Just before Christmas, there was a commercial advertising a jewelry store that ran periodically on the tv stations that I frequent.  (*cough*VH1andOxygen*cough*)  I think it was for Kay Jewelers, or something.  I don’t know.

It featured a man and a woman, sharing a moonlit skate on a frozen pond in the middle of a snowy forest.  They slip and stumble and slid into each others arms, laughing all the while.  It’s romantic, it’s magical, and it ends with jewelry.  *Sigh*

Fast forward a couple weeks.  Kyle mentions that the state park in which he works made a little ice rink out back of his theatre.  Hmm.  Oh, and did I mention that said faux-pond is tucked away in a small patch of forest?  And if I meet Kyle after work, it should be right around twilight by the time we hit the ice?  Ladies and gentlemen, my ticket to pure romance!

Except that there’s a problem.  The jewelry commercials lied.  They lied about everything.

I meet Kyle after work.  I’m wearing two pairs of tights under my jeans and three shirts under my down ski coat, because it is fucking cold outside.  And feeling a little like the Michelin man.  We trudge through the snow out to the pond, and after shuffling awkwardly across the ice to the picnic table, we strap on twin pairs of hockey skates and hit the ice.  Cue up the romance!

Except only one of us really “hit the ice.”  Well, we both technically hit the ice.  It’s just that Kyle hit it with his skates, and I hit it with my face.  And instead of slipping into my husband’s arms, giggling and blushing and receiving necklaces all the way, it was more of a slip and skid and swear loudly and watch my husband’s ass fly across the pond.  Because nature-made ponds?  Are bumpy and rough and crack so that your skate falls through the ice and gets wet and curse words fall out of your mouth.  And the whole time your husband, (who used to play hockey,) is skating backwards and doubled over while he cackles hysterically as you “Whoa-whoooooa-whoooa,” your way across the rough ice and flap your arms wildly in an attempt to keep your ass from re-acquainting itself with the ground. Oh, and here’s a head’s up: ice skating under the stars is not romantic.  It just means you can’t see that big hole in the ice that you’ve already fallen in twice as you round the far end of the pond.  And the whole time my nose is dripping continuously, I smell like damp wool, I can’t feel either my fingers or my face and my husband won’t hold hands with me because I can’t skate without swinging them wildly.

Fun?  It was.  Good exercise?  Most definitely.  Romantic?

Like farting under the sheets.

There’s a little someone I’d like you all to meet.  Some of you might already know her, but just in case you don’t…

Meet Allison.  She writes.  Really well.

Allison keeps giving me awards.  Like this one.

Which is awesome, because I love awards, but also really weird, because, well, Allison is an real writer.  I let my cat walk across the keyboard and see if anything coherent comes out.

But what’s really cool about Allison, is that she writes about nothing.

Nothing.

Well, not nothing in their significance.  Nothing in that she writes about everything.  She writes about her life, both the exciting and the banal.  What’s so admirable is that somehow, she somehow makes it all significant, or at least interesting.  Take this post.  It’s not very long, and she wrote about getting a bee stuck in her hair, broken floss sticks, and wearing pink.  There’s nothing earth-shattering there.  But somehow, when I read that post, it all seems so connected and important, almost like poetry.  It’s just…lovely.

Which is why you should go read her blog.  It will enrich your life, amuse you, help you get rich, and give you rock-hard abs.

(Okay, maybe just the first two.)

Just last night, I sat in a chair and paid someone money to punch a hole in my face.

Messed up, huh?

Getting my nose pierced is something that I’ve wanted to do for a while, now.  Part of it is the desire for change.  It’s something I experience every time we make a major move to a new city.  About 3-4 months after we’ve moved somewhere new, I suddenly feel the need to make a quasi-dramatic alteration to my appearance.  It Atlanta, I chopped my long hair off to just below my jaw; here, I got my nose pierced.  It’s almost like subconsciously, I take the first few months to see how I fit into my new place in the community, and thus edit myself to better fit.

Which is the second reason that I’m chosen to stud my face.  As y’all have heard, I work as a theatrical electrician for various theatres.  What y’all may not have heard, is that the industry in which I work is what one might call “male dominant.”  Especially at my current space, where we get primarily rock tours coming through, the hard-crusted, chain-smoking, tattooed old road tech is king.  And then you’ve got me, a young, (strike one,) inexperienced, (strike two,) woman (strike three!) in a crew head position.  Needless to say, it’s hard for some of the road guys to take me very seriously.  Add to it the fact that I have a young face, (I still get carded,) I don’t smoke, (a prerequisite for being on tour,) and I don’t drink coffee (the lifeblood of any road tech.)  I’m so plain-Jane, all soft curves, with absolutely nothing threatening about me.

My hope, by adding that glint to my nostril, was to add a little edge to my appearance.  Now, don’t get me wrong; in no way to I expect to earn more respect or be taken more seriously just because I got my nose pierced.  Nor do I think that getting my nose pierced makes me “hardcore.”  (It was the wound on my neck that made me hardcore, remember?)  But I’m hoping that maybe it’ll add just that edge that will make me not look as if I have to be in bed by 8:00.

And thusly, I elected to punch a hole in my face.  Despite my confidence, I couldn’t help but notice that my hand shook something bad as I signed a paper promising not to sue them if my nose fell off.  It was weird, but I had a sudden and strong wave of nerve that damn near knocked me on my ass.  As I sat in the chair and watched the guy unwrap the sterile needle, I struggled to get a hold of my cold hands, heavy sweating, and uncontrollable stuttering.  And then he asked me to tilt my head back.

Honest to god, it wasn’t too bad.  I was surprised by how much it hurt, but the pain was short-lived.  I managed to take it without a sound, letting loose only two tiny tears.  There was no bleeding, the soreness has been minimal, and  thus far there’s no major swelling or redness.  It’s slightly bizarre to have  an item up my nose, though; it feels as if there’s a very large, very stiff booger up my left nostril.

The effect, though, I believe was well worth it.

I’m a monster on the edge, bitches!

(Well, closer to the edge, anyway.)

PS-Happy 21st birthday to my little brother, Chris!  If you survive the hangover that you’re most likely experiencing right now, have a great birthday.