The Positivity Police and the Good Weather Gangbusters

The Good Weather Gangbusters

The Good Weather Gangbusters: I can't stand this rain. It's supposed to be 85 degrees tomorrow and sunny. Can't wait.

Me: Hmm...it's March. I find those temperatures disconcerting this early.

The Good Weather Gangbusters:  Really?? I LOVE it.

Me: Do you wanna marry it?

The Good Weather Gangbusters: What?

Me: Nothing.

And I walk away, wondering why the world is so damn fanatical about "nice" weather. It's almost cult-like, how people treat a sunny day. Yes, Virginia, there are clouds, rain, snow...sometimes even sleet. Hell, hail! It's neither good or bad; it just is.

Radio Announcer: It's another beauuuuutiful day today out there, folks. Looks like we'll hit 80 degrees, if we're lucky! So you better get outside and enjoy the sunny day because it's sunny and sunny is good and I'm positive because I love the sunny weather. Back to you, Joan. Sunshine!

Dark, rainy days always offered me the luxury of doing nothing guilt-free. Its suddenly alright to roll into fetal and mindlessly zone. Besides, clouds are amazing natural works of art. Strong winds possess a haunting sound that stir the soul. A storm rolling in makes me believe in dark powers. (Yes, dark powers - the scary ones that are mean and wild.)

The Positivity Police

The Positivity Police: How are you today, Beth?

Me: Pretty irritable today. And rife with existential angst. You?

The Positivity Police: Oh...well, I'm not that. I'm good. I'm better than good. I'm great. I'm delirious from feeling the best I've ever felt.

Me: Well, happy days for you, Mary Poppins!

The Positivity Police: Excuse me?

Me: Nothing.

And why is negativity so frowned upon? I mean, you'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to feel negative in this day and age.

A quick recap of our dire condition:

Our environment is pretty much ruined. The corporate interests have taken over and barring a revolution, they'll screw us toward an untimely death. And we're too gluttonous and lazy to do anything about it, except watch it happen from our beige couches.

And come on...what about relationships? Can people get anymore lame? After decades worth of TV and Internet hypnosis, we're emotional vegetables. Go ahead, just try to get your needs met by the zombies banging around out there. Flatliners, the whole lot of us.

But it's more than just the slow, torturous downward spiral of our civilization and the slow deterioration of our ability to relate; it's this positivity contest we seem to be caught up in. As if we're all trying to prove to each other how we'd never be caught dead with any of those nasty, ugly emotions.

The Positivity Police: But don't you understand, Beth? When you feel negatively, you bring more negativity into your life. What you put out into the world comes back to you.

Me: Ah, I see you've read that piece of New Age bullshit called The Secret.

The Positivity Police: Yes and it's sooo true. When I radiate positivity, only positive things happen.

Me: Sounds terribly simplistic. Do you believe in flying purple unicorns too?

The Positivity Police: What?

Me: Nothing.

Ah yes, The Secret. When you're negative, you're a walking misfortune magnet. Cancer? Your fault. Car hit you? You and your bad thoughts! Dog peed on your leg? You asked for it.

Interestingly, that kind of dogma doesn't sound that different than many types of religious rhetoric, where you desperately try to eschew dirty thoughts from your mind in an attempt to be pure. Can't do it? Burn, baby, baby. It's emotional propaganda and just plain annoying.

Quick Quiz:

Do we really want to think nothing but positive thoughts?

Do we have little to no capacity for the dark side of life, and if so, why?

Could we be trying too hard to be positive as a defense for the tremendous amount of fear and pain we carry?

Can we ever feel proud of feeling shitty?

Could we be so chronically depressed as a culture because we're constantly feeling the need to feel upbeat even when we're not?

Can we sit with ours or others' negative feelings without the perpetual need to fix it?

 

Negative emotions, just like "bad" weather, serve a purpose. Anger can propel you out of a bad situation and into something new and healthier. Jealously can remind you of the deep vulnerability you feel when you love somebody. ("I don't get jealous!" Oh yes, you do. Or you've denied yourself the opportunity to, for fear of weakness. Or you don't really care what your partner does, which is a whole other problem.) Sadness and grief...what feels better than a good cry?

Don't get me wrong: I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I believe that you can make wishes come true by envisioning, requesting, chanting, praying, screaming, drawing a picture of it...all of that mumbo jumbo. But I also allow space for the other side of life, which possesses its own dark, regal strength and beauty.

Weather and emotions don't always need a happy face stamped on it.

Besides, I'm a little creepy and hollow anyway!

When you Look at Me that Way

When you look at me like that, I don't know what to do. It's too stimulating, too exciting.

For such a shy man, it's such a bold act, the way you stare. Audacious. It makes me admire you. It makes me think you're a surprise. And I like surprises.

I try to maintain eye contact with you for as long as possible. But it's so hard. Your stare is intense, overt, sexual. I can only take so much of that laser-focused attention before bashfully averting my eyes. I want to stare back at you longer because I know, I know, it's like fucking you.

Do you like it when I look away? Do you realize the effect your eyes have on me and relish in the power? I submit to you when I look away. I surrender. Do you like that?

I can't help but wonder how this electricity between us would translate sexually. I'm sure you wonder the same thing. (We wonder a lot about having sex with one another, I have a feeling.)

Until then, the pressure continues to build.

Perhaps that tension will become too much to take? This attraction needs to manifest itself physically, doesn't it? Its a protracted tease and I feel myself getting weak, dire for more. Or so frustrated, I could scream.But we can't. We can't follow through on it, for a number of reasons.

And sometimes I think I'm okay with that. Because the feeling in those fleeting seconds, when our eyes meet, is almost beyond sex. It's human electricity. High voltage. A very magical, deeply sexual sensation that stops my breath.

Thank you for that. Thank you for looking my way.

That was the Best Funeral Ever!

Man, I was hungover on Saturday. I went surfing with my friend in the a.m. but after I came home and took a hot shower, I was done, kaput.

So when I saw that Whitney Houston's funeral would be viewable online, I thought, "Perfect, Beth Mann. You have a plan. You could stand some church anyway, you big loser." So I smoked a little weed (to stave off the mild nausea I was experiencing) and curled up under my purple furry blanket with a cup of chamomile tea.

And boy, was I happy I did. It was the best damn funeral ever! It wasn't splashy or fancy. Just the opposite. Sure, it was star-studded but it paled in comparison to the simple grandeur of the New Hope Baptist Church and its congregation. We were invited into a special house in Newark and it was a privilege.

And the choir. So sweet. The most magical element for me. They started out so simply, so quietly. You could barely hear them at first. Then an instrument would join in. And another. Then a few more voices. Soon, they were just blowing the roof off the joint.

Just loving on these women. And so would Whitney. She was one of them, after all. (This video gives you only a little indication. It was a joyous crescendo of spirit and voice that evolved over 20 minutes):

Below, Donnie McClurkin sings Stand with the choir (as requested by Houston's family). One of my favorite pieces of the service. Listen to what it grows into toward the end. Some serious gospel.

And all in Newark. Poor Newark. A depressing and depressed city. Crime-ridden, rundown, burnt-out and tired. It's a hurtin' town that could stand some love and attention. I felt extra proud that we had a chance to see their community working together, in mourning and in celebration.

Go Newark!

Go New Jersey!

Then I heated up a frozen double stuffed baked potato I found in the freezer and a slice of white pizza from God knows when and went back to church with Whitney.

I've had a lifelong "eh" relationship with Kevin Costner. (I've always found him a little boring) but boy, he really delivered at Whitney's funeral. He was just gentle and human. (I don't think he was acting.)

I couldn't listen to Stevie Wonder; I'm sorry but his voice is not a voice I like. Even a minute or two of listening aggravated my throbbing headache so I took an aspirin then hit the kitchen once again, where I ate the remaining tortilla chips at the bottom of a bag, praying for a ginger ale to appear.

R. Kelly....I don't know what to say there. He gives a kind of crazy performance. He's really affected. But somehow it kinda works anyway. And I give him credit for just dangling his spiritual balls out there. (Will I be punished for that? Oh yeah, God gets my jokes.)

The closing of the funeral was hard. To hear her voice suddenly, it was hard. The collective gasp when the coffin is raised up high, as if to say, "Please be careful with her."




I genuinely appreciated the splendor and simplicity of the service. It was real and effective, not a bullshit media circus. Newark trumped Hollywood. Right on. It was a good thing amidst a sad story. And everyone seemed extra regular. We were all at church together for close to four hours. We listened. We felt as one.

Afterward, I went for a walk on the beach and talked to God a little. It had been a while. Even raised my hand to the skies at some point.

How John Cusack Ruined Valentine's Day

When I saw the stupid scene years ago, I knew I was in trouble. Tears welled, heart expanded, etc. Romance did exist and John Cusack was living proof. Sure, it was the movies...but it could happen, right?

Say Anything came out in 1989, over 20 years ago. Yet that scene has done a number on me ever since. I was lead to believe that grand romantic gestures were possible, like Lloyd Dobler standing there proudly, defiantly, with that boom box, in front of the house of the woman he loves. The man in your life could break through all the internal and external bullshit and boldly stake his claim for you. (Or hell, even lustful interest!)

Yet I've rarely seen such valiant statements when it comes to love - unless I exhibited them! Most of the time, I feel like I'm excavating for love, like some heart-heavy archaeologist, digging for a boom box that doesn't exist. Or, if I find one, it doesn't play "In your Eyes" but "Crazy Train" instead.

So far, on this Valentine's Day 2012, my ex-boyfriend Robert has sent me a picture text of a rose. Very sweet. But no boom box. (And I can't escape the haunting feeling that he probably cc'd it to a few other females in his life. Cold, this virtual world we live in!)

What else? A woman I know sent me the prettiest animated e-card, where birds fly and horses trot and cats chase. They finally reach a house and the bird opens the door for me. There awaits a table full of pastries and ribbons and stuff. Guess what? I'm still hungry.

Years ago, I decided it was better to simply ask for what I wanted. "Hey [fill in the blank], make yourself useful. Go find a boom box and play it outside of my window." But you know, you lose a little something when you're being a bossy bitch about romance.

A few days ago, I sent several texts and emails to some guys I like. Who I think like me too. Nothing too over the top, but certainly the message was there. "I'm sending you a romantic and/or sexy email."

So far, no response. Can you imagine that? Even if you're not interested, be flattered and share that with me. And basic etiquette dictates that you should at least respond. Come on! That's me playing the boom box and no one listening to the music. My arms are tired, boys!

Emotional dwarfism prevails these days. People (I'm trying really hard not to say men, I swear) seem to have forgotten how to express themselves in a loving, valorous way. They try very purposefully to never feel jealous or vulnerable. Hell, they pride themselves in boring self-protection.

They stutter, overthink, avoid, conveniently forget, distance, make excuses. They tinker with the boom box for hours out in the driveway while I lay fast asleep, unaware that anyone is even there. Too much deliberation, not enough boom box playing!

So here's to the scene that ruined it for me. That made me think that people step up to the plate romantically. Because our hearts are healed a little when such proclamations take place. When someone admits feelings for you, no matter how big or small. When someone gives you a personal gift that isn't of the e-variety. When someone takes a stand instead of sitting this one out. Say anything!


Dumb movie.

Dumb John Cusack.

Smart Peter Gabriel.
All my instincts, they return
And the grand facade, so soon will burn
Without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

- In Your Eyes

Drug Dust Fairies and Fizzy Blue Seas

I walk by the house on my way to the beach every day. It's a massive, faceless house but it overlooks the ocean. And here, that means everything.

Last week, I noticed several cars parked in the driveway. Very nice cars. Black, sleek, tinted windows. For diplomats and rock stars. During the middle of winter? Strange. It's usually empty on this island at the Jersey shore. Perhaps its just a Realtor or a home owner checking in on things.

But as the days passed, the cars remained. Something was going on in there. My curiosity was piqued and my imagination roamed too far.

I run on the beach every day; a grueling daily chore that I do for my "wellness." But one fateful afternoon, only half of me went running. The other half split off and walked up to that faceless house on the beach and knocked on the door and experienced an adventure that she won't soon forget.

She knocked hard.

A tall man opened the door, dressed in a shimmering blue tux. A servant of some sort? Very young and handsome. Tousled blonde hair and plate-sized blue eyes. Or green. Or purple. They seemed to change a little every second. His voice, deep and resonant spoke:

"Can I help you?"

"Is the party here?"

"What's the password?"

"Mellita, domi adsum?" I said, unsure of the words falling from my mouth. (Later, I'd find out it's Latin for "Honey, I'm home.")

He gestured grandly, "Miss Beth, enter. We've been waiting for you."

Who has been waiting for me, I wondered? No one waits for me, just as a rule.

Bion lead me upstairs. (He whispered his name into my ear when he closed the door. I shuddered with pleasure; whispering is such a lost art.) I wondered why I didn't hear any party sounds. It was dead quiet, just the thud of our footsteps, in sync with one another. The stairway never seemed to end. We just kept climbing and climbing, Bion in the lead.

Finally, at the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned around.

"Are you ready, Miss Beth?"

"Yes, very much so. I've been curious. What goes on here?"

He opened a white door and boom! The music began. Glasses clinking, corks popping, flirtatious laughter ringing, voices, voices, voices...so many of them, like a sweet, bizarre choir.

Suddenly I was in the middle of a grand room, made up entirely of glass, overlooking the ocean. And though it was sunny when I arrived, the sky had turned threatening. Everyone stood at the massive window, oohing and ahhing as the storm rolled toward us. Some were clothed, some naked. No one really seemed to care.

A tall, striking man walked up to me. I knew him from...somewhere, I don't know where. He had long dark hair and the same piercing, ever-changing eyes as the servant. He possessed a look of madness to him, but not overcome by it. As if he quietly embraced it.

"Beth, my love. You are here, you are here! Finally!"

He kissed me on the lips and I pulled back, unaccustomed to such behavior from someone I hardly knew. This did not deter him.

"Relax. Now."

He touched my neck and I did as he commanded, opening my mouth slightly. He kissed me again, for what seemed like forever, our tongues desperately entwined. I remember dreaming at one point during the kiss; that's how long it was. When we stopped, he was gone. I was kissing the air. Embarrassingly, I pulled myself together and took a better look around.

Drugs were everywhere. White powder, blue powder, red pills, green pills. Bion appeared next to me, with a drink "especially made for you." He handed me an overflowing glass - almost the size of a small fish tank - full of bubbling blue liquid. I took a sip without question. (It was made especially for me, afterall.)

"Bion, who is the host? What is his name?"

"I call him Sir. But you can call him whatever you please."

Dazed, I wandered over to the window and looked out. There I was, running on the beach! I knocked on the glass, hoping I could hear me. But she just kept running, so determined. I felt badly for her. She works so hard to be good. Stays at home, cooks her little dinners, watches her shows, talks to girlfriends about boyfriends that will never really matter. She takes baths, makes teas, cleans dust off of things.

I, on the other hand, was living. I took a drag from the long cigarette that suddenly appeared between my fingers. The smoke came out a crimson red. I felt very content.

Sir was suddenly standing behind me, watching me run on the beach.

"All that good intention. And what does it get her?" he laughed. He pulled my hair back and gently kissed my neck.

"Are you enjoying your drink, my dear woman? Are you enjoying your time? Shall I get you another?"

I looked down and my drink was almost gone. How is that possible?

"Yes, please. I want to drink as much as I possibly can."

"That's the spirit!" said Sir. And off he went, the new drink already in my hands.

I proceeded to mingle with the beautiful people. They all looked so crisp and perfect, as if they walked out of a magazine. But I looked amazing too. Bion had dressed me on the steps - I remember now. He zipped up my new red dress, put on fine black shoes, applied gloss to my lips and oh so lovingly, powdered my nose.

Ah, I was alight.

And these people couldn't keep their hands off of me! My dress was made of a fabric that felt like kittens and smelled liked fresh raspberries. My skin glowed, my eyes dazzled. Women, men, (and some, in-between) were attracted to me like bees to honey and I to them. We kissed, we hugged, we danced, we dipped, we molded lovingly into one another. We were one, this group and I. I couldn't imagine better friends. They knew all of my darkest thoughts and liked me, in spite of them.

Things got blurry after the second fishbowl. But I didn't mind. The powders and the pills cleared my head. I'd sink, I'd fall, I'd come back to life, over and over again. We all danced this dance for days, it seemed. Our thorny, perverted sickness was so beautiful, I couldn't dislodge myself. The highness was staggering.

Sir and I would occasionally run off to his blood red bedroom and do unspeakable things to one another. It was so splendid and dark that I now can't remember it; my mind won't let me. At one point, the energy we created raised us off of his bed - that I recall. This was beyond fucking; it was pure transcendence.

Afterward, we whispered warm and wicked things to one another, cleansed from the shamelessness of our wanton acts. These words I can no longer speak; it was an eternal language created from the most profane place in our souls. Even after we fell asleep, we continued to speak in our dreams. We were dying, over and over again, and it was absolutely perfect.

Then Bion knocked on the door and ruined everything. Everything.

"Miss Beth, she is here to pick you up."

"Who?"

"The one who runs on the beach."

Sir began crying. So sad, so beautiful he looked. I've rarely seen him cry.

"I can't live without you. You must stay."

"You'll be fine, Sir. There are so many pretty women who love you. They are waiting."

And truly, they were. I looked around the bed and we were surrounded by the most stunning women I'd ever seen, naked and in wait. They already began petting and pawing Sir, knowing my departure was near. Damn beautiful vultures. Was I that replaceable?

As I climbed out of the eternal bed, Sir grabbed me, his hand squeezing mine so tight, I began to bleed.

"Come back. Please. You know she'll just ruin you. She'll bore you to death!"

"I know, but she's all I have." And I began crying too.

Sir and I kissed once more, then the vultures attacked him. He screamed in pleasure at first, then in agony. Looking back, I could no longer see him, just bodies writhing, biting, eating, melting.

Bion showed me to the door, where she stood, drenched in sweat and rain. She had that dumb look of pleading in her eyes. I hated her. For just one moment, I hated her.

"Why can't you let me have fun? I've been waiting for this."

She just held out her hand knowingly, like a mother.

I slowly, begrudingly reached for it.

"I liked him. I really did."

"I know," she said. "Don't worry. He's not going anywhere."

She lead me home in silence. I looked down and my dress was gone. I was ugly again, old, worn clothes, drenched. The party was indeed over. I had books to read, clothes to clean, gardens to tend, vitamins to swallow, checks to write, problems to solve, help to offer, blood to bleed.

Lowlifes and Hotsprings

A final blow to the head and he was out cold, face down, glistening drool seeping from his cracked, nicotine-stained lips. And I was the one who did it. I warned him that I would. That I could. But he didn't listen. He should have.

When we arrived at the hot springs in the Nevada desert, we were dusty and tired. My friend Amanda, her teenage daughter and I had planned this 6-hour road trip months ago. Recovering from a particularly hard break-up, I was emotionally vacant, like a burnt-out building. This hot spring was to be my rebirth, my scalding baptism.

When we completed the mile-long trek to the hot spring, I dropped by backpack and gasped with joy. What beauty. Several sizable hot springs, all adjoining. A majestic view overlooking a green valley. Yes! This will do the trick. It has to.

There were a few others who had made the journey, but no matter. Of course, I wanted the springs entirely to my friends and myself, but I knew that others needed their spiritual cleansing too. We'd share in the experience together.

My friend and her daughter quickly undressed and made their way into the magical waters. I took my time, drinking in the ritual to its fullest. I undressed and with each article of clothing I dropped, I felt as if I was letting go of another "drag me down" element in my life.

When I finally placed my foot in the hot liquid, I felt instantly changed, as if the magic flew through my foot and up my naked body. As I submerged, it was all I could do not to cry. The goodness hurt my poor, aching heart. I closed my eyes and let the healing begin.

Then I heard him. A gruff, asthmatic laugh.

I opened my eyes and saw a man on the other side of the pool, staring at me in that unwanted, lascivious way. No, no...not this now. Please, God, not this now.

I returned his stare aggressively, as if to say, "Stop. Leave me the fuck alone." But he wouldn't be dissuaded. I couldn't let him ruin this for me. Closing my eyes again, I tried desperately to block him out but every time I'd open them, his eyes burned my flesh.

"Can you stop staring at me?"

"What?"

"I said stop staring at me."

"Fuck you. I'll look at what I want."

I looked over at my friend and her daughter. Their look of relaxation had quickly turned into concern.

"It's just rude and I'm trying to relax."

"That's your problem."

"She's got a hot body, man. I can't help it," he jokingly tells his friend.

What a scrawny fuck of a man. Yellowed teeth, broken face, greasy hair, glossy red eyes. I could smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze emanating from the steam and drifting my way. I approximated his size so I could make my decision. He was at least an inch or two smaller than me.

I'm a woman who fights. I studied martial arts for years and have sparred men considerably bigger than me. This guy was an easy take-down, especially because he was drunk. For years, I've argued with men (predominantly) who insist that a woman can never beat a man in any physical altercation. Well, I have. But obviously, many factors come into play.

The most pressing concern is size. If a man is much bigger than me, then yes, there's a good chance he'll beat me. (Or honestly, I'd get out of the situation before I'd allow that to happen. One good disarming hit and I'd run.) But if a man is my size or smaller, then the odds shift. I stand a chance. After years of fighting in competitions, I stand a better chance.

But it's not just size; it's mindset. If someone is really angry, for instance, and you are not, you could be at a serious disadvantage, regardless of the size. They have the force of their rage coming at you and you're not at their pitch level of volatility yet.

In the same breath, if you're a practiced fighter, calm serves you. A relaxed, focused fighter can always beat an angry one, who tends to be wild and sloppy.

I could have taken him. In my mind, when I go back in time, I do. I ask him to step outside of the pool. I put on my clothes and kick his ass resoundingly. He lie face-down in a puddle of his own blood and spit while I grab my friends and leave.

But I can't go back. And that's not what I did. Instead I got up and went to an adjacent pool and fumed instead of "cleansed." And the rest of the trip was slightly tainted by this man's need to dominate me with visual harassment.

I hope that little runt of a methhead is dead, rotting in a worm-ridden cardboard box somewhere. I hope no one shed a tear for him. I hope that men everywhere realize that unwanted stares can feel as invasive as an unwanted touch. I hope my friend's daughter, in the future, sees a woman check a man like that so thoroughly that she vows to never tolerate such harassment.

This wasn't some horny lowlife, but a violent man. Those stares weren't sexual; they were an act of dominance and aggression. He spit on my spirit during a time when I desperately needed the world to envelop and comfort me. And of course, this kind of thing goes on all the time. A sick man's desire to invade trumps a woman's need for peace of mind. And it's a spiritual crime, one that can't be undone, ever.

In my mind, I still go back to those hot springs and hurt that man. Badly. Oh, you did the right thing, everyone says. Fuck the right thing. I still live with that experience. I should have kicked his ass or died trying.

There was no justice that day. There was no baptism.

Unhinging the Bitch

“Are you calling me a liar?” I asked the stone-faced 20-something cashier.

“No, I’m just saying that lots of customers tell us a price is cheaper than it is."

“So you are calling me a liar. The cabbage is 69 cents a pound. Check it if you don’t believe me. But don’t question my honesty.”

“I can have someone check the…”

“No. It’s frigging cabbage. I’ll live without it.”

He removes it from my tab. As I finish bagging my groceries, the raging goes on inside my head. I decide to let the words fall out of my mouth instead - and rather loudly, surprising even me:

“Seriously, in all of the years I’ve come to this grocery megahell, do you think I’ve ever been undercharged for anything?

At this point, other cashiers and shoppers are staring at me. My face reddens but instead of looking down, I look back at them. Everyone quickly looks away, one at a time.
"This corporate system is designed to overcharge me. Hence why I know the price of the damn cabbage in the first place.”

I walk out, head up. But in my car, it’s a different story. My hands are shaking and I’m on the verge of tears. I begin to feel badly for the cashier, who was a clueless recipient of my ire.

Apologize. I should apologize.

Ah, that tired, old mantra. As a woman and recovering ex-Catholic, I’ve apologized well beyond my fair share. And if I didn’t apologize, I experienced the wrath of its ugly stepsister: guilt.
What if I lived unapologetically? What if I transformed into a full-fledged, raging hot bitch?

I reflect back on the supermarket scene. It certainly did feel good to simply raise my voice. To be loud.

It also felt decadently defiant to look back into the eyes of everyone staring at me, as if to say, “Back off with your critical stares or you’re next, bitches.” I had a Clint Eastwood moment.

What if unhinged the bitch even more? What if I truly spoke my mind?

Just what we need, right? Another rude, uncaring, entitled person in this world thinking the world should accommodate them. With some thought, I began to realize that wasn’t possible. Why? Because I am a caring and sensitive person. But could I be a caring and sensitive bitch?

My gal friend is upset that her family didn’t contact her over the holidays. I ask her how she conveyed that to them. Her phonecall went something like this:

“Wow, you guys must have been really busy over Christmas. I didn’t hear from you and I thought something might be wrong. Then I figured you just must have been busy. It’s the holidays, afterall.”

This is how she told it to me, over a few drinks:

“Do I fucking exist or what? They couldn’t show me the goddamn respect to connect with me for once? I’m the only living daughter on my side of the family. Why do I have to do all the reaching out? I’m sick of it. I’m fucking sick of it.”

A substantial difference in tone, you'll note. Should she have opted for version 2? Not necessarily. But version 1 is much more nefarious and soul-sucking - and that’s the one “good women” often choose.

Does unleashing ever have its place?

As women, we do the opposite of unleashing. We internalize. It’s shocking how many times we question and admonish ourselves, over the slightest “infractions.” Many feminist theories postulate that those socially-induced insecurities are meant to keep our mouths shut and our feet in cement. We’re too busy yelling at ourselves to yell at others. Too busy internally debating to take a step forward.

Like many others, several people close to me have died of cancer. I have no damn clue whether internalized anger manifests itself in the form of cancer. But I’ll take my stab in the dark and say that it sure doesn’t help.

In their honor, I continue to unhinge the bitch. More frequently, I let her roam free, express herself and breathe a little easier. She gets to laugh in the face of a difficult situation, instead of caving in on herself like a house of cards.

Could I ever utter the following?

“I don’t like talking to you. I wish you’d go away.”

“Don’t ignore me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Stop interrupting. I’m speaking right now.”

“I think you’re lying.”

"Stop staring at me. I find it invasive."

“You’re being controlling and I’m a big girl so knock it the hell off.”
"I wasn't asking your opinion."
“You sound like a baby. It’s annoying.”

“Your constant need for attention is tiresome.”

“Your emotionally avoidant behavior leaves me utterly unfulfilled.”

“You’re interrupting us. How about you wait a second?”

Well, I have. And not just to those close to me (whom we all can unleash on – and how fair is that? Spread your bitchiness around so your loved ones get more love.)

One could argue that these utterances are cruel or could be delivered in a better fashion. And one would be right! But what if I don’t feel like being right? I’ve been right for decades now and still feel wrong entirely too much of the time. Being right and good is a never-ending battle which women are predetermined losers.

A bitch is a female dog, right? A dog is an animal. And when I become a bitch, I'm closer to my animal self. And I like it. It feels impulsive, raw and primal. Fight-ready and messy. Sexual and unbridled.

Two of the biggest insults that can be hurled at women? "You're a whore" or "You're a crazy bitch." I've yet to figure out what a whore is (other than a perfectly reasonable profession where women get paid more than men for once.)

You're a crazy bitch then! The underlying message: Stay tame. Shut up. Don't act wild. You might be a force to be reckoned with. You might get somewhere. The last time it was hurled my way, I responded, "You ain't see nothing yet." And they hadn't. Because I haven't. She's evolving. She's new.

At heart, I will always be a kind person. I know no other way. But there’s more to me than kindness. And this seemingly backward path to transformation fits me well, like a coat of fur, or a set of fangs. Like ragged claws or a gutteral growl. Like a bite.

To Touch You More

_{My good friend Peter and I}

My New Year's resolution made over a decade ago was to touch people more. To break that social wall that keeps our hands and bodies a safe distance from one other. To connect more physically.

I'm speaking of the non-sexual variety of contact. We all know when someone is touching us with sexual undertones. That may or may not be welcome. I wanted to offer the kind of touch that wouldn't be misconstrued.

This was not easy at first. Not because people weren't receptive; they were. People generally love touch. They bask in it. They appreciate it on a cellular level.

It was a challenge because I wasn't sure how to do it. My German family is not the touchy-feely sort. Stiff, awkward hugs. Overly firm pats on the back. Touching others freely hadn't been habituated into me, so it took some training.

But soon, my hands and body reached out to anyone in my world, whether it was via handholding or a quick massage or a touch on the cheek or a full-body hug or a head on a shoulder. Or I'd simply stand closer to people, trying not to invade, but simply enter, their space. I even began kissing some of my closest friends on the lips, which is incredibly sweet and rewarding.

How did people react? Shoulders would drop, breathing would deepen, gentle smiles would appear - people relaxed almost instantly. We so desperately crave human contact, but often aren't even aware how hungry we are for it. And giving touch is akin to receiving it. I feel touched as well. Cosmic win/win.

Last month, while taking a bus from the Jersey shore to New York City, an older, fragile Indian man sitting across the aisle from me suddenly handed me his cellphone. I accepted it, confused and slightly nervous.

"Um...hello?"

"Hello, my uncle may be having a heart attack. He needs help. He doesn't speak any English."

I looked over at the older gentleman and he was grasping his chest and moaning. I went to the bus driver and explained what was happening. As I returned to my seat, the man had fallen to the floor, in the aisle.

The bus pulled over. Emergency help was contacted. Several passengers made suggestions but few had any medical training, myself included. So I resorted to my New Year's resolution. I placed both of my hands gently on his face and began whispering in his ear, "Calm down. Calm down. Calm down."

I then unbuttoned his shirt and placed my hands on his chest. He was very agitated and his heartbeat was frighteningly rapid, so it took some time, but finally his breathing resumed to somewhat normal. At one point, he opened his eyes to look at me and they were filled with gratitude. No clumsy words needed.

When the police finally arrived, they instructed everyone off of the bus. (Another was waiting to take us to our destination.) I was afraid if my hands left his body, he would become unwell again. The cop didn't really want to hear my spiritual take on the situation, so I got up to leave.

Almost immediately, the man's breathing became erratic and his eyes glazed over and looked filmy. I left the bus feeling a sense of peace regardless. Strangely, I could feel his essence on me for quite some time, like an energetic imprint of some sort.

Fortunately, the man was fine. (His relatives left me a lovely message the next day.) But it was then I realized that touching was something beyond "feel good." We live for it. I live for it.

So that is my first (and only) working New Year's resolution - one that would change my life on a level beyond words.

"I Have The Touch" - Peter Gabriel

The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people - I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion - do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and ... I have the touch

I'm waiting for ignition, I'm looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Any social occasion, it's hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back - but nothing seems
to please

I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact

The REAL Jersey Girls

Click on funny NJ map to enlarge.

Jersey. Whatever with this damn state. People staring at you all the time. Surprised by so little. Beige people in beige houses busy being dull and devoid of personality and looking at me funny? The nerve.

Jersey. No, not like the show The Jersey Shore. That bears no resemblance to the South Jersey existence I'm tethered to. Mine is the Jersey shore that's entering a long winter, where a handful of weathered locals sit at dimly lit bars, drinking Coors Light, talking about bait, football and plumbing.

Jersey. Bad accents. Really bad ones. Now that I'm living here again, I can hear that nasally vowel-dragging suburban twang returning to my speech after years of trying to get rid of it. Makes me want to sew my lips shut.

Jersey. I was born here. So I guess that makes me a "Jersey girl." I fit the bill, I suppose. I’m not thrilled about it, but its my simple, inescapable fate. I would have preferred London or Madrid, but New Jersey it is.

Though there are some qualities I do appreciate about being a Jersey girl.

Qualities of your Average Jersey Girl

• She “parties” in one form or the other and has for a long time; its simply a way of life now.

• She keeps it real; no bullshit. Definitely not prissy.

• She probably lost her virginity pretty early on. In a fast car with orange flames painted on it. He kept his leather jacket on. The smell of leather will turn her on from that point forward.

• She smoked cigarettes in high school bathrooms, where you had to say, "It's alright" before entering, so the other girls knew you weren't a teacher, trying to bust you. If you forgot, and cigarettes were tossed in the toilets, those girls got pissed.

• She attended many a keg party. She rolled down hills while going to pee with her friends. They laughed hysterically until they realized they couldn't climb back up the hill because they were too drunk.

• She most probably had brushes with the law. Maybe involving Quaaludes.

• She’s definitely tripped on acid before. Something wildly disastrous happened that is still talked about to this day. She can laugh about it now, finally - but it took a while.

• She may have jumped over fences while being chased by the cops. And tore her jeans while doing so. She wore those jeans for years after, until the bottom finally ripped. Then she had to throw them away. She may have sighed.

• She thinks an occasional fistfight is a perfectly acceptable way to handle disputes.

• Yes, she's eaten hoagies.

• She has never said "Joisey" or anything remotely like that. Has no clue where that came from. Also doesn't joke about "What exit are you?"

• She’s roller-skated in her past. Bubble gum and strawberry lip gloss. She carried a comb in the back of her pocket and compulsively ran it through her feathered hair so Alan Gantowski would maybe, just maybe, ask her to join him during "Couples Skate." He never did.

• She has the mouth of sailor but can be soft and sweet in demeanor at the very same time. Its a delightful paradox, at least to her.

• She knows lots of "dudes." Not quite boys, not quite men. Just straight-up dudes.

• She's humble. She had to be or she'd get checked by a group of friends that didn't tolerate snobbery of any sort. She could stand to be less humble at this point of her life.

• She acts a little Italian, whether she is or not.

• Yes, she has a strong affinity for Bruce Springsteen. (She does not feel this way about Bon Jovi.)

• She learned French kissing from friends in the back of a school bus. She mastered the art over the years and enjoys it as much as sex. (Well, almost.)

• She will moon people if she's provoked. She will not feel embarrassed about it the next day.

• Friends are her family.

• She's worked hard. Often too hard for too little. She gets weary; the kind of weary that Otis Redding sang about. She now awaits tenderness. Waits, waits. It comes in dribs and drabs when she needs buckets of it poured over her naked body.

• She didn't dream as big as she'd liked. Everyone around her, well, no one was that inspired to break out the suburban trap that was South Jersey...eh, or maybe dreams are overrated.

• She likes flannel shirts.

• She will always love classic rock.

• She is a survivor.
  

Yes, living in New Jersey has shaped me. When I go other places, I realize I'm from this state. There's a "keeping it real" aspect that made moving to California a little difficult at first, for instance. Now, to get the hell out here.

Because as Bruce so aptly puts it:

"Baby this town rips the bones from your back. It's a deathtrap. It's a suicide rap. You gotta get out while you're young. Cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run."