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?"

doing stuff is overrated

Picture...nothing.

I like doing nothing. It’s often frowned upon and I’m not sure why. Doing nothing is relaxing, fun and easy.

Doing stuff, on the other hand, is overrated. Here’s why:

• It’s tiring.
• It’s expensive.
• It doesn’t usually amount to much.
• It can lead having to do other things.
• We’re all going to die so why bother?

Back in the day, people sat around in rocking chairs on their sleepy little porches and drank lemonade all afternoon. They took Sunday drives and napped throughout afternoons that drifted on forever. Time passed more slowly. Days lasted about six times as long. It’s a fact.

Even further back, people sat around naked in the forest, doing nothing. Sure they hunted for food and foraged and well, all sorts of prehistoric things. But they only did that stuff so they could get back to sitting in a circle, doing nothing, naked, just hanging out.

Cavemen, keeping it simple.

There was a time I thought doing things mattered. I did things for like, decades. For people, money, praise. Then one day the utter futility of it all hit me. And bam! I just stopped. And I’ve been happier ever since…well, not completely happy but it’s better being unhappy doing nothing than doing a lot of something and still being unhappy.

I prefer doing nothing alone but sometimes I do nothing with other people. If we have to do something (like get beer or food) we may rally and do it. But only so we can get back to doing nothing again, together.

When walking is just too much.

Doing stuff opens you up to all sorts of dangers too. Once I rode my bike around my neighborhood when a big, black Kujo-like dog ran out of nowhere and leapt on me. His slobbery jaws were inches away from my face. See? Crazy shit happens all of the time when you do things.

Goodbye nose.

And stuff just randomly falls from the sky. A substantial number of people have died from pianos falling on top of them. It’s not just in the movies. You’re better off inside, safe, resting and prepping for sleep (where the real action begins).

Holy cow...it happened again.

That’s right, sleep. Sleep is a great example of doing nothing and at the same time, doing so much. You never know what wild and weird wonders might go down, who you might have sex with or what magical powers you could possess. I like to think of my waking hours as a 16-hour preparation for going back to sleep.

Historically speaking, busy people have been nothing but trouble: Hitler, Mussolini, Vlad the Impaler—all busy. Same with serial killers. It's not idle hands that are the devil's play things but the busy ones causing the problems. Slackers are all like, whatever, I'll stay home instead. 

Vlad, too busy for his own good.

Now, I’m not advocating doing nothing all of the time.

Six years ago, I stripped an old wooden dresser. Every day I look at it and say, “I did that.” Some may consider that a small accomplishment but it remains one of my life’s crowning achievements. When my car starts in the morning, that’s the sweet sound of success. Keep it dummy, simple.

So relax, man. Considering the crap condition of our human race, congratulate yourself for simply being alive and making it through another day. Oh my god, I’m eating the best apple right now.

Group shot of us 100 years from now

~~~

I don't understand people who like to work and talk about it like it was some sort of goddamn duty. Doing nothing feels like floating on warm water to me. Delightful, perfect. ~ Ava Gardner



Ava Gardner, getting her wish

Rise!

The first time I flew in my sleep, I was a child. In my dream, someone clocked me on the head. I died from the blow and seconds later began rapidly rising quickly into thin, black air. As I was pulled faster and faster upward, a little voice whispered urgently, “Don’t go any higher or you won’t come back!” I willed myself to wake up, shaking and confused.

My flying dreams continued as I grew up. It was always the same feeling; a strange lifting sensation began in my solar plexus and I would start to rise. Taking flight awkwardly at first, I would soon be able to cover more distance and fly with greater control.

But I always remembered that voice, that point of no return voice.

It’s all right if you decide to do it, Amanda says to me on the phone. I sit on the corner of my bed, silent. She continues. I won’t be mad. It’s your right to kill yourself. I don’t want you to and I’d be devastated…but it’s your right.

In one precious and frightening moment, a dear friend gives me permission to visit that point of no return. She did not chide me, but openly acknowledged the hidden thoughts that over the years she has grown to understand well.

Nobody has ever offered this kind of acceptance before. Most loved ones scream and shout when I suggest the very real and possible solution to a life I’m not sure I want to pursue anymore.

How dare you think that way? Don’t you realize the pain you’d cause others? Stop it. Bad. WRONG!

Maybe it's the home I've been looking for, I finally manage to say to her.

It seems like I’ve been looking a lifetime for this thing called home. But that magical place seems further from me than ever before. Like “home” is for special people who aren’t as broken as me. It’s for the movies and I’m cold, hard reality. 

Recently I had the most powerful in my series of flying dreams, making me wonder whether the other side was beckoning me.

My sister and I are in my backyard, chatting on the swinging chair. It’s summer. We’re both relaxed and warmed by the sun.

A deep, hollow voice speaks to me, matter-of-factly:

Come with me. It's time.

I am pulled from the chair by that same familiar force, my feet dragging in the grass like a dead body being hauled off into the woods. I am dropped into the front yard where the voice waits for me, just a disembodied voice.

Rise, it commands.

I expect to be scared but I'm not. There is no need for fear or fighting. This force is all-powerful. There is only relinquishing, a complete release.

My body, flopped forward like a rag doll, begins to rise upward. I see my sister down below, rocking alone in the chair and unaware of my departure. I see the town I live in. The country. The clouds. The stars. I have no control over this flight. I am being pulled by some universal magnet, moving too quickly.

“You won't blame yourself if I do, will you?”

“No, Amanda says, no.”

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Something has to give.”

Suddenly my rising body slams into something hard. It’s the sky’s ceiling.

As a child, I believed there was a ceiling beyond the clouds and the blueness. An end to the sky. You could go no further. Except when you died. Then it would open.

My body starts hitting the sky’s ceiling repeatedly. Thump, thump, thump. The ceiling is old and yellowed. A cloud of dust surrounds me with each thud. I’m surprised how unceremonious and clumsy my death is becoming. They can’t get me past? What will they do now?

And just at moment, I start my plummet back to earth. This descent feels dangerous, uncontrolled. The stars, the clouds, the country, the town, my backyard. Slam! My body lands in the grass and my sister sits, swinging in the chair. She’s a small child now, looking radiant and sweet.

“You’re back”, she says, nonplussed, playing with a daisy in her hand.

“Yes, I’m back. Did you miss me?”

“I always miss you.”

I sit next to her but am no longer relaxed like before. Everything is different. Nothing will ever be the same. And I know, I know, the voice will return. I will rise again.



Image Source: House of the Rising Souls by the amazing 16-year old Lauren Withrow

Words are Alive

"Words are alive. Cut them and they bleed."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday I had a conversation with an old boyfriend. He said I was the first to say, "I love you." I vaguely remember him initiating it. The debate bordered on an argument and I couldn't help but wonder what was beneath it.

Did it really matter who said "I love you" first? Is "I love you" a game of chicken. Whoever says it first "loses"? Do we treat those simple words too preciously?

When my mother was ill with terminal cancer, my boyfriend's family invited her to come visit in Philadelphia. She was living in Florida by herself and while my sister lived close-by, my mother was feeling quite alone and enduring grueling treatments without a lot of assistance. This trip would be a break, a "cancer vacation" of sorts.

My ex-boyfriend's family is a demonstrative sort—kind and giving people. When my mother arrived, she was treated like a queen. No medicine in the world could have touched their generosity.

They arranged a lunch in her honor one afternoon, where she met several extended family members for the first time, including my boyfriend's Aunt Mary, a warm and jovial lady. My mother and Aunt Mary sat next to one another and they laughed and conversed easily, like old friends.

When the day came to an end and Aunt Mary was heading home, she hugged my mom. I heard her say something that would stick with me: "I love you, Randee." They had spent several hours together, that's it. Yet I didn't doubt her love for my mother for one second. She did love my mother after only one afternoon together.

The next day, my mother was feeling quite recharged from all of the attention and activity. She flitted into the room I was staying in and started chatting happily. Unfortunately, I was feeling a black cloud over me. I knew what was to come. And for some unknown reason, I felt angry at my mom, annoyed by her newfound happiness. She mentioned something excitedly about the day's plans, I don't remember what, but I snapped at her. Hard.

And I live with that. I was under an enormous amount of pressure, as was my mother. But I realized that day, among others, that once words are uttered, there is no retracting them. Reparation is possible, but retraction is not.

My oldest brother, in a fit of anger years ago, once told me that I was the “slow one” in the family. Just not as quick as the others. A few weeks ago, as we discussed some family business, I asked him to repeat something I didn't understand. I said, "Remember, I'm the slow one in the family. It takes me a while." He looked baffled. I explained that it was a callback to an insult he had made years ago. He had no memory of saying it whatsoever.

"Why have you harbored that all these years?" he asked. "Why did you say it all those years ago?" I replied.

Of any insults that have been leveled against me, stupidity doesn't tend to stick. But it stuck a little, obviously. Words, once uttered, are etched in some cosmic fabric in the sky.

My favorite grade school teacher Mrs. Polhamus once scolded me in class. I was in first grade and she caught me talking during a spelling test. I don't remember what she said but my whole world fell apart suddenly. I couldn't complete my test, so shaken up. Instead I wrote at the top of the paper these exact words:

"I know it is true that Mrs. Polhamus does not like me anymore."

My friend is dating a man who seems downright phobic when it comes to the word love. One day, he put his fears aside and signed an email to her "Love, John." She was flattered by his attempt. She didn't book a date at the local church or buy paint for the picket fence; it just made her feel good...and special.

But months later, he retracted it. He told her he didn't mean to sign the letter that way. That it was just an innocent congeniality. Please don't take it too seriously, he begged. She began to take him less seriously, unfortunately. Love and cowardice do not go well together.

We all know when we love someone, don’t we? It's a very natural, simple feeling. It cannot be contested. It's as plain as the nose on your face. It doesn't require years of harvesting and deliberating. It doesn't require the perfect setting to be spoken. It's not even all that complex. It just is.

When you become a tightwad with love, your world becomes smaller. Love becomes a bank account and you write your checks carefully, constantly watchful of your shrinking budget.

The words that really matter are often stuck in some box, waiting for a perfect date to be released. Other words pour out of us, often with little discretion or forethought. I do my best to refrain from saying, even jokingly:
"Shut up."
"Fuck you."
"Relax."
"Calm down."

"Get over it."

Do I say them once in a while? Sure. But because I rarely do, I feel I'm afforded the opportunity on occasion...and I probably damn well mean it when I do.

My friend's mother, whom I've always been close with, once said "fuck you" to me semi-jokingly. (I had made a small joke at her expense and that was her response.) You can't carry every verbal infraction with you since you only burden yourself. But I do remember it.

And let us not forget the importance of the simple yet sublime:

"I'm sorry."

When those words are spoken from a genuine, heartfelt place without any dreaded "but" attached to it, it can wipe away a world of hurt. Occasionally, "I'm sorry" isn't enough; it requires action as well. But most of the time, deep-seated resentment and anger evaporate like mist in the wind almost instantly with those little words.

I read somewhere that talking slowly is good for your mental health, akin to eating food more deliberately. Perhaps there is some answer there. Choose the words you say carefully--but not so carefully that they become a too precious of a commodity.