Catching Up

June and July have flown by. As is to be expected. We live for our summers like we do the weekends. Even someone like myself who despises heat and strongly prefers autumn chills to summer rays can still appreciate the excitement dating back to childhood which comes with anticipation of the summer months. And like all things that excite us, the summers seem to fly...

June left something to be desired. Not that I had time for things like desiring...or breathing. My five job extravaganza continued through most of the month, though not very much outside of proctoring for the Princeton Review ever happened. The Census ended earlier than expected as well, as I was not making the alleged hourly minimum each week. As you could imagine, this came as quite the surprise to me since no minimum had ever been articulated to myself--or anyone else to my knowledge. Though technically given the option to resign and therefore keeping my record clean, I was essentially fired for a complete miscommunication on the part of my superior. This was a first for me. I doubt it to be the last. Incompetence runs rampant in so-called "professional" environments.

So, at some point in the month I was down to three jobs: Crazy Mocha, Camel, and Photobooth. I managed to bank a decent amount, allowing me to pay my bills and make my car repair. At some point in all the madness I turned 25 as well. A week long vacation to Mexico with my mom was long overdue and much appreciated. Even so, it came and went and afterwards felt like a mere hiccup in the hectic. June was a countdown to something better.

The last few days before my hiatus were maddening. Even though I regularly work without days off there was something about my final week at home that nearly sent me over the edge. Likely the very knowledge of my fast approaching holiday was adding to the pressure. Whatever it was, I was on autopilot. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I worked the photobooth job. So, I worked 36 hours in 3 days. Add to that a Monday departure and my mind was running circles around itself. Somehow I managed to get packed, become a quarter of a century old (my birthday was that Saturday. As I turned 25 years of age I worked the photobooth for a Bar Mitzvah at a country club that could not have sent the family back any less than 40K. A reminder of my place in the words, I suppose.), and actually make it to the airport for my evening flight. My ass hit the seat and I was in heaven. Six hours to Parisian bliss.

My time is sparse, more to come...

Sexy Assassin

Great times being had. Jetted off to NYC over the weekend for Justin's 25th birthday bash: Sin City Sexy Assassin Party. The concept? Dress as a sexy assassin and play said game (kind of like personal capture the flag) around Astoria, Queens. It was a blast: beautiful people playing dress-up and having fun. ;)

It was delightful to see Justin, of course, and I also got to catch up with Meredith who has been living in Japan teaching English for the past year. Talking with her was inspiring--what a beautiful soul.

Sunday, the party had taken me totally out of commission. =P But Mer and J took good care of me--thanks mommy and daddy! Gatorade and toast really did the trick. Monday was my last day there. Said toodles to Meredith and headed off to lunch with Justin at the delightful Cafe Bar.

Check out the outrageous pics of the fabulous party!

Damn Yankees?

The birfday was hoppin', no lie. Thanks again to the lovely Dara for arranging everything. As usual, no outing in the 'burgh would be complete without the thrill of a celebrity sighting. This time my comrades and I were delighted in the knowledge that several of the New York Yankees were accompanying us at the club.

It was later brought to my attention by Matt--the guy who told us they were the Yankees to begin with--that, although he had gotten the individual correct (Cliff Floyd pictured above), he was in error about the team that they played for. So, no Yankee sighting after all. We had to settle for the Devil Rays. What's weird is that he was kind of a pretentious tool at first when I asked for the picture, but then when I knew his name, he obliged, only after I made some adorable (but unknowingly obscure) reference to the Yankees.

Weird.


I love my life.

Miracle of life?

It's nearing the 23rd anniversary of the day of my birth. Something to celebrate, for certain. Except, is it? If you know me, you should already know this, but I am not a big "It's my birthday!" person. And for good reason--many of them. Namely, those people are so fucking obnoxious.

"Hey, I'm always a douche bag when I'm drunk, but, goddammit, tonight I have an excuse and I'm gonna use it. Not only am I slated to be the world's biggest tool for 24 hours (usually it seeps long into the wee hours of the following morning as well), but I'm will surely be taking extra advantage to get everything I want, including all of the attention available. Because, normally, I am so pathetic that I can't win any on my own merit."

I am irked by said individuals.

However, there is another, perhaps less bitchy and more profound, reason for my lax attitude towards my own birthday. (I know what you're thinking. Oh great, here goes another one of Shannon's "I'm so obsessed with time passing" attention pleas. Well, you're wrong. Ha. I do have depth, and many dimensions. No one trick pony here.) I avoid the celebratory atmosphere surrounding the memorializing of someone's coming to be, because, well, I'm not so convinced it's anything that exceptional to begin with.

Ok, hear me out. Or, try, because, honestly, I am working this out as I go, myself. But, really now. Life is in no way proven to have meaning. People believe a lot of different things surrounding it, sure, but, for a being that seems to find so many reasons to disagree, we sure do all like the idea that life is good, or at least valuable, and is something to be celebrated.

Well, I'll go with you on that to a certain extent. Once people are alive they are valuable and what not. Because, let's face it, what we have is all that we have and if there is such a concept as value itself then existence, in some sense, must accomplish that. Follow? Eh, don't worry about it.

The point is, birthdays, to me, signify this unattended to detail that I haven't come to accept: the creation of life is something special, good, and "miraculous."

I stole the title of this post from that old sex ed video we were like all made victim to somewhere in our public schooling. The Miracle of Life. Good flick. Groundbreaking cinematography. Did the job. But that title, really?!

I think of that whole episode. Yes, you know of what I speak. Conception. Consider the circumstances surrounding the conception of a child. A couple trying for years to create their little miracle. A broken condom in the back of a pick-up. Costly in vitro fertilization. The pregnant "man". Are we going to label this with the term "miracle"?

I don't get it. Where did that cliche get its start? I'm blaming the Christians again. It just all seems to haphazard. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't; sometimes it's wanted; sometimes it's dreaded. I mean, come on. Everything reproduces.

Seriously, though. I think that what happens after conception is where a miracle can be found. My parents adopted me when I was three days old. All of a sudden, in that act I went from broken condom to miracle. What people do with the circumstances in which they're found (or created, let's be fair) is where all of those things--miracles, love, grace, faith--can really be found.

I'm tired of celebrating a whirlwind of mindless, unexplained cliches tied up in smoke and mirrors and tradition. Let's be responsible and discover that which is really miraculous and deserving of celebration in the thoughts and actions of people, not happenstance.

Technically taken after midnight last night, so counts as today. Ha.

Amazing Friends

Birthdays have never been a big deal to me. I enjoy planning and going all out for people who do enjoy such things, but I don't really throw birthday parties for myself. And every birthday seems to turn out just lovely anyways.

Last night's symphony fun was my family's special treat for me. And then I thought, since my birthday happens to fall on a Thursday anyway, might as well just use it as an excuse to go out (what I would usually be doing on a Thursday night anyway. I know, I know. I'm a slut, a club rat, and a lush. Whatev.). Then I get a phone call from the delightful Dara this afternoon informing me that she has the perfect plan for my party and asking permission to take the reigns on this whole thing.

What a gal. And what a lucky gal I am to have a gal like her as my friend. I'm quite stoked, I must say. Our reserved table party will include champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, and $2 martinis till midnight.

What a lucky gal I am. ;)

My Puma socks, because, why not?