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.