fter spending the last six of my 28 years trying to figure out what to do with my life, I've come to the surprisingly depressing conclusion that I can do anything I set my mind to. The real problem here is that I'm unable to set my mind to anything for very long.

Yes, much like a young child flitting from guitar lessons to soccer camp, or your crazy aunt getting totally into Reiki and then free form, organic textile production, I tend to change my mind a lot.

2001 – I'm going to be an artist! Fresh out of college with a valuable degree in painting, I am completely prepared to support myself. Taking a part-time job selling Israeli art for the home, I feel totally immersed in the art world.

2003 – Having amassed a good deal of credit card debt in the previous two years, I realize the time has come for a full-time job. What better job for me than fundraising at an agricultural nonprofit? I don't know anything about farming or fundraising, but I bet I'll make crazy money.

2004 – Fundraising isn't fun, and farmers are depressing. I should totally write and illustrate children's books! A combination of art and writing is the perfect thing for me.

2005 – After producing three books, but before getting a chance to call publishers, I get distracted when I'm approached to record the narration for a documentary about the quarter-life crisis phenomenon.

2006 – With a documentary and a few public service announcements under my belt, I feel I've left my mark on the voice-over world and turn my attention to developing my crocheted hat business.

2007 – Taking into consideration the price of yarn and the time spent making them, my hats cost around each and don't sell well. I know, I'll work at another agricultural nonprofit!

2008 – I realize once again that maybe the farming scene just isn't for me. I contemplate careers in nutrition, graphic design, culinary arts, refrigeration, computer aided drafting, elementary education, exotic dance, erotic massage, and Reiki.

I've consulted professionals (one professional), read books (two chapters of a book), and searched my soul (scanned it briefly), but I can't for the life of me figure out what path I should take.

I'm just going to come right out and say it: I blame the feminist movement for putting me in this position. I would have been perfectly happy popping out a few babies and cooking pot roast for an unappreciative husband while I lamented the life I could have led and all of the wonderful things I could have done.

As it is now, I've got no excuses.

've been peeing blood for a week. WebMD tells me I have a urinary tract infection and suggests I seek treatment offline.

Living below the poverty line, working two jobs with no insurance and little pay, my only option is Boston's Planned Parenthood and its sliding scale payment plan.

I'd been there before for birth control pills and pelvic exams (I made the choice when I was taken off my parents' insurance that if I could take care of one thing, it would be my lady bits). The reality is Planned Parenthood is my only option for affordable medical treatment – my primary care provider, if you will.

As the Green Line approaches my destination, I see that there are protestors surrounding the entrance to the building. They bus them in every Saturday morning like it's a field trip for religious fanatics who like to yell at young, desperate women.

A woman wearing a purple T-shirt printed with the word “escort” walks toward me and tells me that she will be my escort. She takes my arm, and together we make our way through the angry, sign-waving crowd.

We are almost at the door when a woman wearing a T-shirt with a picture of an aborted fetus on it grabs my arm and spins me toward her. “Jesus can help you,” she says. “If you just have faith.” I break free from her grasp and allow myself to be led into the building by my purple-shirted escort.

The following runs through my head as I pee into a cup and wait to be examined:

Of course this fetus-wearing woman believes I'm here for an abortion. That's completely obvious. But if she knew the truth of my condition, would she say, “Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I didn't realize. Of course you should go inside and get yourself some antibiotics straightaway”? Or would she have stuck with “Jesus can help you”? Would fetus lady need penicillin if she had an infection, or does she believe that God would smite the demon bacteria from her urinary tract? Does her blind faith make her quick to heal or less susceptible to illness or immune altogether?

By the time I leave with my soon-to-be-filled prescription for antibiotics, there is no need for an escort. The protestors have taken their signs and their judgments and gone home. And I have come to the decision that for the time being, I will put my faith in penicillin.

here are many important moments in a young girl's life and most of them involve “firsts” of some sort: Her first kiss, her first period, her first bong hit.

I don't clearly remember the first two, which is a shame because they are the types of moments you can share with your children. I can't imagine myself sitting my future children down and saying, “On my fifteenth birthday, my eighteen year-old boyfriend bought me a six-pack of Zima and escorted me to a wild party where I took my first bong hit.”

Aside from the topic of the adolescent drinking and drug-use of their mother possibly not being appropriate, the statement would be a half-truth. For it was at that wild party on my fifteenth birthday that I attempted to take my first bong hit.

I would also not tell my children that I was no stranger to smoking pot. I would not tell them that I'd been smoking it for months prior with my older sister, their Aunt Ali and that I'd been eager to add the bong to my repertoire.

The basic mechanics of a bong are as follows: The substance to be smoked is placed in the bowl, which is attached to a small cylinder. This cylinder is inserted into a hole at the base of the bong, which contains water. As the substance is lit the smoker places their mouth at the open end of the bong and sucks, forcing the smoke through the small cylinder, into the water and up into the body of the bong. When the bong is full of smoke the small cylinder is pulled out, which allows the smoke trapped inside the bong to be pulled into the smoker's lungs.

There are variations, but these are the basics I had learned from watching the process. So I have no excuse for what happened next (other than the six empty Zima bottles in the trash).

A fresh bowl was packed for me, the birthday girl. I put my mouth to the bong as I'd seen others do before me. I waited as my boyfriend lit the sticky buds of pot and then I BLEW as hard as I could.

Now if you'll remember from your own experiences or from a previous paragraph in this story the action which provides the desired result for the bong smoker, much like any other smoker is sucking .

What you may not be aware of is what happens when the opposite action is performed. I'm not sure if these consequences are universal, but the aftermath of my blowing was thus.

There was a cry of, “NO!” from several partygoers, an explosion of burning marijuana and a geyser of filthy water. Both rained down on those closest to the bong including myself, the failed smoker.

I realize, or course, that sharing this story with my future children may shield them from pain, suffering and embarrassment. I want this, but I am still reticent.

For I am not convinced it is a mother's place to offer up the advice, “Suck. Don't blow.”

week in the mountains of Utah might sound like heaven to some, but skiing makes me cry and I'm a little freaked out by Mormons. Reading Under the Banner of Heaven , an account of some murderous followers of Joseph Smith during the flight into Salt Lake City may not have been the best idea.

Along with Mormons, I'm also afraid of my boyfriend's parents, The Winslows, who are footing the bill for this trip. They're wealthy. They sail. They say things like, “Huzzah! Let me get you some hot buttered rum and we can discuss our favorite quotes from Chaucer.”

I came from a raised ranch, boxed wine, used car kind of family. The Winslow's way of life with their opera and their yachts (I had already been scolded for referring to them as boats) was outside of my comfort zone. Skiing was in the same category.

The lift tickets I was given by Mr. and Mrs. Winslow were completely wasted on me. If anyone had looked for me during daylight hours, they would have found me chainsmoking at the base of the mountain with my skis and poles lying in front of me in a pile. My boyfriend, Tim didn't mind my lack of excitement. Had he stayed with me, he would have spent all day coaching me down the bunny hill while I cried. Plus he got my unused lift ticket.

At this point, I feel I should explain why it is that skiing makes me cry. There are a few very simple reasons: It is cold. It is uncomfortable. I am afraid of heights. I don't like falling down. I lack control over my emotions.

In fact, the one piece of equipment I liked out of my new skiing supplies (which were purchased specifically for this trip) were the goggles. They completely hid my eyes and the fact that I had been crying on the day I was forced into cross-country skiing with Tim and his father.

Though heights were not involved, I was cold, uncomfortable and afraid of falling down. My tears formed pools in the bottoms of my ski goggles and I was forced to stop frequently to empty their contents. This may have been how I fell behind.

Cold, uncomfortable, afraid and alone I skied as fast as I could to catch up. Turning a corner in the trail, I lost control of my body and fell spectacularly.

“We have a dinner reservation in an hour so you had better hurry,” came the voice of Mr. Winslow who had doubled back to find me. He added, “You know, you really shouldn't fall on your knees,”

“Thanks,” I said as I tried to control the sobs that were making their way to the surface while simultaneously trying get to my feet.

By the time I managed to rise, Mr. Winslow was gone. I followed the trail to its end and tried to make sense of my thoughts…

“How can I control the way I fall if I have no control over my body? Which would I rather have, control over my body or my emotions? Which is more cold and uncomfortable, skiing or the Winslow family? Would anyone say anything if I wore my ski goggles to dinner?”