their last crust of their moldy bread? When people come over, I like nothing more than to serve them, give to them. It creates in me a strange sexual gratification that I’ve never quite figured out - to slave for someone, to give them a brown sugar experience (which I will shortly discuss).

Marjorie wanted some of my pie. I knew that. I knew it would be right and good to give her a slice when I got home. After all, the woman has made me cookies and cakes and all sorts of goodies in the past. Once she gave me a jello mold with salad ingredients in it, like celery. I found that strange.

Later that evening, after eating a half of the pie in lieu of dinner, I contemplated giving her the remaining quarter. I insisted on it. Perhaps real generosity is giving when you don’t want to. I’ve often thought that to be true.

I put the remaining slice of pie on a plate and wrapped it nicely. Marjorie would enjoy some pie too, whether I wanted to give it to her or not. I felt that old, familiar sensation of goodness. “I'm good,” I thought. “I'm doing the right thing. Again.”

When I was a child, one of the girls on my block named Kimmy told me to close my eyes and open my mouth. She then put a lump of brown sugar on my tongue. It felt amazing and sensual and overwhelming. I never looked at that girl the same way after that.

I want to be like Kimmy and give brown sugar experiences to others. I give. I give myself to people. Sometimes I almost give myself away.

Women give a lot. It can be extremely selfish, how much we give. We want to be indispensable, so we give as a form of investment, so people need us, like a junkie needs a fix. And then the resentment kicks in, when you want brown sugar in return and there's no Kimmy, just needy, gaping mouths. 

I’m eating Marjorie’s slice of pie now. I’m eating it and typing in between bites. Marjorie is a good woman and I know she’ll wonder why I wasn’t polite enough to offer her some.

She’ll have to go on wondering.

Marjorie deserved a slice of pie and I ate it anyway. Just to feel the decadent sensation of selfishness. To take my slice of the pie and their slice of the pie. To be ungood and like it. To give myself that brown sugar experience. I will get no gold star this time. But what does one do with gold stars? You can't eat gold stars and you can eat pie.

My mouth is always open, waiting, for more.

I don't need any more of these, thank you.

Wayward Erotica

[Written for Open Salon's Open Call for bad erotica.]

As Max kissed Sandra's soft, white neck, she moaned quietly with excitement. He bit and licked his way slowly downward, her hips gently bucking in anticipation. Sandra breathed deeply, wanting to inhale every moment of his wandering mouth on her taut body.

When Max reached her hips, she could barely take anymore. Her moans grew louder, her breathing more rapid.  She wanted to grab his head and force his mouth into her hot, wet center. She wanted to scream! Instead she grabbed the sheets and bit down hard.

Now these weren't your average sheets. These were 100% cotton percale sheets that Sandra had just purchased only days before at Macy's Labor Dale sale, with savings up to 60% off, going on until next Friday.

What are percale sheets, you ask?

Well, some consider percale sheets the best sheets on the market, with a silk-like feel and spun fabric made from carded and combed cotton.

What's the thread count of percale sheets?

They range. But if you're one of those people who think thread count is all that matters, think again!

According to Dana Poor, home trend forecaster for Cotton Incorporated:

“What many consumers don’t realize is that thread count is affected by a number of factors, including the ply and the thickness of the threads used.”

Words of wisdom, Dana!

Percale linens were originally imported from India in the seventeenth century then manufactured in France. The word originates from the Persian, pargalah meaning rag, although the Oxford English Dictionary (Dec. 2005) has traced it only as far as 18th-century French.

Rag indeed!

So while the word "percale" may be of humble origins, the quality of the fabric sets the bar for bed linens everywhere. So if you're tired of wasting good money on sheets that pill up or wear out after a year of use, then it's time to consider the very real option of percale sheets: long-lasting, luxurious and just plain beautiful.

Buy today, sleep on luxury tonight!

All the Dresses in the World

I'm naked in an upscale clothing store in New York City.

My wealthy friend Thomas is buying a fancy Italian shirt. He buys clothing on a whim. We're going out tonight and he wants to wear something nice.

I browse the men's clothes with him, careful not to drift over to the women's section because I know it could strip me of my upbeat mood.

But soon the scent of new clothes for me draws me near. I spot one vintage-style floral dress with an orange sash around the middle. The material is feather-soft and heavenly, the colors bold and inviting. I find my way to the price tag, sigh and walk away.

I return to the men's section. Thomas has spotted several shirts of his liking. He asks me which one. I tell him the cobalt blue shirt brings out his eyes. He darts off to the dressing room.

Reluctantly, I’m pulled back over to the women's section again. My eyes now catch this form-flattering slate gray dress. I put it up to my body, envisioning me in it. I would be a new and improved woman in this dress. Contemporary, sleek. Magical things would simply have to happen to me in this dress. Pricetag, sigh.

Thomas walks out of the dressing room, looking dashing. Well-dressed men make me weak in the knees. I walk up to Thomas and smooth out his collar. He is a beautiful male doll I suddenly want to fuck.

Looking at the 3-way mirror nearby, I can’t help but notice how unpolished I look next to him. My outfit is nice enough but it's no slate grey dress.

Most of my clothes have been from secondhand stores. A widowed mother raising five children on a secretary's salary couldn't afford much more. I'd die a thousand deaths shopping at those musty-smelling, drab stores, hoping no one would see me.

After Christmas break, pangs of envy would stab at me, seeing my friends in their fancy, new Jordache jeans and Candies shoes. And me, possibly wearing one of their old sweaters from last year.

And it wasn't just secondhand clothing that I would get for Christmas; it was hideous secondhand clothing! Purple polyester pants, old frilly dresses made for a bootleg Shirley Temple and coats that looked like burlap sacks.

Years later as an adult, I would receive my annual birthday box in the mail from my mom down in Florida, full of the same kind of whacked clothing. My heart would softly break. She put so much time into finding "just the right thing" for me on a tight budget but was still miles and miles off. I'd return the clothes to the Goodwill so other misguided mothers could torment their daughters for generations to come.

A few months ago at a beachside bar, I met a well-established painter here at the Jersey shore. Like other visual artists I know, they often view you as a "work." By the end of a wine-tinged evening, he said, "You are a fine specimen, Ms. Mann. One of a kind. You need to be wearing clothes that suit you better."

That naked feeling again. I had dressed up that evening - a tight black knee-length skirt and a silky top. But somehow, I knew what he was talking about. Something was off. The Bowie Effect had escaped me once again.

The Bowie Effect is the ability to look good in just about anything. David Bowie just can't help his stylish self. (His millions of dollars don't hurt either.) But I bet if he shopped at my secondhand stores, he'd still look better than me.

Maybe I missed out on some feminine role modeling where Feminine Mom shows you how to walk in high heels and apply lipstick just so. My mother was too busy “raising you damn kids, damnit!"

Or maybe I missed out on that opportunity to parade in front of my adoring father, wearing my Sunday best. Maybe I missed out on the opportunity to "buy whatever you want, sweetie." “Thanks Daddy!”

As a fatherless child at 6, I was stripped of my role of a little princess. My imaginary gown was replaced with imaginary tatters. The world soon became a place full of well-dressed princesses with living prince fathers who bought them brightly bowed presents bursting with girlish gifts. And I felt terribly bare and wrong. All the dresses in the world couldn’t bring my prince back.

There was a long-distance boyfriend of mine who would say, "I want to take you on an all-day shopping spree and dress you up in the finest clothes then bring you home and take them slowly off."

That little girl in me longed to be a perfect princess dressed in the finest wear, shining, sparkling, twirling and alight with my eternal feminine beauty. I knew he'd never take me on a shopping spree. It was just part of a fantasy, a sad tease, though I'm sure he wasn't aware of it.

Thomas and I leave the department store and go out to a nice restaurant, where all eyes are on him. He relishes the attention. New York is the worst place to experience these Cinderella feelings. It’s a city that happily reinforces your worst fashion fears.

Thomas notices the faraway look in my eyes and pulls a “surprise” out of one of his many bags. It’s a blue silk scarf with white, sparkling stars all over it.

“It made me think of you. You are a star, Beth Mann. You don’t need clothes to prove it.”

Good friends….reading your mind once again.

The Case Against Placebo Boyfriends

I don't think I've ever tittered before. I'm not even sure what a titter is. But when the question hit me, that's what I began to do.

"Why don't we just have sex? Right now."

Clint and I don't have sex. He and his brothers live down the street and serve as my surrogate family at the Jersey shore. I realized early on that it was much more important for them to serve that role in my life. Sex changes everything...doesn't it?

We had just finished surfing and a storm was fast approaching so we jumped in my truck and raced back to his house by the bay. While driving, I told him about a sexual dream I had that morning that included a surfer we knew.

"Everything was so open. It was like there were no...rules around sex. You just saw someone and had sex with them. So when Justin [the surfer] appeared in my dream, I went up to him, unzipped his pants, lifted up my skirt and climbed on top of him. It was all very easy, free."

Clint sat silent and tense in the passenger seat. For a moment, I wondered whether telling a male friend intimate details about a sexual dream is a little different than telling a female friend.

When we got back to his house and out of my truck, the black sky tore open and unleashed. Already wet and in our bathing suits, we stood in the pouring rain for a minute or two, enjoying the feeling. This is a perfect summer moment, I thought. Just this.

We grabbed some towels and dried off under the deck, looking out over the bay as the rain came down harder. Then I noticed a strange sensation; it was if the air had become electrified, bouncing back and forth, through me, through him. Everything felt very alive yet very still at the same moment.

Then zap!

Clint turned to me and said, "Why don't we have sex? Right now. For the next hour. Or two." He didn't sound totally serious...but not totally unserious.

That's when the tittering began - a high-pitched, girly laugh that I don't ever remember emitting in the the entirety of my life.

"Really, that's what people would do in this situation. They'd have sex."

"It's true...they would" I managed to say.

Strangely, "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" began playing in my head at full volume. I took a wet barefoot step toward him. That easy, sexual dream version of me was in full agreement with his suggestion.

Why wouldn't we have sex? We spend a lot of time together, we know each other very well, we're kinda hot. We're straight. We only live once. Besides, everyone already thinks I sleep with him and his brothers anyway. Let's give them something to really talk about.

Then the head interjected, reminding me of all of the stupid and annoying things Clint has said and done in the past, how careless he's been with my feelings, how terribly...dudelike he can be. If we did have sex, it would suck afterward. He'd potentially tell others how he "tagged" me. Or he'd share with me in detail how much he likes the ass of some chick on the beach, later that very afternoon. And I'd feel disgusted and annoyed. Definite step back.

But what are these stand-in, placebo boyfriend types for anyway? They just kind of hog up time and space that could be dedicated to someone you really like. Why not at least use them to their maximum capacity?

Another step forward.

Filler men can be so frustrating. So much feels right and natural. You have nothing romantically invested in a faux boyfriend, so you relax and truly act yourself. Sure, we all want to believe we're really "ourselves" with our significant other but there's a special lack of concern for a stand-in boyfriend that feels pretty good. I call Clint a moron whenever I damn well please, for instance. He tells me to shut the fuck up when the urge hits him. Easy like Sunday morning.

So why mess up that magic? There's no undoing sex once it's been had.

Step back.

"I need to...iron my clothes."

" You need to what?"

"You heard me, moron. I have ironing. To do."

And with that, I walked left.

Later that day, Clint would introduce me to his friend as his "surfing buddy and neighbor" (which, trust me, he would have done, even if we had sex.) I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't made a sexually grievous error. Placebos are made up of sugar and have no real medicinal effect whatsoever. But I guess if you don't know any better, placebos can do the trick. Unfortunately, I know better.

A Boring Story Told Dramatically

I often ponder whether I should say something. Or perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it's not her fault, I continue to blame her - every day of my goddamn life.

Pam told me to buy a “better” coffeemaker. You’re not in college anymore, she said. Don’t buy a cheapo. I agreed. I didn’t have to buy your basic $15 coffeemaker anymore. I could buy something a bit more sophisticated. Upscale. And that’s exactly what I did.

I looked at Pam as we exited the store and thought, “That’s what friends are for. They guide, advise. Thanks, friend.” She caught me looking at her and I smiled, gratefully. She smiled back, knowingly.

Little did I know those innocent smiles would portend a domestic nightmare from which I could not awake. Since the arrival of the new coffeemaker, my life has become a living hell, unpredictable, full of torment.

Why, you question?

Because the coffee filter often folds in on itself during the drip process. The result is coffee grounds in my coffee.  But wait! No! Not just grounds in my coffee: weaker coffee because the water doesn't drip through properly – lifeless, tepid brown, gritty water, unfit fit for a septic tank.

In short, my life has been irrevocably altered. Every morning now, I walk into my kitchen with trepidation. Will this be a good coffee day or a bad coffee day? I never know. I never know!

Oh, you think it’s me? It’s something I’m doing wrong? No, no sir. It is not. And I resent your implications that I’m to blame.

Every step is closely monitored to ensure the best possible results. Each filter needs to be in perfect form, not misshapen in the least or chaos will ensue.     Once, I accidentally placed an object on the package of filters and did I pay. Oh, dearly! All the filters were contorted just enough to be problematic, no matter how much I tried to mold them back to their…

Wait, I’m not done!  

Their shape. So for months, I had many bad coffee days. I waited patiently for the day when I could buy new filters, filters in their original, innocent form. Until then, I silently suffered, morning upon morning upon morning.   

When I finally bought a new pack, I can’t express the relief I felt. Maybe now, my life would return to a semblance of normalcy. But guess what, fair reader?

EVEN WITH THE MOST PERFECT COFFEE FILTERS, LIFE IS STILL UNPREDICTABLE!

Oh God, it's so true.

This morning, I looked at the filter and thought, “You’re a good one. You’re in perfect shape. You should serve me well.” But guess what? It didn’t. The motherfucker folded in on itself, again, leaving me to drink hot grit water for breakfast.

No, no…I haven’t told Pam yet. Dare I? Frankly, we haven’t been speaking much lately and occasionally I wonder if this coffee maker business is the real reason. She misled me and I feel...

Listen! I said, listen!

Betrayed. There are lots of things I can look beyond in a friendship. Hell, we all have our flaws, right? But I can’t seem to move past something of this magnitude. I’m not Jesus, you know! I can’t just turn the other cheek all the time.

Or perhaps its time to turn that pointing finger back to the real source of the problem: me. Had I not been so gullible, so eager to “keep up with the Joneses”, I might have said, “You know what Pam - YOU may need a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles. But I don’t. I’m a simple woman with simple needs. Now back the hell off!”

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with the consequences of being a mindless sheep for some time to come.

Hope for me a good coffee day tomorrow. I shall do the same for you.

God speed.

Boring Story Told Dramatically – Part Une

I often ponder whether I should say something to her. Or perhaps it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Though it's not her fault, I continue to blame her - every day of my goddamn life.

Pam told me to buy a “better” coffeemaker. You’re not in college anymore, she said. Don’t buy a cheapo. I agreed. I didn’t have to buy your basic $15 coffeemaker anymore. I could buy something a bit more sophisticated. Upscale. And that’s exactly what I did.

I looked at Pam as we exited the store and thought, “That’s what friends are for. They guide, advise. Thanks, friend.” She caught me looking at her and I smiled, gratefully. She smiled back, knowingly.

Little did I know those innocent smiles would portend a domestic nightmare from which I could not awake. Since the arrival of the new coffeemaker, my life has become a living hell, unpredictable, full of torment.

Why, you question?

Because the coffee filter often folds in on itself during the drip process. The result is coffee grounds in my coffee. But wait! No! Not just grounds in my coffee: weaker coffee because the water doesn't drip through properly – lifeless, tepid brown, gritty water, unfit fit for a septic tank.

In short, my life has been irrevocably altered.

Every morning now, I walk into my kitchen with trepidation. Will this be a good coffee day or a bad coffee day? I never know. I never know!

Oh, you think it’s me? It’s something I’m doing wrong? No, no sir. It is not. And I resent your implications that I’m to blame.

Every step is closely monitored to ensure the best possible results. Each filter needs to be in perfect form, not misshapen in the least or chaos will ensue. Once, I accidentally placed an object on the package of filters and did I pay. Oh, dearly! All the filters were contorted just enough to be problematic, no matter how much I tried to mold them back to their…

Wait, I’m not done!

Their shape. So for months, I had many bad coffee days. I waited patiently for the day when I could buy new filters, filters in their original, innocent form. Until then, I silently suffered, morning upon morning upon morning. When I finally bought a new pack, I can’t express the relief I felt. Maybe now, my life would return to a semblance of normalcy. But guess what, fair reader?

EVEN WITH THE MOST PERFECT COFFEE FILTERS, LIFE IS STILL UNPREDICTABLE!

Oh God, it's so true.

This morning, I looked at the filter and thought, “You’re a good one. You’re in perfect shape. You should serve me well.” But guess what? It didn’t. The motherfucker folded in on itself, again, leaving me to drink hot grit water.

No, no…I haven’t told Pam yet. Dare I? Frankly, we haven’t been speaking much lately and occasionally I wonder if this coffee maker business is the real reason. She misled me and I feel...

Listen! I said, listen!

Betrayed. There are lots of things I can look beyond in a friendship. Hell, we all have our flaws, right? But I can’t seem to move past something of this magnitude. I’m not Jesus, you know! I can’t just turn the other cheek.

Or perhaps its time to turn that pointing finger back to the real source of the problem: me. Had I not been so gullible, so eager to “keep up with the Joneses”, I might have said, “You know what Pam - YOU may need a coffeemaker with all the bells and whistles. But I don’t. I’m a simple woman with simple needs. Now back the hell off!”

But I didn’t. And I’ll have to live with the consequences of being a mindless sheep for some time to come.

Hope for me a good coffee day tomorrow. I shall do the same for you.

God speed.

Karaoke as Cheap Therapy

Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” – Kurt Vonnegut

"I think it heals the soul," she whispers, as if a secret.

"I think it does too, Aunt." I reply.

My Aunt Mary Lou and I are on the phone. We're talking about singing instead of addressing her daughter, who is dying of cancer. My aunt needs a break.

"Do you still sing, Bethy?"

Hearing "Bethy" always warms my heart. It's my child name.

"Yes, Aunt. I do. I sang with a choir for the last few years. I even sang a solo once."





[Me singing with a small group ensemble in Brooklyn's Bella Voce. It's an Emily Dickinson poem put to music. I'm one of the two altos.]



"Really!" my Aunt Mary Lou exclaims. "Well, isn't that wonderful. How about now?"

"Well, it's kind of...stupid. It's...I just sing karaoke sometimes at the local bar here."

"That's not stupid, Bethy. That's practice."

I smile, wiping away a wandering tear. My cousin is my age. She had a routine gall bladder surgery and found cancer. Lots of it. Suddenly, she has weeks to live.

"It is practice, Aunt. I'm not sure for what but..."

"Life. It's practice for life."

Back in the day, my mother and father, my aunts and uncles, would sing all night long, if you let them. That's when people were more full of goodness, it seemed; content with sitting around a kitchen table until the wee hours, connecting, conversing, debating, joking, laughing, singing songs - just being simpler and happier. Before computers. Before cell phones. Before a million TV channels. Before a great disconnect.




[My family sitting around singing in 1971. That's me at 4 singing in the background.]

Occasionally the gang would go out to a local piano bar, sipping the same drink all night and singing until their voices became whispers the next day. I loved watching the women prepare for their big night out - coral lipstick, bright floral patterns, hairspray...layers and layers of hairspray.

[My Aunt Mary Lou on the left.]

Years later, after many of the old crew had died, I would visit my aunt in Pittsburgh and she would insist on us singing. She'd sit down at her organ - those crazy organs with a million buttons - and start playing at full volume. And I was expected to sing...loudly. Show tunes, I remember.

"I am sixteen, going on seventeen," I'd sing. (Although I was 34 going on 35.)

"I enjoy being a girl!" I'd meekly proclaim.

"Louder, with feeling. Sing it out, Bethy!" she'd demand, a Kool cigarette dangling out of her mouth.

"Come on, Aunt, please. I'm not very good."

"What the hell does that matter? Just sing! You're too damn shy."

(Interestingly enough, coming from a pretty rowdy bunch, I'm still considered the wallflower.)

So I would sing. For her, for me. I'd return to singing again and again, as a source of soul therapy.

I'm not a great singer but I love to sing. A definite difference. Being in the company of good musicians over the years, I've realized how difficult it is to sing well. I've studied voice, practiced hard, and yet I can't always correct it certain issues.

That used to eat me up inside. I wanted to sing 100% well or not at all. My fierce self-loathing would often throttle me before I could even open my mouth. But I kept trying.

In New York, I was fortunate enough to sing with an amazing women’s choir. During our concerts, I’d feel transported by the music and the other women’s voices, like angels on high. When I left the city, it was one of the few aspects of my life there I genuinely missed.

At the Jersey shore, the outlets to sing are few and far between. So with a thread of embarrassment, I found myself going to karaoke on the weekends at a local grungy bar.

What’s there to say about karaoke that hasn’t already been mocked? Yes, it can be bloody awful, an insult to real music and occasionally just plain circus-style creepy. This place was no exception. But desperate times called for desperate measures, so there I was each weekend, singing everything from Led Zeppelin to Barry Manilow.

Slowly I became part of a peculiar yet kind sub-culture of fellow wannabe singers that cheered and supported me even if I kinda sucked. Because the name of the game wasn’t to nail it but to simply try. A perfection-free zone where I could practice singing and if I failed? Who cares? It’s just karaoke.

As months passed and I got a little bolder, my singing evolved into a kind of performing. I’d allow myself to be taken by a song. I’d dance or act out a song. Who cares? It’s just karaoke.

Once in a while, I’d experience this feeling of transcendence, simply by letting my voice free. It became a form of soul therapy. I’d go home feeling at peace and charged up…and drunk, yes drunk.

I practiced in my bedroom a lot. Which could be awkward. Because others can hear you and it’s hard to sing past that self-consciousness. Then you even push yourself past that feeling, forcing yourself to not care. Or to sing anyway. Exposing your voice. It’s so nude.

Years ago, a friend pretended to strangle me, as a joke. The moment her hands reached my neck, I started sobbing, much to her and my surprise. That area of the body can be so loaded with energy. My mom was dying at the time so somehow my emotions were just stuck there. Singing moves it through you. That’s the magic of it.  

Over the years, my singing has gotten better but I certainly not great. I’ve joined a rock band. We suck a bit truth be told. But it’s not about perfection. It’s the expression that matters.

When it comes to singing (literally or metaphorically), it’s easy to be strangled by insecurities or crippled by perfectionism. You may flail and cringe at what you’ve created. You may meet up with old monsters that want to destroy you for even thinking of trying. But if you allow yourself to create in spite of it all, you just may save your soul.


Beth does Karaoke from Beth Mann on Vimeo.



(Leo Sayer, singing the song maybe a little better than me. Okay, a lot. But note, his open-throated sound and dead-on diction. That's solid technique.)

(After Gary introduced me to the better mike.)


There are Worse Things I could do....really. from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

Pussy on a Platter

"You know what your problem is?"

"Do tell, Clint?"

"You're giving your pussy away on a platter."

"My what on a what?"

"You're coming across as desperate."

"I am desperate."

My about-to-be ex-friend (and oldest brother of the Brothers) is explaining to me in his distinctly blunt way that giving some guy my number last week was a fail on my part.

"Was he supposed to hunt for it or some bullshit like that?"

"Exactly."

Silence.

"Get out."

And for the third time in a year, I throw Clint out of my house. He slinks down the steps like a lazy lizard, an unlit cigarette in mouth, mumbling something under his breath.

Clint looks like a bootleg Kurt Cobain with tangled blonde hair and crazy blue eyes. He’s handsome in that cavalier kinda way, like he could care less what he looks like and it makes him that much sexier. Because he’s a little older than the other brothers, I often rely on him for maybe an ounce of maturity. This wasn’t going to happen today.

The thing he doesn’t get is that I’m an outlier here. Single 40-something female with no children in a bland shore-based suburbia.

She must be a weirdo or a slut. Or gay. Or a gay slut. Watch out. She wants to pounce on our husbands and with their paunchy bellies and baseball caps.

She’s a cougar. Pouncing on some young dude and “teaching him the ropes” sounds extra unsexy. It sounds like fucking work. Like something I should get paid to do. I’m looking to be pounced and taught. Not the other way around.

For a long time here, I played it safe, not really hooking up with locals. (And frankly, nobody was knocking down the door for me anyway.) These square pegs did not want my round hole. So to have some “scandalous” reputation when in actuality I was living the life of a reclusive nun kinda hurt.

Especially when it came to my old friend George.

George is an older Jesus-looking, beard-wearing, guitar-slinging hippie type. He dated my sister for years when I was a child. During that time, he served as a surrogate brother, protective, kind and instructive. He took me to see a meteorite shower one night at the Jersey shore, which still remains one of the shiniest memories of my life.

As a little girl, I desperately wanted to believe in magic but an increasingly difficult life kept getting in the way of such delight. But that night, as George and I watched the sky explode with light, I believed in magic once again. My heavy, little soul lit up. From that point on, George and magical things were indelibly entwined.

When I moved back to the Jersey shore several years ago, George and I giddily reconnected after decades apart. Picking up where we left off, he quickly became that warm and watchful friend, helping me whenever possible.

He taught me how to make small car repairs and fixed up an old bike for me, with a cardboard license plate that read my name. He made a concoction of oils for surfing-induced ear infection. He showed me how to tell the wind direction by letting sand run through my fingers--kind and gentle brotherly acts that fed an undernourished side of me.

After some time, I noticed he hadn't invited me to his home. When I asked him, he told me that he was afraid his wife wouldn't understand our friendship.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she gets jealous."

"But we're just friends," I said, neck tensing. (It was disturbing to think that anyone would consider George as my romantic partner. Incestuous and creepy.)

"If you can't tell your wife you're at my place George, it’s probably best we don't hang out."

"And you might want to grow some," I wanted to add but said instead: "I'm nobody's secret."

But that wasn't true; I have been someone’s secret. My friend Andrew only calls me on his drive home from work because he's afraid to talk to me in front of his wife. I've been his friend for over 20 years.

When I dated a man in New York, he always felt uneasy bringing me around his "baby's momma."

"I just don't want any problems with her or the custody of our kid. I don't want to upset her."

"But you have no problems insulting me by keeping me a secret?"

Before you suggest I toss these jerks to the curb, understand that these are men who have served special roles in my life. They have been my guardians and mentors and friends.

George came to my house, desperate for my help. His wife had found out that he had stopped by my house weeks ago (to fix a shower head—oh the scandal of it all!) and went ballistic. Would I please go over and explain to her that nothing is going on?

"Oh god, George. Don’t ask me this, dude!"

He implored me and I finally relented. Before leaving, he asked me to dress down a little. I put on a flannel shirt and a baseball cap (so I didn't appear the supermodel threat that lurks underneath).

When I entered his home, the tense energy was palpable. I decided to swallow the poison quickly. Marching over to the kitchen sink. I stood behind his wife, her back to me, as she washed the dishes. She was sniffling, post-cry.

"Hi there, Janet. I'm Beth. I'm sorry you're upset. I've known George since I was 5. He dated my oldest sister. The thought of anything romantic with him makes me, um, queasy. I can assure you nothing has happened nor would it. He's a friend and that’s all."

She didn't turn around. She simply asked me, very quietly, to leave.

I walked out of the house and away from a friendship I had had since childhood. It hurt but one gets tired of these unfounded mistress-like roles based on the fact that you’re single and available.  

“He's doing it to protect his family”, a friend countered. What am I, a communicable disease? What kind of marriage are you protecting when you resort to lies just to maintain a friendship? What are you teaching your children? How to be in a deeply dysfunctional family that stays together at all costs? That’s protection? Please.

So while I do the “right” thing and continue to not sleep with the wrong person or the right person or any person, my scandal quotient continues to grow. An “older” woman who hangs around young surfers and dares to be free and sexual and creative and doesn't have children? Off with her head!

So why aren't you married, people have asked curiously? Why don't you have children?

Perhaps the need to marry and procreate wasn't hardwired into me, like so many others. I didn't dream of a wedding dress or a fat rock on my finger. That doesn't mean I don't want to get married or have a family. It just hasn’t dictated the direction my life.

That's one take.

The other? When you spend a lifetime simply trying to survive or battling depression or stuck in relationships that you think might last but end up shattered over and over again, it eats up a lot of fucking time.

Clint knocks at the door.

"Do you want to go grab a beer?"

"You're an ass, Clint. An ass."

"Sorry about the pussy on a platter comment. Do you want to grab a beer?"