Love Means...

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

Women are weird. They’re passivity can run deep. But you and I are different. We’re the outspoken women who yell when angry and sob when sad. We express. What happened? Our voices became pale and garbled suddenly. The lines between us fell.

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

The size was a surprise, though. A baseball, they said. A fucking baseball. When I moved from San Francisco to New York, it was partially to be closer to you. But somehow, my own survival became overwhelming and I wasn’t at your bedside the way I planned on being. Maybe that’s when the divide began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard you the first time, Kris.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The stories about you grow worse. You can't walk that well. Your bones snap. Your face hollows. You are 42 and dying of breast cancer. A massive clock in a pitch-dark sky keeps ticking in my ears. Will we speak again?

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

I know, I know my problems seemed so petty in relation to yours. You yelled at me one time after a reckless where I put myself in jeopardy with drugs, booze, men, sex and fucking stupidity. “What the hell is your problem? What would possess you to put yourself in that situation?”

Unable to answer, I just felt shame. Shame that you, my closest friend, saw the train wreck that was my life and could no longer tolerate it. I didn’t blame you. It disgusted me sometimes too.

It’s now. And I’m racing down a highway in South Jersey trying to get to you. You have hours to live, they tell me. Hours. I race but cannot erase. What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong?

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

“Please, Beth…just don’t upset her. I know you two haven’t been…please, whatever it is, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I think of the other times in my life when a gatekeeper intervened – someone to warn me before I walk through a doorway and face something awful. When my mother was dying, it was my brother-in-law. “Wait, Beth…you need to know…she looks different than the last time.”

“Get out of my way. It’s my mother and you don’t warn me about her.”

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

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

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

Then you say something that stuns me:

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

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

“No. That wasn’t it. That's not why…It’s…”

“Then why? Please tell me. Please!”

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

“Does it matter, Kris...huh?”

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

And we let it go. At that very moment. The silence is broken. The doves fly out the window. All is forgiven.

I sit bedside and sing quietly to you for the rest of the afternoon. You sleep restlessly, fighting some imaginary blanket being pulled over you. I sing all of the songs we’ve sang in the past, songs of love, life, loss. Our anthems, our songs from the troubled but occasional magical little suburban life we shared.

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

One of our favorites:

Sara - Fleetwood Mac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Own Private Hurricane

 

I’m looting my neighbor’s garden. Looting light, I would call it. Everyone has been evacuated and I’m one of the few remaining at the Jersey shore during Hurricane Irene. I grab a few ripe tomatoes, a batch of heady oregano. It’s all going to drown tomorrow anyway.

God, it’s so quiet and peopleless here! I’m reminded of my childhood on this island when time seemed slow and sleepy, like it does now. You could actually feel the place, the pulse, you know?

The tourists and most of the locals have left. Their hectic, greedy energy is no longer bouncing all over the joint, smacking me repeatedly in the face. Right now, all is still, all is mine. Tonight, when the storm hits, it will be another animal, no doubt. But for the present, I can think for once in a long time. Maybe I'm looting some much needed peace of mind.

After my garden thefts, I come home and sing really loudly in my room. This is nothing unusual: I sing any old time. But often I suppress my voice just a little when singing in this house, in this neighborhood. I know neighbors can hear me, or the people I live with. Today, truly alone, I set my voice free, like a dog unleashed on a sunny beach.

Walk around naked for a bit. That’s a given. Nudity is good and right. I don’t know what else to say other than that. Oh, and I found good porn today – not the crappy stuff that kind of turns you on but part of you is like “Yeah, right. You’re horrible actors” but you make do anyway. For my particular fantasy mindset, this porn fit just so.

My people, all the people, they keep contacting me and offering up their homes. Frustrated, I relay to them that I have lots of places to go thank you, but possibly not a place to return to. That's my concern.

Yet some friends have such earnest tones to their voice, it almost brings me to tears: a young surfer dude whom I didn't expect to be so worried. Or an old friend who keeps calling, even though we haven’t spoke in over a year. Strange, that they care so much. And don’t say, “Well, of course they do!” Because it’s not that simple. People care sometimes, and sometimes they don't.

Like this guy on the mainland that I've been seeing on and off, whom I didn’t hear from at all today. He checked in yesterday, via text, and asked me to keep him posted. An old, tired voice played in my head: “If you really cared, you'd call.” Like, fuck – if you don’t worry about me during a natural disaster, when would you, dumb loser face.

And enough with the texts already. Like when I'm being swept off to sea, I'll miraculously manage to shoot off the last text of my life:

Hey. I'm drowning. Need help asap. Phone not waterproof. : (

But yeah, whatever, fuck it. The perk of a natural disaster is that relationship minutia doesn’t have as much holding power. Something more primal is trumping it. And you're quietly grateful because that old bullshit teenager-level worry has been wasted too much space in your brain anyway.

Now I’m blaring some Led Zeppelin in my room. I ate a nice, fatty meal. I’m ready for disaster. Fattened up, rocked out, drunk and ready. (No, I’m not drinking that much wine and I resent your implications. I’m drinking just enough wine. Hurricane level wine.)


Hey, wait. Don't go. Yesterday, I pulled the veggies from my little garden so they wouldn’t go to waste. One small pepper plant had struggled all summer to stay alive. Teeny, meek little thing - the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of pepper plants. I thought she was a goner last month but somehow she managed to spruce up and eek out one small hot red pepper. I tried to pluck it but she wouldn’t let me; she wasn’t ready and I didn't want to hurt her. 

Today, I plucked her puny pepper anyway. Ah, so sad. Man, like this summer wasn’t hard enough on her: she barely lives and finally manages to produce this little runt of a vegetable and now she’s going to drown. Poor, poor fucking hot pepper plant.

Can you hear it? The wind is shaking my walls. It’s about 40 mph and soon will be 70 mph. I hope the glass in the windows doesn’t break. Because that will be scary. Because then the weather comes in and you can’t hide from it. It’s at your feet, in your face, bitches.

Wait, before you go...wanna hear a scary story? About an hour ago when the wind started kicking up, I ran around the living room, pulling furniture away from the window. Out of the blue (or the black), the doorbell starts ringing. And ringing. I direly hoped some brave soul was stopping by.

I ran to the door and peeked out; there was no one there. The bell kept ringing. The wind was blowing so hard, it rang the damn doorbell. How perfectly spooky, like the hurricane was paying me a visit, all proper like, but with a definite sense of urgency.

It’s going to be a long night. One of many long nights in this woman’s life. Peppers are spicy and glass is sharp. Looting is wrong, unless you’re in the mood and the pickings are easy. People show up, people let down. Tailormade porn and wine can be fun when you’re all alone. And sometimes storms literally come knocking on your door. That’s what I’m saying.

PHOTOS - THE DAY AFTER IRENE

A Stillness to this Place

This town is so empty. Even the breeze feels empty. A dead, lukewarm breeze.

Walking down the bleak, sun bleached streets, I wonder if there’s any life here at all. A few people peek through windows, then quickly draw their curtains.

Why did I come here? Because I had to, I remind myself. This place might ring hollow right now, but eventually I’ll fit in.

The town I left held very little opportunity for me. My husband was a cold man, barely there. I could punch a hole through him. He resented me when I hugged him...can you imagine that? But desperate for closeness, I couldn’t help but try.

My friends seemed store-bought. They kept me company, nodded when I spoke, but never really heard me. Whenever I would get upset or angry, their faces would instantly become flat and emotionless, as if I pulled a plug out of their backs. They could only handle me in neutral.

My home was a house with things in it - that's all. There was a cheap little hanging in the kitchen that read “Home” and for years, I fantasized about smashing it into bits. The day I left, I pulverized it, then walked out, never to return.

When I first arrived here, I knew I’d have to pay a price for leaving the way I did. I didn’t go outside much, just slept. Or something like sleep. Now I feel awake again. Yes, this new place feels foreign, but soon it will be filled with love and community. It has to be.

I arrive at a small corner store and slip inside. It looks as if it came right out of the 50’s, dusty, filled with sunlight. An old bespeckled man stands behind the counter, wearing a faint smile and an weathered flannel shirt. He seems wary of me, like the others.

“How can I help you?”

“I just moved here. I guess I’ll need some supplies.”

“You don’t need anything right now. Just go home. Relax.”

“May I look around anyway?”

“Sure, sure,” he says, though I can tell he’d rather me leave.

The cans in this store have no labels. Neither do the boxes. There are burlap bags lining the perimeter of the store but I can’t tell what’s in them. It’s as if the store is posing to be a store. Like a movie set.

As I leave, the bell on the door jingles. The sound rings down the empty street and develops a strange life of its own, bouncing off the treetops, reaching toward the clouds. It’s an enchanting, hypnotic sound that reminds me I’ve done the right thing. Because magic only happens when you've done the right thing.

When I enter my house, I'm reminded of its utter emptiness. There is no bristling husband, no cardboard friends, no meaningless decor. Just fresh, new emptiness. It overwhelms me.

What am I supposed to do next? If I’ve made a mistake, it’s too late to go back now. No, this is right. I’d rather have nothing than what I had before. Empty is better than emptiness. No one is better than loneliness. Lack of appetite is better than constant craving.

I sit in the middle of the living room, on an old wooden floor, bathed in sunlight. I try to cry but no tears come. It’s as if my emotions have dried up. I’m empty now too. And it feels good.

The sunlight on me becomes warmer and, just like that bell at the corner store, comes to life. It begins playing with me. When I smile, it grows and swirls and encircles me. Suddenly I feel less alone here. I may never fill this place with furniture. The sunlight might be enough.

Suddenly, I hear an old piano begin to play. It’s coming from my empty kitchen. The light lifts me up a foot above the ground and carries me down the long, dark hallway. I begin to laugh from the glory of it all. My laughter becomes little stars falling from my mouth. I can’t believe what I’m seeing! I try to catch them but they slip through my hands and spill across the floor.

As I land in the kitchen, I spot an unplugged radio playing the piano music. Perhaps my home is haunted…good! Ghosts will watch over me when I sleep, if I sleep. They’ll fly up and down the staircase and play in the yard. They’ll greet me at the door when I come home. We will speak a secret language that only ghosts know.

The radio plays louder and the music begins to touch me, like a man I've known forever. I sway back and forth, imagining my dance partner, full of grace, full of love. He’ll come to me eventually, I’m sure. After I’m forgiven. For what I did.

When I decided to buy the gun, I felt focused for the first time in a long while. My existence had become weighted by crippling indecision and for once, I felt confident, strong. For months, I trained at a gun range, without anyone knowing. With every shot fired out of its shiny silver barrel, I felt a surge of power enter my body. My aim was sharp. My mission, clear.

My gun was my ticket to freedom and there was no reason to grieve and every reason to celebrate. When I walked into the woods behind our house my final morning, I felt like an explorer in the wild, an astronaut on a mission. Not a woman killing herself. My note simply read, “I'm ready to move on.”

Yes, my new house is empty. And they haven’t welcomed me yet. But they have to accept me eventually. And then I’ll be home. Because magic only happens when you’re home.

Jaded Sex Advice for the Youth of America

As a single female surfer in my 40's, I feel it my civic duty to impart sagely advice to as many young men as possible, since I’m surrounded by them on a daily basis out in the water.

23-year old surfer Derek has a new girlfriend, he explains to me out in the water one steamy morning last week. I congratulate him. He takes a big wave fearlessly and effortlessly, paddles back and takes a big sigh. I know what’s coming next. 

“I’m not so sure about the…sex.” 

I take an even bigger sigh. Our therapy session has begun. 

“What about the…sex.” 

“I’m…I’m just not sure she’s having an orgasm.” 

“Well, she’s probably not. She’s probably faking it.” 

“She said she’s having them, but I don’t think she is. She just kinda screams the same way each time and, well…it doesn’t sound very real.”

I ask him to replicate the sound she makes. He does. I ask him to do it again. He does. I’m tempted to ask a third time, but don’t want to tempt the Gods of Funny.

“Hmmm…maybe your technique is lacking. Are you just fucking her mindlessly like a rabbit without really figuring out what pleases her?”

“Well, not like a rabbit but…”

“Do you go down on her?” 

“I did. Once.” 

“Wow. Once, huh? What was it, Christmas or something?” 

“It’s just…I don’t know.” He starts playing with the wax on his board.

“Are you gay?”

Derek stammers and tries to spit out a response but he’s too aghast. I hop on a wave and take my time paddling back out to him. (He needs to sit with that one for a minute.)

“NO! I’M NOT GAY!” he screams at me, as I paddle back toward him. Other surfers look his way.

“Then I don’t know why you wouldn’t go down on her. If I were a straight man, you couldn’t keep me away. Is it a hygiene issue?”

“No…no. I just figured, well…I’m doing enough!”

Sexual complacency at the ripe old age of 23. Nice.

“Listen, most women take longer to orgasm than men. You have to seduce her, take your time. Find out what pleases her. And I can almost guarantee you that going down on her makes her feel good. Does she go down on you?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he responds proudly.

“Well, she’s not your sexual workhorse. Get busy, man.”

Derek looks deeply into the water, concern shrouding his face. I’ve shaken him up a little, I know. But I wasn’t done imparting my “older woman” wisdom yet.

“Have you ever thought of a little S & M?”

“What? Like hitting her?”

“Yep. Hitting her.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Start with the ass. Move on from there.”

“What if she doesn’t like it?”

“Then slap her harder. Make her like it. Show her whose boss. And try talking dirty to her.”

“What should I say?”

“You want some of this? Then beg me for it, you filthy little slut….that kind of thing.”

Derek’s jaw is dropped. An incoming wave almost knocks him off of his board.

“Okay, okay. Maybe that’s a little too extreme. Sorry. Just whisper in her ear, ‘You want me to fuck you harder, baby? Is that what you want? Say it. Yeah, baby. There you go. Just take it. Take it like a good girl.’”

I do this in my breathiest, perviest voice possible.

Derek is wide-eyed and speechless.

“You’re crazy.”

“Like a fox, my friend. Like a fucking fox.”

He goes for a wave. For a second, I think he’s going to exit the water. But I know he’ll be back for more. He wants it. Bad.

He paddles back out to me.

Derek, I just want you to improve your game. There are a lot of surfers out here who’d happily go down on your girlfriend. Hell, I’d go down on your girlfriend and I don’t even swing in that direction. She’s a hottie. You don’t want to lose her.”

“Well, she’s not going to leave me because I’m not going down on her.” 

“Oh, I would.”

He looks wounded, angry.

“I mean, not right away. She’ll stick around for a while. But ultimately, it’s grounds for dismissal.”

“Okay, fine. I will.” He folds his arms tightly against his tanned hairless chest, exasperated.

“Listen, go down on her because you want to, not because you’re supposed to. A woman can tell the difference. It’s not like I asked you to mow the damn lawn or something. And don’t worry about the orgasm thing. It’ll come when it comes…ha! That’s funny. Get it?”

“Ha” he begrudgingly responds.

He takes a small wave in and wipes out for some strange reason. He starts paddling away from me and back to the beach.

“And Derek!”

“What?” he turns around, annoyed.

“Fix something for her. Like her car. That’s always sexy.”

He grumbles something.

“Next week, we’ll talk anal!” I shout cheerfully. The other surfers glance over at me.
 

I look around me at the vastness of the ocean, thoughtfully. Tonight, I will bring one young woman a little closer to an orgasm. It’s a small contribution to the world, I know. But I feel accomplished nonetheless.

“Anal.” I repeat and smile.

Patti Davis is Naked and I'm Tired

When I read Patti Davis’s recent article in More magazine, where she “bares all” at 58, I was poised in my seat, prepared to feel inspired.  

My body, like hers, has been built from scratch. I too have a chemically-laden past from which I’ve broken free. I too found my physical strength later in life and now surf in competitions in addition to being a recommended black belt in Taekwondo. I love exercise. I love competition.

Then why did I feel irked by her article instead? 

Perhaps the media play-up was annoying: “Oh my god. Can you believe she’s posing nude at 58?” Is that really what we find so incredulous in this day and age? What did you think she had going on underneath those fine designer clothes of hers? Dusty skeletal remains? She’s 58, not 402. 

Or maybe it was the “Yeah, if I worked with a team of personal trainers, nutritionists and chefs, I’d look pretty damn good too” voice playing in this jaded middle class head of mine. Money can obviously buy you a toned body, whether it’s real or manufactured or both. So she writes check well? 

And finally, where is the victory in showing another woman with an uber-fit body? Doesn’t the real problem lie with the rest of the bodies that we don’t find acceptable? Namely, the other 95% of the female populace? The message remains the same: look like you're 20-something and you win. Eternal youthfulness is the unrealistic gold standard by which we all must dutifully adhere. 

Then it was her elbow comment; Patti Davis doesn’t like them apparently. They look old to her. This is when I feel considerably less inspired. That never-ending magnifying and micro-managing that most women do with their bodies has reduced us to such petty creatures. So she’s got a smoking hot bod at 58, but those elbows of hers keep haunting her. (Elbows shouldn’t haunt you. Just as a rule.) 

Last week, I had a young man in my outdoor shower (a long but beautifully sordid story). He pushed the wet hair back from my forehead. I saw him examining the gray hairs that I’ve let grow in as of late. The painful self-consciousness I felt was overwhelming. I turned away from him, feeling once again flawed, wrong. 

Yet an equal part of me wanted to turn around and shout: “Yes, they’re fucking gray hairs. I’m 44 years old. If you don’t like them, go find someone else who has the energy to fight the tide of time better than me!”

God, who can keep up? Who wants to?  

Ultimately, Patti Davis is still an inspiration. (And I still had amazing sex in the shower, in spite of my "glaring imperfections.") She has a good, healthy take on her body and what it means to her. I’m not discounting that. I do admire her. 

But the messaging underneath remains insidious and tedious: look young at all costs. Society will give you props for turning back time. Thing is, time only has one direction. For all of us. (Shhh...don't tell anyone. It's a secret.)

Rap as Performed by Average White Chick from Jersey

It's been a long winter. They're all long winters here at the Jersey shore. You try to keep yourself entertained in any way possible. For kicks, I taught myself the lyrics to Eminem's Lose Yourself, the popular hit from his movie 8 Miles.

Well, it was no easy feat for a number of reasons:
A. I'm a classic rock chick. I have Boston in my blood and Genesis in my genes. I don't even know that many rap tunes.
B. You need to be angry to sing rap. I find myself to be very angry - bordering on the rageful at times. But I'm not rap angry.
C.  There's a lot of effin' words to rap! My god...how do they breathe? I've done Shakespeare monologues that were easier than learning this tune.

So for your viewing pleasure (or displeasure, or comic relief, as the case may be), here are my two bedroom stabs at rap.

1. Lose Yourself - The Standard Version






2. Lose Yourself - The Teary Version




3. Eminem singing Lose Yourself

The Look of Sun Deprivation [VIDEO]

She got down but she never got tired
She's gonna make it through the night

I pulled over to the side of road to drink in some fading winter sunlight, sparkling on the bay.  And Blinded by the Light was playing on the radio. When my restless spirit calmed down, I thought,  this is how death must feel. Like you gently fade away into a radiant pool of light.

Mama always told me not to look into the sights of the sun
Oh, but mama that's where the fun is!

Dick on my Shoulder

 
What's missing?


“I think that’s just an urban legend, Clint.”

“No, this guy told me it really happens.”

“It would be sexual harassment.”

“No, not if he just places it there.”

My friend Clint, who recently joined the Navy and will be working on a submarine, is telling me about a “technique” that is supposedly employed to help the newly enlisted seamen focus.

Go ahead, Clint. Tell the story in your own words:

Okay, I was told if you’re new on the submarine and asked to steer the submarine, the captain tests your focus by draping his dick on your shoulder. You can’t look at it. You can’t even act like it’s there. You just need to keep your focus.

It got me thinking.

Where’s the dick on my shoulder helping me to focus? I have my own business as a media and creative consultant and time management and self-discipline have always been a challenge for me. Don’t get me wrong – I like working. But I stray easily.

Being a surfer doesn’t help. There’s something about surfing that makes you an instant airhead – just add water. Suddenly your sole focus is to surf, drink and fuck – like, pretty much all day, every day. If you’re lucky, you travel around the world and surf, drink and fuck. And if you’re really lucky, you’re Kelly Slater and you get paid for it.

I read recently that motivation and ambition are hardwired into us, genetically. We all have varying degrees of it but it probably won’t change much in a lifetime. You won’t become suddenly ambitious, for instance.
When people ask me where I see myself in five years, I cringe and respond:

“In your pants, if I’m lucky.”

“Six feet under.” (With a forlorn sigh.)

“I want to be a fireman!” (Said with child-like zeal.)

“I'd like to break into the burger business.”

The list goes on. But perhaps these are all easy ways for me to escape much needed goal-setting. I’d like more money. I’d like recognition for my work. I’d like to own a cute house in the country with a fireplace, dogs running around and a sexy man who loves me adoringly (not in that order – the fireplace shouldn’t occupy the number one slot...or should it? Hmmm).

Write a book, I’m often told. Yeah, you write a book. Write a book for me while you're at it. People don’t understand that after years of working in the arts, writing a book has as much appeal to me as licking molten glass.

I know the behind-the-scenes work involved in it, the years put into writing, publishing, distributing and promoting it, only for it to potentially fail miserably. And why? So I can say I wrote a book? So when I die, people can mill about my wake, eating coconut-encrusted popcorn shrimp and drinking a pint of Guinness saying, “At least she wrote a book.”

When was it just enough to live?

Some days, I find it’s an accomplishment to just make my bed in the morning. I stripped the paint off of a dresser once and still consider that one of my crowning achievements. I’m excited when my car starts in the morning. Seriously. I think, “Fucking A! My life is awesome. The car started again!”

The porch light in front of my house burnt out months ago. Every time I walk by it, I think, “One of these days, I’m gonna change you, you little bitch.” I trip up the front steps and curse that light, but never my lack of drive.

It took me two years to change my cellphone plan. The prospect of it was so overwhelming and tedious, I had to build up to it, real slow-like.

See that photo of my shoulder at the top? That was done while I was talking with a client on the phone about an important project. I spend a lot of time taking random shots of myself. It's fun enough.

Maybe I need a dick on my shoulder to motivate me. One for each shoulder. But see, therein lies the rub: I’d much prefer to focus on the distracting dicks than on the task at hand.

                                               

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.