Shred It.

My mom, a Fox News devotee, said her favorite channel did a story today on Grievance Day. According to someone newsworthy, Dec. 28 is the day to rid yourself of all negative energy from the previous year. You shred your overdue bill statements (after you pay them), forgive the people who hurt you and give yourself a fresh start for 2009.

Fox & Friends, which apparently had no other news to cover in the midst of a recession, broadcast live footage of large shredders in Times Square that were present for whomever's disposal of negative energy (the material kind).

It's a bit ridiculous, but the more I thought about it, the more it made me realize how much negative energy was still hanging in my life.

So here's to assholes, bad friends, back stabbers, jail sentences, unemployment, bad economies, war, distance between me and the people I love and high gas prices. I have a new year coming up, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Rest assured, this one will be better than the last.

An Island Christmas

I've been bummed all week about missing Christmas with my family. Not to sound too cliche, but even as an adult, the holidays have always had a magic to them. Watching all the kids open presents and hearing them question my cousins and aunts and uncles about how Santa finds his way to grandma's house has always made me smile.

There's the cookies and cakes and wrapped presents that seem to grow from underneath the tree. There's laughing and joking and cuddling on the couch to watch "It's a Wonderful Life." And there's stockings full of candy and Christmas music and that smell of gingerbread that always seems to flood my mom's house around this time of year, even though I've never seen her make gingerbread cookies.

This year, there was none of that. There were no kids giggling, no Christmas Eve celebration at my Oma's, no early morning presents at my mom's, no teasing from my Mama about how my deviled eggs were too salty.

I didn't have high hopes, to tell you the truth. I knew the first Christmas Brent and I spent together would be special, but not having family there too definitely put a damper on things early on.

It's funny how God has a way of shining light on you though. Just when I thought Christmas wouldn't be the same, he showed me that it's OK for things to change.

Brent and I opened up presents on Christmas Eve, and played Yahtzee with a couple of friends. I baked chocolate chip pie (my mom's recipe) and we planned to eat with Brent's boss's family the next day -- along with anyone else who wandered that way.

The next morning, we got up early and headed over there. We thought dinner was at noon, but it turned out that's just when they were going to start cooking. People weren't expected to show up for a few more hours, so we dropped off our food and decided to waste time by driving around the south side of the island, which we hadn't done yet.

It was beautiful.

The waves were unusually high, and they crashed against the rocks and cliffs and anything else that made its home on the shoreline. There was one part -- near Umatac -- that was especially gorgeous.

Across from a small Catholic church a few miles from Cocos Island ferry stop was one of the most beautiful views I've seen on the island. There was an old white cross, and someone had draped a beaded shell necklace around the top.

We got out of the car, hugged each other, and did that sappy eye-to-eye look that couples in love do. And I realize that it doesn't matter much that my family isn't here on Guam. They will always be with me. And Brent is my family too now.

After our drive, we made it back to Brent's boss's house just when everyone started pulling up. There were a good 20-25 people there when it was all said and done. And all of us ate roast pig, chocolate pie and everything in between. We played Dirty Santa, threw a football in the front yard and settled in for a 2-hour, intense game of Catch Phrase.

I laughed so hard I almost cried.

In between laughs I realized that family doesn't have to be close to be with you. And they don't always have to be related to make you feel at home. Thank God for that.

Merry Christmas, from 7,500 miles away.

Standard Saturday Night.

WARNING: If you are, in any way, a fan of PETA or any other animal-loving nonprofit organization, you will probably hate me after this post. Please hold the hate mail, because I probably don't give a shit anyway.

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I consider myself an animal lover. Always have been and always will be.

But there are some I love more than others. Dogs, for example, will always hold a special place in my heart. Cats, not so much.

I love giraffes and dolphins and sea otters and tigers and lions. Even sharks, which scare the living shit out of me, seem amazing in their own right. I love black bears and elephants and roly-polys, and I hate the thought of anyone hurting or killing animals without purpose. Hell, I can't even watch "Animal Planet" without wanting to cry. Something about survival of the fittest breaks my heart.

All that being said, that didn't stop me from going to a cock fight last Saturday night. It's a local tradition, apparently, so I had to get off my high horse to blend in. ... That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My boyfriend, a couple friends and I decided to venture down to Santa Rita to take part in the village's annual fiesta. For those who don't know anything about Guam, fiestas are held to celebrate each respective village's patron saint (it's heavily Catholic here). And those fiestas are the only time poker and cock fighting are acceptable in religious activities.

We walked in to the community center, and immediately got a few strange looks. We were THE only haoles in the room, and I imagine, one of few who dared to swagger into local fiestas wanting to place a bet on the biggest cock. We were immediately solicited to take part in an ongoing Texas Hold 'Em tournament for a "minimum" $50 buy-in.

Those sort of rules make it easy to buy a pot if you have enough cash ... and enough balls. So we declined. It's a good thing too, because a local Chamorro woman, obviously a shark, quickly took control of the table and systematically began knocking off the big guns. (Note: You can always pick out a poker shark by how they handle their chips. She was throwing them from one hand to another, and effortlessly landing them in a neat, stacked pile. I've never seen this done in person before then.)

To the right of the poker table, in the middle of the community center, was what appeared to be a miniature fighting ring. There were feathers scattered on the dirt floor, along with tiny drops of blood. I got a guilty, Michael Vick kind of feeling immediately, but I played along.

We ventured over to the opposite corner of the room just in time to see one guy take his cock out of a small, A-frame box he carried in. It was a big, gerthy sonuvabitch -- with bright-colored feathers and a hefty body. And he cradled it, like it was some sort of pet. "He will win," he replied to me when I asked if I should bet. The man, dressed in ratty jeans and an old T-shirt, did not find humor in a room full of men gently stroking their cocks. I'm not sure he was capable of it.

The first fight was imminent, it seemed. And I soon found that once the cock-fighting leader brought out his tiny suitcase, it would only be another 10 minutes or so.

The suitcase, which every owner carried with him, contained an arsenal of tiny blades and all the tools to attach them. The blades were all different sizes -- as there are all different-sized cocks -- and they are purchased in the Philippines and transported to Guam illegally. One man held the cock, while another held up different blades to one of the cock's legs until he found just the right size. Then, he painstakingly attached it with a thin leather strap, wrapping and wrapping with the highest attention to detail.

So as not to bare the cock carrier any harm, a tiny sheath covered the blade until the cock was ready to fight. When both cocks were armed, they were brought into the ring. The owners, or cock raisers if you may, were still holding their pets at this point. A few times, to get them riled up, they guided them toward the other cock.

Then, as soon as all bets were in, it was on.

The owners removed the sheaths, and let the cocks go at it. There was a referee too, who signaled the beginning of the cock brawl. There was a swarm of feathers, and if the cock was good enough, he could blade the other under his wing, severing his main artery.

It was the most brutal thing I've ever been a part of. I'm not proud of it, by any means, but damn if it wasn't an experience. There were men banging on the wooden rails surrounding the ring, yelling through the plexi-glass walls. And when it was clear one of the cocks didn't survive the fight, there were a few shouts of victory before they swaggered over to the "house" to collect their winnings.

Then, it was on to the next fight. Not immediately, mind you, because there was plenty of cock analyzing to do before then. All the owners would get their cocks out of the A-frames, hold them or put them in makeshift cages for others to eye.

There are certain things that make one cock a favorite over another cock. Size, of course, but everyone knows that's not the only thing that sets one cock apart from another. There's the strength of crow too, and the color (light-colored cocks do better on clear, moon-lit nights) and whether or not they can follow your finger with their beaks.

Laugh if you want, but there is a whole culture surrounding cocks. These men spend hours every week -- not to mention thousands of dollars buying, raising and betting -- around the ring. A girl from my work said she remembers her father not coming home many nights when she was young because he was at the cock fights. She always knew when because there'd be McDonald's to eat for breakfast when she woke up.

My boyfriend walked away $20 poorer than when we walked into the Santa Rita Community Center that night. His friend, an old farmhand from Minnesota, walked out $20 richer. He's had plenty of experience sizing up cocks in the chicken pens.

Despite the new experience, it was a standard Saturday night. You can walk into any bar in any city on any night in the world and see what I saw that moon-lit night in Guam. ... A slough of guys standing around, holding their cocks and wanting to fight. And rest assured, the biggest doesn't always win.

The D-word.

I vividly remember laying awake in bed when I was 8 years old, hearing the muffled sounds of my mom crying at night. At the time, we lived with my grandparents, and of all the bedrooms in the house, mine was closest to hers.

I told myself back then that I would never let my heart get broken. I would never depend on someone so much that I couldn't live on my own. Or stand on my own two feet. I would grow up, go to college, get a job and make a ton of money so I would never have to get divorced. And, if by chance, I ever had kids, they would never have to go through divorce either.

Well, here I am, 26, and I've done it -- mostly. Granted, I don't have a ton of money, but I do have a college degree and I'm more than capable of supporting myself. I can buy groceries and fill my gas tank if need be. I have debt ... but at least I can pay the bills.

And now that I've lived a life -- at least for a few years -- that has allowed me to stand on my own two feet, I realize it's not all it's cracked up to be. Not standing, mind you, but being alone. I didn't know that until I wasn't alone anymore.

Living with my boyfriend has afforded me more happiness than I've ever experienced. We are a team. And it shows in everything -- even the chores, which he's committed doing more of.

I've just recently started to re-evaluate the vow I vowed when I was 8 years old. Maybe I wasn't as on-target as I thought. Maybe it's not what you can do alone that counts, but what you can do together. Maybe my goal should have been to have a successful relationship; instead of to avoid a failed one.

I've been so hell bent on being independent all these years, it's been like pulling teeth to let someone take care of me. And, you know what? Maybe I was just wrong.

I've finally found someone who wants to carry me to bed when I fall asleep on the couch. Someone who wants to help me with my bills while I'm waiting on my first paycheck. Someone who wants to make sure the car I want to buy has good spark plugs and brakes and a clean air filter. And, my God, I'm so thankful for that I could just cry.

So, you know, maybe it's not so bad to be dependent. As long as you're dependent on each other. For happiness. For fulfillment. For that which you have been running and running your entire life -- the "can't be without you" love.

Maybe I can live without you. Maybe I don't need you. But damn if I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you, laughing and loving and being as cheesy as possible. There aren't many people who get that chance.

So, if you lean on me, can I lean on you?

Do They Speak English There?

Here are a few things everyone should know about Guam. This list has been derived from questions people from the States have asked me, and things people who live here say/think/believe.

• Yes, they speak English on Guam. Guam is, by definition, a U.S. territory, so it would make sense.
  
• We also have running water, power, toilets, buildings, roads (although many are ridden with potholes -- much like Midtown Atlanta), phones and even computers!
  
• People from Guam think they are part of the U.S. Implying otherwise may lead to a Chamorro beat down -- or at least a tongue lashing. Stupid Haole.
  
• Native people of Guam are Chamorro (which serves as both a singular and plural pronoun). Other people who live on Guam are called Guamanians.
  
• Street signs/names are rare, which is why, even on official documents, you are asked to draw a map to your house. I'm not kidding.
• Barbecues are acceptable at 2 p.m. ... on week days. Do these people work?
• The speed limit on Guam rarely exceeds 35 mph. People usually drive below that, and they like to box you in so you can't pass (Chamorro Road Block).
  
• Old ass trucks that go off road even though they're not supposed to are called "Guam bombs."
  
• Directions don't exist. Finding an office/house/bar is usually like doing a Calculus problem.
• Every meal includes red rice and kelaguen -- even breakfast.
  
• If you want a massage, go to a spa. If you want a blow job, go to a massage parlor.
• There's no such thing as a free show. Buy me drinky.
• Offices are closed on Catholic holidays.
• Each year, every village celebrates its respective patron saint with a fiesta. It is the only time of year cockfights and poker are acceptable at religious gatherings.
• The K-Mart in Guam is the highest grossing K-Mart in the world. Maybe because Japanese tourists take buses there.
  
• Food is expensive -- especially cheese and milk, which goes for about $4.50 for a half gallon. Power is worse. A typical bill is $500 a month.
  
• If you are in Guam, you are considered "on island." Anywhere else, you're "off island."
• For vacations, people go to Palau, Saipan, the Philippines or Japan. And that is awesome.
• I need a diving certification. Pronto.
• Nothing is on normal time. Everything is on island time. Deal.
  
• Living here means you get used to seeing Japanese tourists taking pictures with obscure objects (ie: hamburgers, cast iron caribou, palm trees, signs). They are usually, if not always, throwing a peace sign. Hello, Miley Cyrus.
• Don't even think about Victoria's Secret, Express, J.Crew, Red Lobster, Melting Pot, Whole Foods, Papa John's or Carraba's. The nearest one is 7,500 miles away.
  
• If ordering online, expect to wait 2-3 weeks. If they deliver here at all.
• Finadetti. Gotta have it!
• Assan Black Tea. It's mysteriously addicting.
• Mr. Coffee (iced). Ditto.
• Everything -- including price, deadlines, speed limits, loan requirements and any sort of regulations -- is negotiable.
• Yona Rules!
• Malafunction is the source for all things Guam. I-94!!
• Typhoons are common. As are earthquakes. Get used to it.
• It rains every day.
  
• Get used to frizzy hair. It happens.
• One word. Karaoke!!
• There is no sales tax. But every restaurant adds gratuity. Forget the 20% rule.
  

I will add to this as needed. If you have any questions, Google it.

Banana Peppers Make Perfect.

I started work this week. Yes, work. I finally landed a steady job as an account executive for a mid-sized advertising agency here on the island. The pay is OK; the independence even better.

The only bad thing is I have to be at work at 8 a.m., an hour earlier than I'm used to punching the clock. I can forget leaving the house late too. You can't rush anywhere on an island -- EVER. It's almost like the people here have a set of steel drums playing in their heads at all times. They're so laid back. Even in "rush hour."

So, needless to say, I've had to get myself back into a routine of setting my alarm for morning wake-up call. There's nothing like 4 weeks of exploring on an island to get you out of working shape.

By the time I've gotten home every day this week, my wonderful boyfriend has already been there. And two days ago, much to my surprise, he was making dinner when I walked in.

Pizza. Homemade pizza. From one of those kits where you just add water to the dough, and Voila!, your own personal slice of Italy.

My heart melted when I saw him.

The kitchen was a wreck. There was sauce and cheese and dough powder all over the counter. The sink was filled with dishes (I'm not sure how or why he had to use so many for a kit, but he did), and he was spreading the tomato sauce out with a spatula (instead of a spoon, like I do).

"Hello, Love," he said. "I was gonna surprise ya."

I couldn't help but smile, kick off my heels and help him finish. Together, we decorated our pizzas with onions (which he didn't like until I came along) and banana peppers (which I didn't care for), and all the cheese we could stand.

The old me would have wanted to punch someone like me in the face. "Nothing is that perfect," I would say. And it's true, nothing is.

Unless you add some banana peppers and the one you love.

Two Suitcases and a Pocketful of Sunshine

I left Atlanta with two 70-pound suitcases and the key to a locker-sized storage unit filled to the brim with photographs, winter clothes and wine glasses I couldn't bare to part with.

Besides that, I owned nothing. No car, no furniture, no dog. Only a plane ticket to a tropical island on the other side of the world and a key to my own destiny.

For the past few months, I had systematically sold everything I owned. The dresser my grandmother gave me when I got my first unfurnished apartment in college, the baker's rack I had somehow squeezed into my old Saturn and the first car I had actually made payments on.

All of it was secondhand and not worth much to most, but to me, it was a symbol of the life I had built for myself. I could see my independence in that old, beat-up dresser and the comfort of myself in that squeaky mattress.

All of it was hard to part with, in a way. Even though I knew it would be all worth it one day, when I'm laying on the couch watching re-runs of Law & Order with the man I love.

That made it a bit easier. That, and how everyone who bought my stuff on Craigslist seemed to genuinely be excited. Everyone said whatever it was happened to be "just what I was looking for."

There was Bertrand, the French college student who said the 5-shelf corner unit I bought from Wal-Mart so many years ago said was just what he needed. There was Joanne, the Southern belle who was "tickled pink" she had found a baker's rack for her kitchen. And Scott, who needed my end table to furnish he and his wife's first apartment. "Thanks," I remember him saying. "We don't even have anything to sit our coffee cups on in the morning."

I feel blessed to have been a part of those people's lives, even if it was slight. The fact that everyone -- even the 300-pound guy who drove a Miata and bought my old boxing gloves -- actually needed the small things I had to give, made the journey worthwhile.

Now that I am here, looking at the beautiful blue water crashing on the coast outside my bedroom window, it all seems so far away.

I hope my old Corolla isn't giving Jeffrey any problems in that cold weather.

You're Ridiculous.

I lub juice.

You want some milk?

I'd rather have a beer.

Do you want a banana?

Mmm-hmm.

Do you want a banana?

Mmm-hmm.

Here comes the hate mail.

Vat is so offensive about ze holiest geetar in ze vorld?

I wanna kiss you all over.

I'm gonna say it like a man and make you understand. Amanda.

I dub dew.

I'll bring you Mexican. Where's Sombrero's? And who the hell is Josie?

Kiss strange boys in the Gulf of Mexico? OK.

Sweet Caroline. Du, du, duuuu.

Who likes Project Pat?

I forgot the Ramones.

Yeah, yeah.

Penny Marshall lubs you too.

Popeye taught me to eats me spinach.

That's why I'm cock diesel.

How can I be the shiniest girl on the beach?

I love you. See? Nunchuks.

Is that a fish hook?

They're just like me?

I'll sew your holes.

Velveeta Shells.

I like ya. Kinda.

What do I do? Well, I'm unemployed.

Can you pack me in a box?

I'm not punk rock.

Can I wear your smedium?

I need to pack. Aaaaaahhh.

Airborne. Uh!

Your tit's out.

I like Vicky. And she likes me back!

Who the hell likes Tom Green?

Yes, New Kids on the Block is a band.

Eye Heart DaCrust.

Ya breath stinks.

My feet smell.

Sparked. And Strongbowed.

I drove all night to get to you.

LeAnn does not do trailer parks.

Or deep water. There's sharks!

My kinda love. Your kinda love.

Maybe you're not a Yankee.

I got dosed by you.

It's OK. I think we're alone now.

So Play Artist: Tiffany.

How's the Whale's Vagina?

Did you get my e-mail/missed call/Myspace/Facebook message/voicemail/messenger pigeon?

Morning pretty.

Don't tell anyone, but I'm a sports fan.

OH, and I love ya too.

If Dogs Could Talk.

Life would be much more interesting if I knew what certain things were thinking, like for example, dogs. I wish Penny could tell me why she squeals like a pig so much. And why Milk Bones are so good. And why in the world she won't play with tennis balls like all the other dogs.

I wish old homes could talk and tell me about all the families that grew up inside their walls.

I wish baseball fields and football fields could tell me about the best games they've seen and the best plays they've witnessed.

I wish my vintage cowboy boots could tell me whose feet made their home there before mine.

I wish roly-polys could tell me where they came from and how long it actually does take them to cross the street.

I wish birds and dolphins and lions in the zoo could tell me where they've been.

There's probably a reason why they don't. I just haven't figured it out yet.

Back Porches and Kitchen Tables.

I'm thankful for you.

I'm thankful that I can sit in a chair, prop my elbows up and talk about anything and everything with you in the room. I can share my deepest thoughts with people I love, and you won't say a thing. You just sit there and hold me up, without a complaint of how I've gained weight in the winter or I'm too sweaty in the summer.

When I cry, you catch my tears. And when I laugh, the sound bounces off you and hits me in the face. Sometimes I feel like you hold the laughter and the tears with you, like a diary of our family.

You have held some of the best meals I've ever eaten in your hands. And you've seen generation after generation pass through the walls around you. You've been the site of Italian backhands over lasagna, Uno games and Spades and Scrabble. You've seen my grandmother perfect her English with Sunday crossword puzzles. You've watched us open card after card sent to us when people we love have passed. And you've watched birthday cakes pass in front of you without complaining that we never offered you a bite.

You don't even know it, but you're the brother to my favorite back porch.

You're the brother to the back porch that stood in silence while I painstakingly learned the difference between a begonia and a portucala. "A good Southern woman knows her flowers," you heard my grandmother say.

You sat silent while we churned homemade ice cream in the backyard, grilled chicken covered in my grandfather's secret BBQ sauce and shot fireworks into the neighbor's yard on July Fourth. You watched me go to faraway lands that no one else could see, and splash in a plastic pool on hot Georgia afternoons.

When I grew up and moved away, you were there as a haven for my grandmother when she was left alone. And you sat many mornings and many nights with her, while she smoked cigarettes in her favorite swing. You watched as her garden eventually grew again after two years of staying barren, and you watched her face bloom like the yellow tulips by her front gate. You watched her become whole again.

You are as much a part of my family as the members of it. Because you have been there through it all. I hope one day I have a back porch and a kitchen table like you both. That way my family will come to know the meaning of love you have both seen. And I'll be thankful for years to come.

Love.

You feel further away than you've ever felt.

When I look at you sometimes, I don't see the boy with the orange Nehi mustache. I see a stranger. I see someone who cares less about their life than I do.

I shudder to think what you would do left to your own vices. Where you would be without me. Without your family. Without the few positive influences in your life you have left.

I wish you knew how much you meant to me. How much it hurts to think of your betrayal. And how you seem to think of consequences only after you do what reeps them.

I would give my life for you. Literally. I would die for your happiness in a second. A millisecond. Without another thought or another breath or another look at this world. For you, I would do anything. For me? I don't know. I don't know what you would do.

But when you love someone, it doesn't matter what you would get in return. You just surrender all you have for their happiness. I love you like that. I love you in a way most people never feel. I'm thankful, at least, that I can feel what it's like to care about someone that much.

I curse it at the same time. When you love someone so much you would die for them, you walk around in constant pain. You're always worrying about what they're doing. Always thinking about that some one or some thing that can take them away from you.

I wish you could feel that kind of love. Because if you did, somehow, I think you would buck up and start taking care of yourself. Because if you did, you would stop worrying or trying to change your life for you. And you would do it for me. And even though that's not how things are supposed to be, I would accept it. Because then, I know you would be safe.

I don't know the answer for your struggle. But I know one thing -- I want you back.

Girl Missing a Hubcap

Yesterday I needed to run.

It had been an eventful weekend, a roller coaster of emotions, and I wanted to sweat it all out and start fresh. I skipped on kickboxing, like I had planned, and drove straight home.

I left my iPod on the coffee table and set out. With no route.

I've recently discovered running with no music isn't as boring as I first thought. There are no tunes to pass the time, only the rhythm of my own breath. There are no songs to make me forget about my aching calves, only the sound of my keys clinking on the lanyard around my neck.

It's nice like that, in a way. There's nowhere to go but inside my own head. And sometimes, that's just where I need to be.

I made my way to 10th Street, and instead of taking my usual beeline to Piedmont Park, I stayed straight. Left on Monroe, right on some side street, all the way to Virginia Highlands. Just when I debated turning around and forgetting about running to Taco Mac like I had planned, I came up on a green Honda -- missing a hubcap.

My car has been missing a hubcap for three months. It's funny how you tend to notice things more when they relate directly to you. Like, for example, how many cars are missing hubcaps.

I recently broke down and ordered one on eBay, only for another to fall off the next day. I don't know where the hell they keep going, but sometimes, I get embarrassed for other folks to see I'm missing a hubcap -- well, two hubcaps. I wish my faults weren't so out in the open.

But, back to the girl in her green Honda. I slowed my run a bit when I passed her, just so I could listen to her belt out the lyrics to some ridiculous song. She never made eye contact, like most people you come upon who are singing out loud to themselves in their car. But, watching her wait at that red light, for some reason, made me feel better about my missing hubcap. And everything else that's so up in the air about my life right now.

It made me think that maybe sometimes it's OK if I'm missing a little something. Or if I'm unsure about something else. Or if I have no idea where the hell one thing or another is going. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe if I wait a little while, the something missing will be replaced by something else -- like some great song I can sing along to.

I don't know. But, at the time, it helped me forget that sometimes I hate running. And it gave me something to ponder until I finally did get to Taco Mac.

Funny how that happens.

The Nearness of You.

It's been one month and three days since I last saw you. And now, it's only a matter of hours and I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin.

Hurry up already!

I Wish You Were Houdini.

I'm on Day 11 of no smoking. Things are going better, but I'm starting to blame any and every frustration on my lack of tobacco. It makes me feel better. So, here's another one. You can blame this list on Philip-Morris too, if you want.

I wish these people would go away.

• Kathie Lee Gifford
• Madonna
• Lindsey Lohan
• Dina Lohan
  
• Britney Spears
• Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana
  
• Elizabeth Hasselbeck
  
• Denise Richards
• Lauren Conrad
  

Summer Special.

I was hired yesterday. For a job. You know, one of those things normal people go to from 9-to-5 Monday through Friday. It's been a long-time coming. So, the most logical thing for me to do with my afternoon was celebrate. I dodged the rain to meet friends at a local bar, and settled into a chair to wait. I'm always the first one anywhere.

I picked up one of Atlanta's fabulous alternative weekly newspapers for a quick read to past the time. And there it was, on Page 3.

"LipoSelection Summer Special."

The ad featured a bikini-clad woman, smiling gaily while she sat on the edge of some pool outside some penthouse in downtown Atlanta. Her lips had been obviously pumped full of collagen, and her breasts were far from real. Hell, she may have even had a face lift, and couldn't have been older than 35.

• LASER HAIR REMOVAL $99 (per month/per area)
• SMART LIPO $999 (first area)
• BOTOX $9.99 per unit (up to 20 units)
• RESTYLANE/JUVEDERM $449
• SKIN RESURFACING/REJUVENATION $99 (first treatment)

Let's set aside I know about half of what those "treatments" actually are. It's what came next that really got me thinking.

FREE IMAGE CONSULTATION
"Get Ready for Summer"

Are these bitches serious? Do they actually think they'll 1) Feel better about themselves by getting some bald, fat guy to nip, tuck and pump their body full of puffiness, 2) Get a man who's genuinely impressed with their nips, tucks and puffiness or 3) Get a decent man who looks beyond their nips, tucks and puffiness?

Cliche, I know. But, if you can guess, I was appalled. I'm used to seeing fake boobs. And in fact, know quite a few girls from high school who received them as presents from their parents upon graduation. Yes, from their parents. And yes, graduation from high school.

Most everyone gets some sort of pleasure or sense of awe from seeing a nice rack. But, well, I guess I never put two and two together as far as the cost of everything else. A good pair of jugs will run you about $5,000. Everyone knows that. But restylane, whatever the hell that is, at $449?? Who the hell has money to do that? And if they do, what the hell would possess them to spend money on that?

And what exactly is "smart" lipo? Is there a dumb lipo? What's the difference? Is one more expensive than the other? I suspect, as I'm sure many people do, that puffy-lipped model in the ad was probably abused as a child -- either mentally or physically or both -- or suffers from ridiculously low self-esteem (unnecessarily) or is too dumb to move, which has all morphed her into some sort of attention whore.

I think I'll stick to my radically shrinking breasts, my pain-in-the-ass legs that need shaving every other day, my wrinkles and my crinkly forehead. Oh yeah, and my name that doesn't end in a "Y" sound. (For some reason it always seems like women with gigantic boobs who are open to plastic surgery always have names like Katie, Mandy, Lindsey, Candy, Hayley or Jenny. No offense to people who have those names.)

The good news is that Liposelection, according to the ad, "Hablamos Espanol!"

YAY! Self-detriment isn't only open to ridiculously rich white women! We can all relax now, people. Body morphication is Equal Opportunity. Rest easy.

No One Wants to Kiss an Ashtray.

I'm officially eight days into a new, non-smoking lifestyle. And so far, it's not fun. Definitely not as bad as it was on Day 4 though. God, I wanted to kill someone that day. Anyone. I think I was even unnecessarily mean to the Papa John's guy.

Sorry, Papa John's guy. I didn't mean it. I just wanted my delicious sausage-and-mushroom delight.

My biggest problem is the oral fixation. ... No, seriously. Stop laughing.

I can't figure out what to do with my hands. When I'm driving. When I take Penny outside. After a good, hearty meal. With my Strongbow. So far, I've just taken to fidgeting and looking like I have some sort of a problem. It's obvious to others I'm coming off a drug. That, and the red squares all over my body leftover from where the patch made its home for a day kind of give it away. They probably think I'm a crackhead or something.

Anyway, with all this extra time on my hands, I've been thinking a lot about the theory of smoking. Why people start. And different reasons people come up with to get others to quit. I've never heard a good reason -- from anyone. So, I'm determined not to preach. It's a personal choice. Period.

I will tell you what I won't say to people. Even as a "former" smoker, I want to punch someone in the face when I hear people say things like:

"You should quit because ..."

• No one wants to kiss an ashtray.
• You smell.
• It turns your teeth and nails yellow.
• It looks trashy.
• You're too pretty to smoke.
• You could get cancer!
• You could die!
• Food tastes better when you don't smoke.
• Your clothes stink.
• Look at that. Do you want to look like that old hag?
• You'll have a smoker's voice by the time you're 50.
• I never smoked.
• You could save so much money.
  
• You could die!

Seriously. Do people think smokers are mentally challenged or something? Everyone knows that shit. It's called addiction, you loser. Do you actually think I -- or anyone -- would choose to get cancer and die? Or spend $5 almost every day to buy a pack?

Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up. I've heard every reason you've heard to stop smoking. I just chose to ignore them for awhile. Or not deal with them, whichever you prefer. Save your breath. Turn your attention to something else, like for example, your fat ass. Or your sucky ass life. Or how you haven't gotten off your couch for the past year to do something physical.

Whoa. I have no idea where that came from. Is this patch still working? No, really. I promise, today is not as bad as Day 4. I think.

Runaway.

If I could go anywhere or do anything, without any regard to money or time or occupational hazards, I would. And I would stay gone until I saw everything.

I'd start in Italy, even though I've been there before. I'd spend weeks roaming around the Tuscan countryside, visiting towns like Positano and Florence. I'd ride a train to Venice -- again -- and get lost in the maze of streets that wind around the city's canals. Sometimes, it smells like fish there, but it's so beautiful you don't notice.

I'd roam around Rome, and this time, I'd pay the 12 Euro to go inside the Coliseum. I'd take a million pictures, visit every church, walk in dusty bookstores and spend hours in cast iron chairs outside street cafes, watching the world go by. I'd throw another coin in the Trevi Fountain, drink water from the well at the foot of the Spanish Steps and head to Cozenza, down South, to see where Casciaros came from. Maybe I'd go to Sicily or the Amalfi Coast too. Then, on to Greece.

I'd roam around the Grecian ruins, maybe sit awhile in the Senate and read "King Lear" -- like a true book worm. But, don't worry, I won't be long. My itch to ride around the Greek isles on a scooter couldn't keep me on the mainland for long. I'd eat Mousaka and drink Ouzo with the locals, even though I probably wouldn't understand a word they were saying, and dance the night away in their night clubs while musicians sang words foreign to me. I may rent an apartment there for a month or so, and work at a fruit stand during the day to pay for it. Or a bar at night. Or a scooter rental place for tourists.

I'd sleep all night on a train until I got to Paris. I'd pay another 12 Euro and ride an elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Then I'd lay in the grass and watch all the happy couples. Maybe I'd think of you before I walked to a nearby outside market and got a fresh orange. And maybe a bouquet of flowers. Just because they're too beautiful to pass up.

I'd lay on a nude beach in Spain, just because I've always wanted to. Eat tapas and drink Sangria until the sun came up.

And then, I'd go to Australia. My fear of the deep blue sea would probably keep me from swimming with the sharks, but I'd make it up by hopping along with the kangeroos. Or holding a koala bear. Or roaming through the Outback in a rented Jeep. I'd need a guide. Maybe Crocodile Dundee would be free to show me the ropes.

I'd go on a safari in Kenya. Visit the Vegas-like strip in Cairo. Walk inside Nelson Mandela's 46664 cell in South Africa, just for a taste of history and to feel the true feeling of sacrifice. I'd roam the streets of Prague. Visit Abbey Road in London -- how can you not love the Beatles? And take a ride on the ferris wheel while I'm there. I'd ride elephants in India. Hike up a volcano in Hawaii. Eat bonified sushi in Japan. And walk the Great Wall in China. Maybe even run, if I was in the mood.

Or, who knows? Maybe I'd stop by Guam for awhile to sun on the tropical beaches. Someone there may catch my eye. Some tall, blond sailor who will make me happy for the rest of my days. You never know.

But, I would. I'd run away. Maybe I'll see you along the way.

Coffee and Cigarettes. Minus the Cigarette.

It's been four days since I've had a cigarette. And even with the little bit of comfort I get from the giant nicotine patch on my arm, not having one has put me in a bad, bad mood.

I'm pissed. At everything. My dog is annoying me. The job market is annoying me. Lines are annoying me. Traffic is annoying me. That bitch that's too scared to run the yellow light is annoying me. God, it's the vertical pedal on the right! Step on it! Or get off the road!

I want to gnaw my arm off. But I'm too determined to give up. I've been smoking on and off for eight years. I'm approaching 26. I either quit now or my songbird karaoke voice will forever be tainted. My goal in life is NOT to sound like one of Bart Simpson's two aunts. So, I must quit.

My daily routine of coffee and a cigarette in the morning no longer exists. My Friday night menthol with my Strongbow no longer exists. My cig to pass the time when I'm on a long drive no longer exists. My margarita and cig on the beach no longer exists.

Right now those facts amount to one thing: annoyance. My life sucks right now. I'm a junkie, and I'm coming off my drug.

According to Wikipedia, the level of addiction associated with cigarettes is equal to that of heroin and cocaine.

Great. Just what I wanted to hear. I'm glad there are sources like Wikipedia to make me realize how severe my addiction is. And how hard this will be. And how my pissiness is completely normal. Fuck off, Wikipedia. Kiss my ass. I hate you.

I just want a pizza. And now I'm pissed off the Papa John's guy is taking so long. I mean, seriously? Why the fuck does it take 40 minutes to cook a damn pizza and drive it half a mile? In 40 minutes, I can go to the grocery store, buy crust, tomato paste and cheese, come home, throw the damn thing in the oven, eat, and then go for a mile run.

I hate Papa John's. I hate cigarettes and the shit they've turned my last four days into. I hate everything.

Peace, I'm outta here.

Play the hand.

I read today that Randy Pausch died. In case you've been living in a hole for the past year, he became an overnight YouTube sensation and best-selling author with his "Last Lecture."

His message was simple. Achieve your childhood dreams.

When I first tried to remember my childhood dreams, I couldn't. I'm sure a lot of people go through the same thing. Growing older isn't fun, and a lot of those white-picket-fence hopes we had so long ago tend to disappear with each birthday.

So, I tried harder. And I remembered.

I wanted to be a ballerina. Then a lawyer, which originated with my first read of "To Kill A Mockingbird." Who didn't want to be Atticus Finch?

Then, a writer.

My mother has a hope chest in her bedroom. Since she was a teenager, she's filled it with pictures of homes, her favorite books, dolls and later on, baby clothes from my brother and I. In it, she has some of my earliest stories.

Before most kids could read, I was writing about the daily adventures of a giraffe I had fallen in love with in my mind. I wrote novels about kids my age becoming detectives or teachers or going on picnics with their happy families.

I don't know why I ever thought I could be anything else. Clearly, writing is in my blood. It is what I was meant to do. It is who I am, whether or not the job market wants to comply.

I've been searching frantically for a job for about six weeks now. Maybe more. Counting back only leaves me frustrated. I keep thinking, "I don't care what I get. I just need to pay the bills and make enough to put a few bucks away."

Being an administrative assistant or some marketing manager in charge of clients I know I won't like is not going to be easy. It's, obviously, not what I was meant to do. But, well, I can always write. And as long as I keep doing that, then I am achieving my childhood dreams.

I remember too, just wanting to be happy. Wanting to -- one day -- find someone that can make me laugh, cry happy tears, someone who loves me for me, someone who makes life easy. Even when it's not easy.

I never asked for much -- even as a kid. And the one hope I have is that I'm on the right track to achieving the dreams I set so long ago. I have God to help me along the way, a wonderful boyfriend, great friends and a family that's more than I could ever dream up.

I watched Randy Pausch's full-length "Last Lecture" this morning. And, in it, he says that sometimes you just have to play the hand you're dealt.

No matter how things turn out, I feel like I'm sitting on a Royal Flush. So beat that.

Race you to the water fountain.

I don't know what I did before bottled water. It goes with me to the gym, sits with me at the dinner table, rides with me in my car and is content rolling around my floorboard when I'm done with it. It's convenient. And convenience is always a plus in this crazy world.

According to an article in Fast Company, Americans spent more on bottled water last year than iPods and movie tickets. More than $15 billion was shelled out for Dasani, Fiji, Aquafina, Poland Spring and Evian. And next year, economists predict revenues will increase to $16 billion.

And for what? The United States has the world's largest supply of freshwater. About 5 out of 6 people in the world have no such luxury. We transport the equivalent of 37,800 18-wheelers full of water across the U.S. each week., consuming with disregard unbelievable amounts of gasoline and diesel fuel.

Hell, we spend hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on Fiji water, and half the people in Fiji don't know what fresh water tastes like.

Don't worry, it gets worse.

Where do all these bottles go, you ask? In the late 1980s, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration discovered the Great Pacific Garbage Patch in a remote area of the Pacific somewhere between Japan and California. There's a lot of scientific mumbo jumbo involved in the explanation, but basically, the world's ocean currents force much of the sea's pollution into one spot. And the wildlife is suffering because of it.

About 80 percent of the debris comes from land, but unlike ground trash, which biodegrades, the plastic found in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch breaks down into smaller and smaller pieces. So small that, ultimately, aquatic organisms and birds ingest it. Then, according to Wikipedia, "plastic waste thus enters the food chain through its intense concentration in the neuston. "

We are literally eating the plastic bottles we think make our life easier. Don't be naive. It's happening. Fast. Scientists say it takes debris from Japan about one year to make its way to the basin, and five years from the U.S. West Coast.

Not only that, the damn thing is gigantic. The basin is twice the size of Texas and contains some 3.5 million tons of trash, about 80 percent of which is plastic. Fish eat the plastic. Fisherman catch the fish. We eat the fish. It's not a slippery slope; it's common sense.

Do yourself a favor. Turn on the tap. Buy a Brita filter if you're too high-class to use a water fountain. I know I will.

Boob-B-Gone

When I was 12, I was the first girl in my class to need a training bra. While everyone else was perfecting their shapely humps with toilet paper and shoulder pads, I was flying high. I had boobs. And it was awesome. Granted, I was an A-cup, but at 12 years old, you can't ask for much more.

Unfortunately, I stayed that way. I had no boobs all the way through high school. On my best days, I filled a B-cup. But that was rare. I'm sure, if you were generous or sympathetic, you could say it was because I was an athlete. At 125 pounds, I was all muscle, which meant the two lovely sacks of fat on my chest didn't exist.

I didn't get it. All the other women in my family were more than well-endowed. When the hell did heavenly racks start skipping a generation?

I didn't truly experience anything beyond a beautiful B until college. Thank God for the Freshman 15. Sure, I packed on a few pounds. But thankfully, most of it went to my chest. I didn't care if my rear no longer fit into my size 6s, I had a rack. And a nice one at that. I had never even dreamed of being a C-cup. So I played it up with tank tops and low-cut shirts. Not for anyone else, mind you. Those boobs were for me.

They stayed, even after I lost (and gained) the Freshman 15 a few more times. I was in heaven. The rear had never been a problem of mine, so my new ta-tas just rounded out the equation a bit. And I loved it. Maintaining equilibrium with a couple of voluptuous jugs was gravy.

And then they were gone.

About six months ago, I got serious about working out again. I joined boot camp, made push-ups part of my daily routine and started running two miles (on most days). I was determined. I was getting that muscle-bound high school body back.

Everything was going fine until ... wait, where the hell did my boobs go? That wasn't part of the plan!

I'm now shrinking violently. All my bras, which I rarely wear anymore, are loose. They're probably about double the size they should be. And my beautiful ta-tas are all but gone. My boobs! Where the hell are my boobs! Oh God, what have you done to me!

I went swimming with a few of my cousins yesterday, and my cousin's wife, who just had a baby, decided to join us in the pool. I couldn't stop looking at her gigantic jugs. They were awesome. They sort of just floated on top of the water while mine were barely visible in my bathing suit.

God, you know, I don't ask for much. I work hard, I play hard, I keep good company. Why can't I just fill up an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder with confidence? Why God, whhhhhyyyyy?!

I'm a Little Teapot.

Yesterday, I needed to blow off some steam.

Usually, when that's the case, I go out and party like a rockstar, only to wake up and feel the same way. But yesterday was different. It was a rough one -- to the core. The kind of bad day where one thing irks you and everything else seems to hit like a ton of bricks. I needed to hit something.

So, I did what I do best (or used to do best anyway). I put on my old softball jersey and went to the batting cages. Alone. With a pocketful of dollars for the machine.

The place was packed for a Friday night. At the front of the building, two indoor soccer games were being played at once. People were crowded around, eating chili cheese fries, yelling at the ref and watching their daughters or cousins or sons or girlfriends run back and forth across a carpet spray-painted green.

No one was in the batting cages in the back. Thankfully. So I got 10 tokens -- 15 pitches a piece -- broke out my old Lisa Fernandez and went at it.

I was a little rusty, but I only missed one before I started shotgunning them back at the machine.

Ping, ping, ping. It was pretty obvious I was pissed. I was swinging as hard as I could at every pitch, to much avail. Each ball was something else -- the job market, some old boss that pissed me off, something keeping me from being truly happy. Anything. And everything.

I guess I was doing pretty good because about 10 minutes into my swinging, three guys in Polos walked over and started watching me from outside the cage. They didn't even say anything. They just sat there as I swung. They probably knew better. It's not often that a single girl goes to a batting cage by herself on a Friday night. They left eventually, but I glanced at one in between tokens once, and he seemed in awe.

When it was all over, I was sweating like a bitch, blistered on my left hand and overcome with a sense of relief. I had boiled over in that cage, like a damn teapot. And every time that ball came at me, I whistled.

It was nice. But I can definitely tell this morning how long it's been since I've been in a batting cage. My left thumb is one big blister, and it hurts. I have a newly formed callous under my pinky (the palm side) on the same hand, and I can feel it in my shoulders. I'm sore. I'm old. But it's OK.

It's worth it. I needed to whistle for a bit.

Mosquitoes.

I'm not sure what has me so interested in insects these days. Maybe because I've been spending a lot of time on my front stoop, fending them off. Watching them. Trying to figure out how a lonely gnat can find its place in this world when it's so damn hard for me to find a decent job.

Not to be too dreamy or anything, but ... well, at least I'm honest.

This morning I was thinking about mosquitoes. One was incessantly trying to gnaw my leg off while I led Penny out to a patch of grass to use the bathroom.

Those pesky bastards do not stop. They buzz around, hoping you'll forget about them after the first time you waft them away. They spend all their time hoping, calculating for a taste of sweet skin. Annoying you. Getting all their buddies to go for the same target so maybe one will distract you long enough for him to buzz in and get a nibble.

According to Wikipedia (my new favorite obsession), the "Mosquitoes" chapter in "Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things," (which I haven't read) states the nuisances are seen as reincarnations of the dead, condemned by the errors of their former lives to the condition of "blood-drinking pretas."

Damn. I don't really believe in reincarnation, but you've got to be one pathetic bastard to come back as something that miserable.

Mosquitoes have got to be one of the most evil predators on the planet. They're apparently responsible for the spread of global diseases -- some fatal -- and for what? They bite for nothing. They itch for a minute, but as long as you're not a victim of bird flu, they disappear after a few hours.

What is their purpose, really? Other than being blood-sucking bastard nuisances? I know a few people who -- if reincarnation actually did exist -- should come back as one.

Table for One

"The waitresses would be nice to me because I had no kids and therefore gave them no trouble aside from my unreasonable soda-refill desires. It was always hard to make myself go, especially facing that table-for-one moment, bluffing like it was a perfectly ordinary request. I had to be mighty hungry before I would even try, and more than once I got all the way to the parking lot and turned around."

Sometimes.

Sometimes I wish I was a millionaire. So I could ride around Atlanta in my Audi, beeping at assholes that don't drive fast enough. Or those that drive too fast. So I could buy the clothes I want to buy, eat the food I want to eat, pay off my credit card and worry only about what I'm going to do next.

Sometimes I wish I was REALLY Italian. So I could spend my afternoons reading a good book in the Tuscan sunflower fields. So I could indulge in homemade gelato at about 3 p.m., when everyone seems to hit the ice cream shops. So I could buy my leather sandals and my leather jackets and my linen skirts at sidewalk malls. The ones the tourists can't find. So Paris would be a jump away, Venice would be just a short train ride and spending a weekend on the Grecian islands would be the norm instead of just another dream vacation.

Sometimes I wish I didn't like chocolate. So depriving myself of Reese's peanut butter cups wouldn't be so torturous. So I wouldn't miss fudge while I'm chowing down on carrot sticks in the afternoon. So I'd be one of those health nuts who actually preferred soy crisps over chocolate milkshakes. Then maybe my 6-pack wouldn't be so hard to achieve. And my baby fat wouldn't have lasted 25 years.

Sometimes I wish the world wasn't so greedy. And people weren't so needy -- for attention or money or love from someone that didn't love them back. So people could just concentrate on their lives and how to improve them. Instead of bombs and wars and religious freedom (which doesn't come free). So I wouldn't have to worry what kind of place my child, whenever he or she comes, would have to deal with.

I wish a lot of things sometimes. But usually always, I'm just glad I'm me. And things are what they are. If they weren't, I wouldn't have met you. You wouldn't have met me. You probably wouldn't be reading this. And I wouldn't be as thankful for what I have.

I wish, above all else, that I can remember this feeling. Always.

Love.

If you hate someone, you hate them. There's no, "I hate you but I'm not in hate with you." It's solid. It doesn't change.

Not like love. That changes from person to person, from subject to subject.

This weekend, I saw the two extremes of love -- that of a new mother and child, and a couple in love.

My best friend finally had her son on Friday afternoon. She had a fairly rough pregnancy, considering she's so tiny and the baby was big. But it all happened quickly. Connor was born without incident, beautiful and a perfect 6 pounds, 10 ounces.

When I walked in to see her in the delivery room, I couldn't help but tear up. She was beautiful, glowing like I'd never seen her before. And he was flawless, full of innocence and instinctual love for his mother.

It was the purest form of love I've ever seen. I couldn't help but be blessed to be a part of it. All of a sudden, my best friend had a new family. And you could tell she was more in love with her life at that moment than ever.

That afternoon, I drove home to see my boyfriend. It was his last night before graduating Airborne school at Fort Benning. He just had a few hours of free time before he had to be back at the base.

When I saw him, he got out of his car, and ran to pick me up and hug me. You should have seen the way he looked at me. He's done it a few times before, but not always. Wide-eyed, dreamy. I imagine the same way I look at him.

I knew then, as I've known for awhile, that we were in love. And nothing, not distance or occupational hazards, could change that. It amazed me at that moment more than others before. And I'll never forget it.

Right now, I'm in love with love. And I don't care how obnoxious it is to everyone else.

Right now, if feels like it was made just for me and him. You know the kind ... where you feel like you're the only people in a crowded room. The kind where you want to see and touch each other at every moment of every day. The kind where you just sit and stare at each other, mapping out the details of their face.

It's totally lame, but totally lovely. You should try it someday.

Roly Poly

I've always loved roly-polys. Ever since I was little.

I remember sitting on my grandmother's front walkway, seeing them crawl all over the place. I used to like touching them just enough so they'd roll up in balls. I would never squash them like most kids, just give them a nudge or two.

They're all over the place right now. Crawling on the concrete patch where the dumpster sits outside my apartment. I haven't thought about roly-polys in a long time, until recently.

Today, when I took Penny outside, I realized for the first time how bad it would suck to be a roly-poly. All they do is crawl around, roll up in balls and occasionally get stuck on their back. I saw one this morning in that position. So I rolled him over. He scurried off to do God knows what.

According to Wikipedia, they don't even have any known predators. Ants don't even want to eat them. Imagine living only in dark, damp places, not having anyone who wants you.

Funny how what used to amaze you as a kid now seems sad, in a way.

Fear the Fear Itself

Sometimes I remind myself of what scares me. That way I won't be surprised by fear when it slaps me in the face. Here's a list, or something like it. Mostly for me; not so much for you.

• Sharks and deep water
• Needles/shots
• Marrying the wrong person
• Dying a violent death
• Poverty
• Losing another loved one

Fish Hooks and First Timers

I learned something this weekend. A few things actually. Starting with how I am a girl. And whether I like to admit it, I have girl moments.

On Saturday, after a day of lounging around, my boyfriend and a few friends decided to venture out to Lenny’s in Atlanta. I’d heard it was fun, but apparently, I wasn’t prepared.

I am a plain Jane. I’ll admit that. But I love to see different strokes in different arenas. The freaks, the geeks, the gays, the rednecks, I get off seeing how they all congregate. It’s healthy.

I knew when we pulled up I’d get my fair share of it all. Some guys were setting off fireworks in the parking lot while a DJ blasted some techno on the other end. Skateboarders were rolling around the lot, occasionally olleying on a makeshift ramp they’d built out of scrap wood.

We hadn’t even walked in yet. And I thought it was awesome.

A freakishly tall black man dressed head-to-toe in leather greeted me at the door. He had a Mohawk and a bull ring in his nose, which naturally captivated me. I felt a little out of place, but I was fine with it. So we ventured into the band room to check out the punk playing on stage.

An Asian chick with a fan flashing her tits danced on the platform while a guy banged away on his electric guitar. There were mohawks and black leather dresses, combat boots, a little S&M attire, a few dreads and … wait, what was that?

I glanced over at my roomie, who was standing in the corner, just in time to see her boyfriend jerk her away from a guy with a pink mohawk. She was dangerously close to getting jabbed by a fish hook sticking out of his back.

There was blood dripping off of it, and for a split second, I thought maybe it was two separate pieces stuck to him with some sort of costume glue. I thought, “No way in hell that’s what it appears to be.”

It’s called body suspension, my boyfriend explained. And yes, it’s real. He had seen it on the Discovery Channel.

Wikipedia defines it as “hanging the human body from (or partially from) hooks pierced through the flesh in various places around the body.” But to me, it was much more complex.

I have never, never in my life, been almost brought to tears by a group of people, an act, a “recreation,” anything that was said or felt by someone other than me. I am a naturally open-minded person, very accepting, wiling to hear others’ opinions and understand them before I pass (or don’t pass) judgment. But this was different. It felt wrong, perverted, dangerous, evil. Everything all rolled into one.

And then it started. My girl moment. I looked to my right, saw someone hanging from the ceiling with four strategically placed fish hooks in her back, and almost felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Not too long after, I looked at my boyfriend and told him I was leaving. “I have to get out of here. I don’t care how.”

He followed me outside, patiently, while I proceeded to attack him for not freaking out with me. Did he think this was normal? That this was something worthy of tolerance? What was wrong with these people? They were destroying their bodies, one of the greatest gifts we have.

It was bad. And I immediately knew I was wrong.

He explained that it wasn’t something he would do or encourage, by any means, but these were people, and who was he to say what they were doing was wrong? I needed to stop. They weren’t bothering me. And most of them look just like I do during the week anyway.

He was right. And I realized at that moment I was being one of the people I disrespect. I despise. I was being intolerant and judgmental. I was being a bitch.

I hadn’t seen that side of myself. And I didn’t like it when I did. So instead of hailing down a cab and leaving, I walked back to the porch outside the bar (the only area free of ceiling contraptions) and did what I intended to do. I enjoyed his company, had a few drinks and people watched.

This morning, after a night of fish hook dreams, I decided to research body suspension. Apparently, it’s a way to achieve euphoria, some sort of spiritual experience for some people. The hooks are temporary. Usually only worn for one night or two. And they can be placed in the chest or the back.

It’s weird, that’s for sure. I would never do it. Nor do I care to ever see it again. But, ironically, it taught me a little something about myself.

I can’t choose what or who to be tolerant of. I’m either accepting or I’m not. I’m either open-minded or closed like a locked door.

I choose to be open. Even if fish hooks don’t suit my black high heels.

Don't Eat the Apple

I got another wedding invitation yesterday. About the millionth I've received since I graduated from college four years ago. I'm not sure what makes people think they have to get married at this age or that age, but I'll tell you one thing. It's damn near depressing.

You have your whole life to spend with someone. Your whole life. And people feel that if you're not married by 25 or 26 or 29 you're missing out on something. If you're still single by then, then maybe you should just pick your most likely soul mate.

I know that sounds ridiculously bitter and jaded, but really. Most everyone I've seen that's married starts getting tired of each other at around the 5th year. And if not, definitely by the 10th. And if not, then their minds start to wonder and someone cheats, or someone thinks about cheating or they have a baby because they think that's going to solve all their problems -- when the truth is they won't be able to solve them. Because, most likely, they just picked the wrong person to spend the rest of their life with.

There are a few couples I know -- two actually -- that I really believe are going to make it. Yes, two, out of the million weddings I've been to. Other than that, well, I guess everyone else just made a hasty decision.

I wonder what's made us, as a society, that way. So quick to make decisions of that magnitude. When our parents' parents were married, that was it. There was no, "Well, if it doesn't work out we'll just get divorced." You fell madly, deeply in love with someone. You got married. And you were in it for the long haul. If you had differences down the road, you learned to love each other despite them. Despite all the troubles of the world that beat you down -- bad economies, Vietnam, four children who wouldn't stop crying, money troubles. All of it. You persevered.

Who wouldn't want that? That kind of love you know won't go away. The kind of love you don't want to go away. I guess maybe a lot of people just give up on it -- the idea that there's someone perfect out there for them. I guess maybe I'm one of the few people who still believes in it. Yes, I still believe in it. Even after watching more than a few friends in their 20s go through their first divorces.

Maybe some people miss that one person. Or they screw it up somehow. Maybe some people decide against it because they're one of those who stray from true happiness.

But it's there. For everyone. It's got to be.

There's an Adam to every Eve. The trick is just avoiding all the serpents along the way.

She Loved to Eat

A few days ago, a teenager was killed at Six Flags Over Georgia. He jumped two 6-foot fences to enter a restricted area underneath the Batman roller coaster, presumably to retrieve a hat that had flown off while he was enjoying the ride. He was decapitated by the coaster as it flew by.

Tragic. Especially since he was so young.

But what interested me most about the story wasn't how the accident happened. It was what his family members told the press that were covering the story.

A teary-eyed aunt of the boy said he "loved to eat," and he "was a ladies man."

She meant it sincerely, I'm sure. But it sounded so, so ... I mean, couldn't they come up with something better to sum up that boy's life?

It got me thinking. What will people -- friends and family -- say about me when I die? It's not morbid; just practical. Let's face it, the only two things that are for sure in this life is that we'll all be born and we'll all die. Sooner or later.

I'm not even sure what I WANT people to say. Maybe that I loved to write, I loved my family, I put everything in me into everything I did (except waiting tables). I loved to laugh. To smile. I loved long walks on the beach?

How do you define a person in a couple of words? A 10-second news bit? I have no idea. There are the standard, "She loved life" bits. The obligatory "She loved God and her family" comments.

It's easier, by far, to pick what I wouldn't want people to say. Like, for example, "She loved to eat." Or "She could drink most men under the table." Maybe even "Every once in a while she skipped brushing her teeth before she went to bed."

Make way for a 15-top

I'm officially a starving artist.

After six weeks of lounging around as an unemployed writer, I'll start my new part-timer today waiting tables. At a salsa club.

Fun. Not fun. I can't decide. I'm too damn old to be bringing cold beers and margaritas to college students going out on a Monday night. That's for sure. But thus is my life. Or so it's become.

I can't help but NOT be excited about branching out of my 9-to-5 dream world where I sit in front of a computer, pretend to write and surf MySpace all day. That wasn't exactly ideal either, but the perks were good. I had coffee made for me everyday. Lunch brought to my office. A view. Steady pay. Insurance. And I didn't have to shake my ass for some overweight 20-something trying to get his groove -- and his drunk -- on.

We'll see how it goes, I guess. If I leave tonight smelling like limes and fish tacos, I'm not sure how I'll last. I'm not opposed to hard work, sweaty work, but I've realized recently how spoiled I am in the career department.

A medium margarita? Salt or no salt?

So it goes.

Burnt Lasagna

I'm the only Italian woman I know who can't cook. And when I say "can't," I don't mean that lightly. You should see me in the kitchen. It's a mess. I'm usually scrambling around, measuring cups flying everywhere, searching for that one missing ingredient I usually always leave out.

I never meant for it to be this way.

My mother and grandmothers all learned to cook when they were 15 -- or younger. They have recipes passed down for generations, all dishes made from scratch, and they don't have to open a book to cook them. It's ridiculous.

Growing up, they never took time to teach me. Not because they didn't have the patience. But because the women in my family are all control freaks -- especially in the kitchen. They wanted to cook their dishes their way. And that didn't include my clumsy ass messing up their timing. I usually got stuck making hardboiled eggs or no-bake cherry cheesecake (the Jell-O kind).

Now I think it's almost too late for me. I tried to make lasagna for my boyfriend the other day and almost had a panic attack when I started to layer the noodles. I had to call my mom, who laughed at my shortness of breath.

It came out a little crispy. But I've found that wearing something sexy distracts whoever's eating my burnt lasagna just enough to excuse my lack of savvy in the kitchen.

So I can't handle lasagna. But I can rock a pair of red heels like there's no tomorrow.