Table for One

Remission Rocks.

2010-05-17T20:06:00.003+10:00

There's a girl I know.

She doesn't know me, but I remember meeting her some time in college. She was a friend of a friend. An absolutely gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed Southern belle.

Several months ago, I saw a comment from her on our mutual friend's Facebook page. I recognized her name, so I clicked on it.

Her profile was a mess of well wishes. Statuses about chemo, doctors' prognoses, prayers. I couldn't believe it. She had leukemia.

Twenty-five years old and she had leukemia. And there I was, that same day, worrying about my low paycheck and wondering if we were going to find a house to move into before we left for vacation. I was sitting on my couch, mindlessly checking a ridiculously meaningless website.

And she had leukemia.

I was shocked. From the looks of it, she was going through the works - intense chemo. I thought about her on random days after that. What she must be going through, the pain her husband must be feeling, how she probably couldn't even enjoy a good bowl of ice cream without feeling nauseated.

I've watched enough people go through chemo to know what it does to your body. What it does to your soul. It kills you softly, sometimes even worse than the cancer.

Today, I thought about her again, just like I had on all those random days. But this time, I thought I'd see how she was doing instead of just wondering. I got on Facebook, searched her name, and while the hourglass spun, I got scared that maybe I'd find a page lost in space. One like Brooke's - one that lingers idle after someone dies.

Page loaded.

Status - "remission rocks. :)"

It is amazing how people you hardly know, people who couldn't pick you out in a crowd, can have such an impact on your life.

There are other people like that - other people who have taken my breathe away, influenced me without even knowing it. I bet they have no idea what they've done.

Bloom for you.

2010-01-05T20:55:00.005+10:00

When I first moved to Guam, Brent introduced me to a plant he bought at the Micronesia Craft Fair. It was some fancy schmancy succulent garden, planted ever so systematically in the holes of a large piece of wood, then cemented into a clay pot.

Sounds ridiculous, but it really was beautiful.

He named it our Tree of Love, and it quickly became our little joke. If you didn't water the Tree of Love one day, well, you can imagine the scrutiny.

No matter how much both of us wanted to keep the little guy alive, we sort of just lost interest. It's incredibly difficult to water a piece of bark with no soil. So, needless to say, the Tree of Love soon met its demise.

Before he left for deployment, we decided to invest in another, soil friendly Tree of Love, which we aptly named No. 2.

It was a plumeria, and if you know anything about plumerias, or most any other plants, you would know they love sunlight. And water. Imagine that.

My grandmother once told me that a good Southern woman knows her flowers. And grandma was right. We do know them, but that damn sure doesn't mean we all know how to grow them - or keep them alive for that matter.

Long story short, Tree of Love No. 2 quickly became a tall green stick in a pot of soil. The leaves fell off, the beautiful white bloom disintegrated, and I just wasn't in the mood for resuscitation.

I let it go for months. Every once in awhile, I'd pour some water in the pot, but Tree of Love No. 2 just would not reason with me. He refused to grow, and for awhile, I came to the conclusion he just wanted to be left alone to die.

About a month ago, when I put up the Christmas tree, Tree of Love No. 2 became more of a nuisance than a project. He was in the way of my prime holiday decoration. And I just wasn't going to have a dead piece of wood in a red pot messing up my Christmas spirit. "Well hell," I thought. "Maybe I'll just stick him on the back porch and see what happens."

He took instantly to the rain and sun. It turns out plants like that sort of thing.

I've been keeping an eye on him all these weeks, even pulling him inside when the rain or wind got to be too much. I left him by the bedroom window though, so he wouldn't be too far from his Vitamin D.

Eventually, leaves started to sprout. And today, when I came home from work, I looked out the window and gasped. Our Tree of Love No. 2 is in bloom again. It's a tiny bloom, just one lonely little white flower, but it's definitely there.

Funny how after 6 months of Brent and I being apart, our little friend decides to show his true colors just before my baby comes home. They say everything happens for a reason, and all that jazz.

I never thought a stick in a pot would remind me of that.

Beyond.

2010-01-01T11:57:00.004+10:00

I had a friend that used to say that a lot. That he was beyond. He's French, so I always thought it was just some phrase that had gotten lost in translation.

How are you doing?, you'd say.
Oh, I'm just beyond, his reply.

Sometimes he'd elaborate. Beyond this or beyond that. I never knew what that meant until now. Turns out I was right. It is something lost in translation - but not how you think.

Last night I rang in the New Year with a group of friends. We bar hopped, I saw a few people I hadn't seen in awhile, and no matter where we went, it never failed. I bet you're excited about getting your man back soon, huh?

Everywhere I went, someone asked me about him. Or brought it up when I'd look at my watch to check the time. Or the few times in the night that I phased out and seemed to just be staring into space.

Beyond.

That's all I could think. I'm so beyond excited. Beyond being happy. Beyond feeling, really. Love, right now, is just pain to me. There is joy, of course, but with every joy there's hurt. I can't physically share anything with him right now. I can't touch him. I can't be touched. I can't look in his eyes. Or explain to him with mine how horrible or beautiful my days are.

Being alone and in love is so beyond what anyone can ever know. Separation is inexplicable. It seems like sometimes I'm the only one that does know. The only person who knows how tragic this has been.

Right now, there is no counting down. It's beyond that. It's beyond watching the calendar or trying to figure out how many minutes have to pass before I can see him again. It's like being lost in space.

I just want him home. I want to feel like I'm not some zombie just going through the motions. I want to feel like my days are about more than just staying busy. I want to feel like everything I could ever want is within my grasp again. Not beyond my control.

Resolve.

2009-12-30T15:57:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-11-30T14:36:00.004+10:00

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.

2009-11-24T20:16:00.003+10:00

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.

2009-11-04T20:41:00.001+10:00

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.

2009-10-12T18:31:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-08-19T18:37:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-08-03T02:54:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-05-19T14:46:00.007+10:00

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.

2009-05-01T20:21:00.003+10:00

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.

2009-04-29T20:44:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-04-23T17:42:00.002+10:00

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.

2009-04-22T15:32:00.002+10:00

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

2009-04-21T20:16:00.004+10:00

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 ...

2009-03-16T21:42:00.003+10:00

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

2009-03-08T18:22:00.003+10:00

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

2009-03-04T20:58:00.003+10:00

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.

2009-03-02T20:54:00.005+10:00

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.

Shred It.

2008-12-29T12:34:00.003+10:00

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

2008-12-26T14:07:00.007+10:00

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.

2008-12-17T09:54:00.003+10:00

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.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

2008-12-10T14:07:00.004+10:00

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?

2008-12-08T16:25:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-12-04T15:14:00.003+10:00

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

2008-11-13T09:47:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-09-03T09:25:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-09-02T04:59:00.004+10:00

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.

2008-08-29T10:57:00.006+10:00

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.

2008-08-28T11:59:00.004+10:00

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

2008-08-28T10:08:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-08-10T14:32:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-08-01T00:04:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-07-31T04:32:00.004+10:00

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.

2008-07-30T06:10:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-07-29T11:03:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-07-26T07:13:00.006+10:00

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.

2008-07-26T00:56:00.004+10:00

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.

2008-07-25T04:50:00.006+10:00

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

2008-07-22T02:32:00.004+10:00

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.

2008-07-19T21:08:00.002+10:00

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.

2008-07-17T23:13:00.003+10:00

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

2008-07-17T23:08:00.002+10:00

"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.

2008-07-17T06:54:00.003+10:00

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.

2008-07-12T23:50:00.006+10:00

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

2008-07-09T22:46:00.004+10:00

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

2008-07-08T13:40:00.002+10:00

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

2008-07-07T06:04:00.004+10:00

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

2008-07-03T05:51:00.004+10:00

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

2008-07-02T01:50:00.002+10:00

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

2008-07-01T02:30:00.000+10:00

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

2008-06-30T11:54:00.000+10:00

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.