Resolve.

This year, I resolve to write more, complain less, and love just as much.
This year, I want to be the best wife and the best friend.
And this year, I want to be there for my family. Even if I have to be 8,500 miles away.

In a jar.

I think when most people look back on their childhood, they think of what went wrong. Their parents' divorce, being the unpopular kid at school, not getting enough hugs, whatever.

The sadness isn't there for me though. We played kickball in the front yard until the street lights came on, caught fireflies in our hands at night, ran around barefoot, made homemade ice cream on the back porch, raced our bikes to the bottom of our cul-de-sac (or "the court," as we called it) everyday.

I don't know why I forget all the bad - the divorce, the absent father, being one of the only white kids in an all-black elementary and middle school. I guess my family made up for it.

My Papa, who we spent most of our time with in the afternoon when my grandmother and mom were at work (he owned a construction business, so he took off when we needed him), made life magical. He - along with my mom and grandma - gave us so much love we couldn't help but be happy. I'm sure all the after school Happy Meals from Mickey D's helped too.

We didn't have everything we wanted. And we didn't do all the things we wanted. But damn if we weren't thankful for what we were able to do.

That new video - Fireflies by Owl City - makes me think about that time. When everything moved at a slower pace. When I spent my time daydreaming about how my toys would play with each other when i was away at school. When we'd race home to watch "Saved by the Bell," then all meet outside for a game of kickball.

I'm so thankful for the way my life has unfolded. And for all the fireflies that hugged me along the way.

A Room Full of People.

I've been watching Intervention for a couple of years now.

I've seen meth addicts run butt naked down the street, alcoholics sneak away from work to refuel at the liquor store, fathers passed out on the couch after a three-day coke binge while their babies play nearby. Even one girl who couldn't stop huffing Duster long enough to eat a meal with her mother.

I've seen it all - well most of it. All from the confines of my living room.

It's devastating. Sometimes funny, but largely devastating.

Families are literally destroyed by drugs everyday. People die. They go to jail. They sit in a room full of sisters and best friends and mothers and fathers that love them, and they laugh in their face. "I'm not going."

Usually, they do. Usually, they at least try. A lot of the times, they relapse and fail. They go back to drugs or alcohol, and they fail. But, you know, at least they try. And if they tried once, they'll probably try again.

But what about all those other people? The ones not in front of the camera. And the ones that just say no? What about the anorexic that cannot and will not admit she has a problem? What about the heroin addict that looks millions of people on the other end of the camera right in the eyes and says, "I'd rather be dead." What about them? What about their room full of people? What do they do?

I've lost people - some living and some dead - to drugs. Some who won't even admit they have a problem. Some who don't even know that I've given up on them.

It's devastating. Heartbreaking. Something I will never, ever get over.

There's a part of me that's still mad at Brooke for getting behind the wheel. A part of me that still can't forgive Zack for not asking for help. And there's a part of me that cannot and will not ever forgive ... him. Or her. I can't say it, but I know I mean it.

I will never forgive them, but I would sit in their room full of people any day of the week. And I will still love them like crazy even though they'll do the same things over again. That's the painful thing about the drugs, and the unforgettable thing about family.

Everyone does stupid shit at one point or another. It's whether you grow from it that counts. Whether you have that day where you wake up and say, "Enough." That's what really matters. That and how much love you give your room full of people back.

Up Your Dot Com.

Irony does not translate well on paper, a wise man once said.

I’m not quite sure who that wise man was, but I read that quote back when I was a journalism student. It resonated even then, even before I joined Myspace and Facebook. And even before I LinkedIn to the unforgiving cyber community.

You know, back before “paper” turned into walls and photo comments and status updates.

I don’t know if I’ve just been in a bitchy mood lately, or if I’ve just fallen victim to one too many Internet arguments. But irony has not been translating well for me. … Hell, it hasn’t been translating at all.

I swear, if one more person tries to tell me one of my photos is inappropriate or that I shouldn’t post so many of me in a bar, I’m going ape shit. I mean, seriously. I’ve literally left lunch with a person, only to return to my desk and find an e-mail in my inbox criticizing something I said or something I did. Something they didn’t have the courage to say when I was sitting right in front of them.

Grow some balls, asshole.

If I wanted to be philosophical, I’d probably ask what has made us as a society feel more comfortable clicking “Send” than picking up a phone. What has given us the courage to call someone out on their politically charged status updates (et al) but when confronted, just nod, smile and say, “Hmm-mmm, you’re right.”

That’s if I wanted to be philosophical. Right now though, I just want to bitch and maybe kick some ass.

I’ve just about had it with Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn, Twitter, your blog, your mom and your face.

You can all take your Dot Coms, blogs, profiles, lists, bookmarks, private photo albums, status updates and videos and shove it up your asses for all I care. I don’t want you in my life.

That being said, if it’s all right with you, I’ll probably keep you on my Friends list. I’m a big fan of stalking.

Tale of a Tortoise Shell.

I went diving yesterday for the first time in two weekends. You could tell some of the fish were still hibernating somewhere distant, away from the potential destruction of typhoon season. The winds and the rain have scared most everything out of the water it seems.

On the day's second dive, the boat captain decided on a slow and easy drift dive, just outside Apra Harbor. They call it Vecky's Wall, and it's not a popular spot. Thank goodness.

Divers who truly love the water leave nothing but bubbles, and take nothing but pictures. Usually, that's me. But yesterday, on that second dive, as soon as I hit the water, I saw the most beautiful tortoise patterned shell I've ever seen. I mean, it was perfect.

No broken pieces, no barnacles, just a beautiful shell. One problem though - something was living inside of it. So, being the selfish person that I can often be, decided, what the hell, I'm taking it. Whatever is in it will probably die by the time I get home. Then I can set the shell on my window sill and enjoy it every day.

Wrong. It's not been more than 24 hours and the poor snail inside the shell is still living. I feel so barbaric, sitting around waiting for it to die. It's sitting in my sink, in what I'm sure it's figured out by now is it's above ground death bed.

Poor thing. Every once in awhile I'll peek at it. It must hear me coming because it sucks itself back into its beautiful shell every time I crane my neck to see.

I feel terrible. Next time, I'm only taking pictures.

Bless my heart.

I woke up late this morning. Not that it was a bad start because the reason I overslept is a sweet one. Brent called at 4 a.m. just to tell me he was wide awake and all he could think of was me. It took me forever to go back to sleep, and when I finally did, it was deep enough to snooze right through the alarm.

By the time I got to work, my mental to-do list was as long as the 30-minute drive. I have a huge launch coming up for Shell – one that should take 6 months of preparation – and for some reason my client decided to tell me two weeks ago we were doing it by Oct. 1. Fantastic.

My boss is taking the opportunity to pile as much other shit on as possible, and it seems like the more I try, the harder it is to get anything done on Guam. There is no such thing as a deadline on an island. Where else in the world would it take two weeks to get a price estimate? Seriously.

There may be a silver lining to today though. After getting my car detailed yesterday, I’m just in time to show it to a potential buyer. Not that I don’t love my Altima, it’s just that I could get by much cheaper and just as good with a Guam bomb. Not that I even need one right now – I have Brent’s car to get me around.

Nate from Chalan Pago called me Monday night to set up a time. He was really interested in the car, asked all kinds of questions about it. Let me call to make sure we’re still on for my lunch break. Hi, is Nate there?

“Nate? What’s your relation to him?”
“Um, he called me about a car.”
“A car? Hold the line, please.”
“Hi, this is Nate.”
“Hi Nate. This is Amanda. Are we still on for 12:30?”
“Amanda who?”
“Uh, Amanda with the Altima.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nate from Chalan Pago? At 688-0945?”
“Yeah, that’s me. But I didn’t call you about a car.”
“Uh, ok. Bye.”

Great. What the hell? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Well so much for getting my hopes up about that. I should have known. Last time Brent and I went to look at a car here, the guy showed up 2 hours late. No exaggeration. That’s Guam for you!

To-do list or no to-do list, I have to be home at 2:30 to meet the cable guy. My TV, phone and Internet (thank goodness for bundles!) have been out for nearly a week. And since I can’t do “all day appointments,” I had to reschedule for one during the work day. Before you ask, no, my bill isn’t overdue. For some reason, everything just shut off one day.

I walk in to the sound of rushing water. What the hell? The plumber just came to fix the toilet yesterday (after I had requested two weeks earlier he find out what was making it run constantly). What’s wrong now?

Oh, wow. Overflowing water in my bathroom. Great, the OFF nozzle isn’t turning it off. This is amazing. Landlord, water department, someone help!

“No worry, no worry, he on de way.” … Yeah, well, look lady, he’s been “on de way” for 45 MINUTES now and in the meantime, there’s an inch of water in my bedroom and it’s rushing into my closet. And now I’m crying. What do you mean the water department can’t help me? Do I look like a maintenance man! We pay an arm and a leg (literally!) for rent around here and that’s all you can tell me? He on de way?

Where the hell is Brent? This is a man’s job! Oh my god, I’m losing it. Great timing too! The plumber just pulled up. And only an hour too late!

Ring, ring. No worries, just my boss again to yell at me for something I had no control over. Oh wait, she hears that I’m sobbing uncontrollably and decides to give me a break. Silver lining on the horizon!

Only one solution - chocolate chip cookie dough. Yes, I did it. I made cookies just so I could dip into the dough. Damn, I feel better already. But I hear the gym calling ...

Wake Up.

Yeah, sure, so I can't sleep until 11 a.m. like some people. And most of the time, if I lay down for a nap, chances are I'm going to get antsy and get up to do the dishes or fold laundry after about 10 minutes.

So what? So I can't waste my days away sleeping. That doesn't mean that I don't hit the bed like a log at night, dream peaceful dreams and wake up all refreshed. Right?

Wrong.
So wrong.

I am officially an insomniac.
Or at least I have been for the past three weeks. It doesn't matter how tired I am, I'm up at 2:30 or 3 a.m., wondering what the hell I did wrong for God to suddenly stop letting me sleep through the night. I've never had this problem. Ever.

It's ridiculously frustrating, and I have a good idea why it's happening now.
King-sized beds are not meant to be slept in alone.

This deployment is affecting my sleep life, among other things.

The Proposal.

People are dying to know, and since I've already told the story a million and one times, I decided to write it down so I didn't have to tell it again. Not that I mind telling it. It's just that I think maybe I should have a written record of this sort of thing.

So, ever since I moved to Guam, my dear, dear boyfriend has said that he wanted to marry me "someday." He's spent MONTHS telling me how much he loves me, how he can't wait to spend forever with me and how one day we're probably going to have a daughter that'll give us as much hell as I gave my mom. He even asked about my ring size.

It got so bad, that one day I said, "Look, baby. I love you to death. And I can't wait to spend my life with you. But I'm not saying one more thing about a wedding or a marriage or kids until I have a ring on my finger."

And that was that. Almost.

Every once in awhile he'd slip up and say things like, "Where would you want to get married?" And so on and so forth. And every time, I'd just look away, smile and reply, "Not without a ring."
I knew something was up when he came back from San Diego on his work trip. He was cheesing so bad he could barely look at me when I ran up to him at the airport. ... That boy can't hide anything from me, I swear.

Well, from then on it was just a waiting game. I had assumed maybe he'd propose on our one-year anniversary (this upcoming weekend). But about a week before, on Thursday night, I got antsy. He brought up something along the lines of "Baby, when we have kids ..." and I just lost it.
"We're never gonna have kids! We're never gonna have kids because you're never gonna ask me to marry you! I know it! You're never gonna ask me!"

I was half laughing the entire time, but it must have been hormones or something because the other half of me was serious. He said, "Well, how do you know I haven't been carrying a ring around in my pocket this whole time just waiting for the right opportunity?"

"Come here!" I said.
So he did, and I patted down his pockets.
"See? I didn't think so!"

He just laughed at me, and we ended the conversation there. Everyone that knows me knows I'm impatient as hell. So I'm not even gonna try to make excuses for that one.

The next night, Friday, we were lounging around the house at about 7 p.m. We had planned on going out to meet friends, but we weren't in a hurry. He wanted to go out and eat, but I decided to cook tacos instead.

So there I was, in the kitchen chopping an onion when he comes up behind me.

"Put down the knife and turn around," he said.

"Baby, I'm doing something. Can't you see I'm trying to make you dinner?"

"Just do it!"

So I sighed, turned around and he met me with a big hug. "I'm gonna marry you some day," he said.

I kind of laughed and thought to myself, "Here we go again. Some day."
Then all of a sudden, he gets down on one knee and pops out a ring.

"Will you marry me?"

I was so shocked all I could do was look at him, look at the ring and say, "My gosh, baby! I'm cooking dinner!" He just smiled and said, "Well, is that a yes?"

"Well, of course it is! Yes! Yes!"

So, that's that. I'm finally engaged to the man of my dreams, and there's no way in hell I could be any happier. I think we've both known for a long, long time that we wanted to spend forever with each other. We were just playing the waiting game because it was what we were supposed to do.

Hope you enjoyed the story. If any of you know us, I'm sure you know that this proposal was better than any fancy dinner or any sunset surprise he could have thought up. It was just us. In our home. On the best Friday night of my life.

We'll let you know when we plan on getting hitched.
Love you all!
-The Future Mrs. Lawson

Searching.

I have a friend who's searching.

I have a friend who has no idea where her life is going, no idea what move to make next or if her next decision will be the one that finally leads her where she's supposed to go.

She is absolutely gorgeous, and has one of those laughs that make you want to dig up every old joke you've ever heard. One of those smiles that can change the mood of a room. But ... if you really look, you would know. She's searching for something that's not there.

I see her better than most, I suppose, because I see in her eyes what I used to see radiating from my own. What I used to feel when I would see other couples or other people who knew -- without a doubt -- what they wanted to do with their lives.

It didn't matter if they were lawyers or mothers or secretaries or politicians I used to interview back in my days as a reporter. If I saw that certainty, I was jealous. Because even though I may have looked like I had it all together, I didn't know anything.

I used to be weighed down so much by what I'd lost. The people I no longer had with me, the jobs I could have had, the educational trek I should have taken ... I never knew what it meant to be secure in how things were.

I almost had myself convinced that the certainty I saw in all those other people's eyes just wasn't in the cards for me.

Almost.

Things are different when you're no longer searching. They're different because you find the kind of love you read about in storybooks, and you come to terms with the career choices you've made. You realize, almost catharticly, that everything you've ever wanted is right there.

It's there on late Saturday mornings when you decide to eat breakfast in bed. Or Friday nights when you say, "Babe, let's stay home tonight." And it's there during the week when you finally get that big project done and your boss says, "Good job. Now about that other thing."

Everything I could ever want is with me. In the very fiber of my being, which I didn't even understand when I heard people say before.

I'm finally at peace. Finally at an understanding with God and the world that everything will always, always turn out as it should.

Sometimes, just after the laughter from my jokes wears off, I want to say to her, "It's OK. Everything will be all right. Just go where the wind takes you."

Final answer.

All I ever write about is love anymore. So maybe, for the sake of diversity, I'll try to write about something different. Something entirely different ...

How about money? Yeah, money. I can write about that.

So ... I watched "Slumdog Millionaire" for the first time tonight, and I have to admit -- I balled my eyes out. I'm a girl, so I'm allowed to do things like that. Cry, that is. Not watch movies. Everyone watches movies ... or at least they should.

It was amazing. And the part that amazed me the most wasn't that people actually live like that. I've read enough books and heard enough stories and Googled enough countries to know slums like that do exist. The amazing part was how drinking out of the same river where people go to the bathroom doesn't automatically kill your soul. Dash your hopes. And make you not want to live another day.

Slums -- not like downtown Atlanta slums. Or Ponce de Leon slums. Or even the big-time slums of New York City can touch the slums of Mumbai. They are the definition of hopelessness. Where 50 rupees would make you sell an autographed picture of your brother's all-time favorite hero. One that he would literally swim through waste to get.

Those kind of places are where money is not a means to an end. It's an ideal. A way out. An escape from the writhing pain and fear everyone lives in. Or at least that's how I imagine it has to be like.

Then again, I've never been without shoes. Or water. Or food. I can't remember not having a car or a bike or a church or a family. And I'm not sure I could live without my dignity. I think I would rather die. I think.

That is the great thing about the human spirit. It is true what they say, or what someone once said, that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. It may even numb you for awhile, but it doesn't kill you.

At the risk of going back to my favorite subject, the one thing they couldn't live without was love. Even when their mother was gone, they had to have one or the other -- love or money -- to even have a reason to live. One went one way, one went the other. And, as you see, love conquers all. Even when a million rupees hangs in the balance.

Eyes on Fire.

I am obsessed with Twilight.

I've read all the books, bought the DVD (and watched it a handful of times already), downloaded the soundtrack, Googled Rob Pattison and gritted my teeth when I realized "New Moon" wouldn't hit theaters until November. I am truly obsessed. And, up until today, I have had no idea how to answer the question I've been asked so many times -- "That's for teenage girls. Why do you like it so much?"

Finally, as I was listening to my newly synced soundtrack, I realized ...
Sure, vampires are sexy. Well, at least Edward Cullen. And sure, it's well-written. And of course, it's a great story.

But that's not it. I've read plenty of good books and have fallen in love with plenty of great characters throughout them all. But Stephanie Plum from Janet Evanovich's novels (who I loved with a capital L) and Alexander Cross (James Patterson's irresistible forensic psychologist) didn't capture my heart as much as Mr. Cullen.

It's the love.

I realize this is corny as shit, but ...

I am in love with Twilight because of the love. Because of the forbidden love that no one thought would work except Edward and Bella. The love that went against every fiber in his being, the love that should have destroyed everything instead of made it better. The same kind of love, that say, would send you across the world. ... Maybe even 8,500 miles, to be exact.

So maybe I'm not Bella. And maybe, even in my wildest dreams, my boyfriend will never lunge at my neck when dinner isn't on the table when he gets home. But, maybe, just maybe, he's my own personal Edward. Or Romeo, if you're old-fashioned.

When I left Georgia the first time to follow my boyfriend to Guam, no one thought it would work. Hell, even my mom, who had never seen me as happy as I was back then, made me buy a two-way ticket -- just so I wouldn't get stuck on an island halfway around the world.

It wasn't until two weeks ago, when I went home for the first time since I'd moved out here, that people actually started believing I had not totally lost my mind. That this was real. And the move I had made months ago wasn't out of lust or total insanity. I was just doing what I knew was right -- following the path I was supposed to follow.

So, yeah, that's my story. That's the reason why I love Twilight, even though some people may think it's just another corny, teenage tale of star-crossed lovers. In a way, it's my own personal fair tale. Even if mine doesn't come with a real-life, vampire Edward.

Punch in the Face.

So Facebook has this new application (God, I hate applications) that lets you choose your Top 5 of any given subject. Top 5 cars you wish you had, Top 5 cities you've lived in, Top 5 favorite movies, even Top 5 people you'd like to punch in the face.

I had fun with that one, although a Top 20 would have been more suitable. And more fun if you could choose people that were actually on Facebook instead of just celebrities (there are a few ex friends that come to mind).

Here are few, for your own amusement:
1. Lindsay Lohan
2. Paris Hilton
3. Tom Cruise
4. Madonna
5. Bill O'Reilly
6. 90% of the GOP
7. Chris Rock
8. Angelina Jolie
9. Nick Saban
10. Otis Brumby

My boss is constantly telling me about people she'd love to punch in the face. But apparently, it's not meant to be mean-spirited. In Chamorro, it's a term of endearment. She always tells this other account manager that her kid is so cute she just wants to punch him in the face. Who the hell says that? Really?

Anyway, it works. I may start saying that to people randomly. And if they looked at me shocked I'll just say, "Don't worry, man. That's a good thing." Ha.

Beauty in the Breakdown

I love airports. Always have.

There's something about the hellos and the good-byes of total strangers. Something so raw -- emotionally -- it's hard for me to resist. And with 30 hours of travel between Atlanta and Guam, it's even harder to avoid staring. I've found myself many times gawking at happy couples or busy businessmen making their way from one point in the world to another.

Yes, I'm that weird girl in the airport wearing her iPod, just watching. I watch women chase after their babies, men in camoflauge hats and sweatpants play on their Blackberry obsessions, couples hold each other just outside security while only one held a suitcase, and parents run to hug their sons or daughters in uniform who just walked out of the terminal.

Airports are the best place to see the best and worst parts of life -- the hellos and the good-byes. Ultimately, you can't say one without saying the other. And ultimately, everyone has to do it at least once.

I wish there were more hellos than good-byes, but it seems lately, I've had many more of the latter to endure. More tears and farewell hugs than greetings. But I guess that's what being thousands of miles from "home" will get you. Not to mention a boyfriend in the military.

While that's hard most of the time, I think saying good-bye makes you appreciate the hellos that much more. It makes waiting in the airport something different than just a means to an end. Almost euphoric ... cathartic.

I met a guy named Tommy while I was waiting for my flight to Chicago. He was coming from Charleston, headed to California to visit family. A few months earlier, he had been moose hunting in Denali National Forest in Alaska and skydiving in Colorado with his dad, who said he wanted to try more things after he recovered from a heart attack. Tommy had tattoos on both arms and he carried one small suitcase for a 2-week trip. I doubt he'd checked any bags, as I had.

It's people like that that make life so interesting. People like the couples who seem like they could hug forever just outside security. In a way it's comforting, to know that other people have to go through the same things I do. The good-byes. And the business trips. And the vacations that never seem to last long enough. It makes me think we're all just the same ... in a different way.

There's beauty in the break down.

No Place Like ...

It's true what they say, you know. About home. About how you never really appreciate it until you're gone. I can attest to it because I'm living it. Right now.

I'm 8,500 miles away from where I grew up, the house I moved out of when I was 17. And it sure feels like it sometimes. Right about now is where that whole appreciation part comes in.

I'm thankful that I remember how the breeze felt when my mom used to open the front door and the back door at the same time. I'm thankful I remember how the red clay outside would track in every time someone came in. And I remember how the pear tree in the front yard was just a shrub when we moved there 11 years ago. Now it's tallest branch is in line with the rooftop.

I appreciate how my old bedroom door needs a good shove to get it to shut all the way. And how the hot water in the shower takes a little longer to get hot than it should. I appreciate the smell. The bay windows in the breakfast room with a view out to our woods. And the deer that sometimes come right up by the back porch to eat whatever they can find in my stepfather's manicured lawn.

Yeah, that's home. My home. Wherever I go, that will not change. Kind of sad, really ... knowing that no matter how happy I am or how much I love my boyfriend, a part of me will always be in Georgia.

It will be in my mom's front yard, where I used to play while my grandpa was building our house so long ago. It will be on my grandparents' old gazebo, where we used to churn old school vanilla ice cream with my grandfather. And in my Oma's pool down the road, where my brother and I and all of our cousins would swim around and around and around, trying to make a whirlpool with just the weight of our tiny bodies.

It will be in our old court, where we'd race to the bottom on our banana seat bikes after a game of kickball. And it will be on the softball field in Harris County, where I shed as many tears as I did drops of sweat, and where I learned that sometimes loss is just as important to the soul as victory.

That is where my home is. Sometimes I wish it wasn't so far away.

Great Expectations

I'm not sure what it is about me. I'm not sure what happened in my life that has made me expect so much out of people.

With all the loves I've seen destroyed and all the loss I've had to go through, you would think it'd be the opposite. I shouldn't expect anything from anyone. I shouldn't trust a soul. Or have great expectations for friends or family members or politicians who gained my vote.

But I do. And I think that's one of my greatest downfalls. I expect a lot. Not in a bad way. I just have such admiration for people in my life, I guess I tend to put them on pedestals. And when someone falls off that pedestal, I take it personal.

I wish sometimes I could be one of those people who doesn't care what people I know are going through. I wish I didn't take things to heart. Or feel hurt for people I know are hurting. I wish I didn't feel like I need to tell people when I think they've fucked up.

I wish I didn't have the admiration I have for people in my life. That way, I could get used to them screwing up. No one is perfect, I know that. But it's screwing up the things -- the relationships -- that gets me the most.

How do you start not to care?

Extra Cheesy Blasphemy

I have never been a cook.

My whole life, I sat idly by watching while my mom and grandmothers during holidays while they slaved over homemade casseroles and basted turkeys and desserts that can make your mouth melt just thinking about them. I watched my family's eyes light up every time my Oma said she was making her homemade lasagna. And I watched my mom hammer out a two-page spaghetti and meatballs recipe like it was old news.

And now -- finally -- I have learned my way around an oven (and a food processor, a hand mixer, a stove and a griddle).

I am no longer afraid of my mother's lasagna recipe -- or a hundred others. And I'm even trying new things, like spicy Cajun shrimp pasta, stuffed peppers with corn salsa and made-from-scratch oatmeal cookies. I am learning the finer points to timing out a meal, and I can even make one from a few odds and ends in the pantry.

I, Amanda Casciaro, can cook.

Because I can cook, I can so without remorse that I am highly offended by Pizza Hut's new advertising campaign. So they say they're selling lasagna, huh? Pssshhhfff.

Do they expect me to believe that could pass for lasagna? And do they expect me to believe they tested their two-bit dish on Italians, who compared it to their "momma's" within range of hidden cameras? They've got to be kidding me.

I am shocked. Shocked and appalled. Shocked, appalled and disgusted. And I can say that, because I've tasted that glorified dog food they brand as "lasagna." The "lasagna" with the sauce that tastes like it's been sitting on a shelf in a can for five years. The "lasagna" with layers so thin you can barely tell they included ricotta cheese. The "lasagna" they serve in a tin foil pan.

Yeah, "lasagna." I spit on that lasagna. And I bet my great-grandmother would too, if she wasn't rolling over in her grave right now.

It's blasphemous. And I, a proud Italian woman and a cook, am ashamed. I am ashamed at Pizza Hut. I am ashamed at whatever soulless advertising agency came up with that campaign. And I am ashamed at the actors and "Italians" in those commercials.

That is blasphemy. Pure and simple. With extra, stale, pasteurized cheese.

In and Out.

When you are a writer, by nature, you are always writing about something. Always putting thoughts and subjects and current events together to form sentences and paragraphs and pages about life. Even if you never get those sentences and paragraphs down on paper.

You are always relating something to something bigger. People to beliefs. Beliefs to an overall meaning about life. The weather to how the world works.

It is what it is, as someone I used to know used to say.

You get used to missing the boat. Forgetting about the truths you discovered over lunch and promised you would write down when you got home. Remembering what you said you would write about, and then realizing it didn't matter as much as you thought it did at the time.

There have been so many things I've wanted to write about in the past few months. But because of my unwillingness to sit down at my computer, I can't tell you what half of those things are now. I've let my beloved blog fall by the waist side. And I have no reason or excuse why I've let that happen.

So, instead of trying to conjure up all the missed pages, I'll just start anew. I'll start with my new favorite hobby -- scuba.

When I first learned to scuba, it was in a pool in February. Guam doesn't have winter or fall, so the water was warm. And I was terrified.

It was strange how just learning to breathe felt so unnatural. Granted breathing underwater is, by nature, unnatural. But still. You have air, so it should be easy. In and out, in and out -- it's that simple.

It wasn't simple at all though, that first time. Letting go of gravity, trading my flip-flops for fins, learning to see straight ahead instead of side-to-side, it was all hard. But now that I've done it, I'll tell you what I like most.

It's the nothingness. It's having control of everything and nothing at the same time. It's not talking. Not walking. Not being able to run away or jet up to the surface when you see something bigger than you in the water. It's just ... breathing.

Sometimes that is so taken for granted. There is work and laundry and dishes and love and TV and Myspace and family and time differences and learning to cook and making new friends and keeping the old. There's keeping my relationship with God and making it better and being the person that I want to be and loving the person I'm with.

There's everything. There's everything in my life that's worthy of my time. There's everything that keeps me from just breathing.

I would not trade who I am for a second. I would not sacrifice any part of my life for anything in the world. And I would not give up one person in my world ... well, for the world. But there is something so satisfying about breathing.

In and out, in and out.