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.