birthday blatherings

Just a fast post to mark the end of my 20s and the beginning of what feels like a whole new life. Today's my 30th birthday. I was born at 12:40 AM at UCSF hospital right here in San Francisco on May 26, 1975. I weighed 9 pounds and 11 ounces. I had bright red hair and big fat cheeks.

I spent my birthday eve dancing at Qool, my favorite mid-week clubbing happy hour. I started hitting up Qool in 2000 when I worked for Scient a few blocks away. The place is always filled with familiar faces and warm hugs from friends I've known for years. Definitely a good start to birthday festivities.

When I was 16, I went camping in Big Sur with a group of friends, my mom and grandparents. We tumbled down sand dunes onto the beach and fell asleep watching "My Blue Heaven" on a battery-operated VCR/TV combo inside the tent. When I was 21, I had ten shots and drinks, all of which I jotted down on a cocktail napkin that I still have stashed away somewhere. I recall an Alabama Slammer, a Midori Sour and a Blowjob. I passed out and woke up in the middle of the night with my eyes swelled shut. At 26, I rented out a club, hired my favorite DJs and danced all night. My sister surprised me with a giant penis cake.

A year ago today, I turned 29 while drinking whiskey with newfound friends and Punjabi millionaires at a casino in Kathmandu. Two years ago today, my closest friends threw me a surprise party and dressed me in a cowgirl outfit.

This year I am forgoing a big party and simply planning to fill my day with as much happy loving connections as possible. I'll have dinner with a few close friends. I'll go dancing afterwards with a group of people who make me smile and who are all a part of my life in some way or another. To me, this birthday feels like it should be about appreciating the people who've supported me into this new thrilling phase of life. I have yet to meet anyone in their 30s who hasn't told me it's been the best part of life. I can't wait.

And now, some birthday dreaming...

Bay to Breakers 2005

What do you call a race when most participants are trying to delay the finish rather than expedite it? That's the Bay to Breakers, the world's largest and silliest footrace.

Sure, there are serious runners who come from far-away lands and win money and stuff. There are also semi-serious folks who actually register for the race, carbo load on spaghetti the night before, arise at 6 AM, carefully pin on their paper number bibs, make their way down to the starting line, run the majority of the race, make it to the finish line, go to Footstock, claim their t-shirts and later look up their race results online. But even most of them are kind of freaky. A lot of them are naked. Or dressed in something creative, or weird, or just plain hilarious. This is San Francisco after all.



The rest of us fall into what I will call the "unofficial" category. We don't register. We stay out the night before the race. We wake up late, forget to have breakfast and instead have a bloody mary. We join the race when it's already almost passed us by. We push grocery carts full of beer, build mobile DJ booths out of plywood and synthetic fur, ride on floats, do keg stands, stop and start countless times to collect friends, take pitsops behind trees or just to watch the crowd go by. We dance to techno in the street and don't finish the race because by the time we're nearing the finish line, the police brigade is doing the final sweep through and the race course has been diverted to cut off the last half mile of the eight-mile course.

Now, not all of these generalizations apply to me. I was in bed by 11 the night before, woke up on time, ate three pancakes and did not do any keg stands. I even hosted fifteen friends in my house before the race. Just before 10 AM, two hours and a few bloody marys later, we headed down to join the mob passing one block from my front door just in time to ascend the dreaded Hayes Street Hill. We lost each other and found each other and lost each other again. I rode on a mobile toilet throne, lost my feather tights, missed a golf shot for free beer but made it up later by biting some guy's nipple (understandably, the demanded exchange for a beer skyrockets near the end of the race) and somehow ended up strolling hand-in-hand with Metal Man.



Oh it was a good day. Don't even ask about the inspiration for my costume. No, as one passerby inquired, I did not lose a bet. But I did end up coming in very handy at the end of the day when the port-a-potty TP supplies were exhausted.

More mortifying photos available here.

Do you think I've just ruined any chance I ever had to run for public office?

Toilet Girl (or, "What I Did Today")

I am wiped out; a picture will have to say my thousand words for today...

05/05/05

I just learned how to belly dance in my living room. Purple spandex and coin skirt-clad twin sisters, Neena and Veena, taught me how to shimmy and do genie arms while giving me a decent workout. Brought to me by Natural Journeys, my "resource for the finest videos, music, clothing, and accessories to help you in your journey to find self-discovery and inner peace." Phew! And I was about to cast off worldly possessions in pursuit of a simpler, more spiritual existence. Bring on the Gucci bags and Citizens of Humanity jeans!



After my final day at Siebel last week, I went and recharged for a few days at Harbin Hot Springs. I pitched my tent under a tree next to a stream and slept about 12 hours each night, except for the first night when I kept waking up cold because I had decided to sleep on my sleeping bag instead of in it. In the morning, I walked through the woods for 10 minutes to reach the poolside sundeck, where I did yoga every day. I cooked my meals in the Fern Kitchen, where I put more energy into taking notes on what other people were cooking than on my own food. It's easy to fall into a bit of a food rut, especially when you cook all your meals and shop at Trader Joe's. Watching other people prepare concoctions out of avocado, quinoa and kelp noodles proved educational and inspiring.

I spent the rest of my time hanging out in the pools. If you've ever experienced hot springs, you are familiar with the vision-blurring, capillary-dialating, soul-cleansing bliss of a series of alternating plunges into the hot pool (115 degrees) and cold pool (depends on mother nature, but all I know is it's damn cold). If you don't, try it. Trust me.



This past Saturday, Barbara threw a 70s themed 30th birthday party for her boyfriend (and my friend) Scott. We busted out the polyester and at some point I decided it would be wise to borrow a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. Bleh.



On Sunday, my roommate Amy and I met up with friends and headed to the How Weird Street Fair. Had a fantastic day. San Francisco at its best. Weird, wonderful and wacky. Good weather, good music, good people.

I've been waking up to NPR for over a month now and am starting to doubt that's a good idea. Not only does the soothing monotony of the reporters' voices lull me back to sleep, but images of suicide bombers and Terry Schiavo's, oops sorry, that's Terry Schiavo's feeding tube, fill my head and give my bizarre early morning dreams. On that note, time for sleep.