tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88551002384528956012024-03-05T23:01:42.567-05:00Shannon's BlogShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-69034388012430992242009-05-29T19:07:00.002-04:002009-05-29T19:08:13.055-04:00We Have Moved<div><br /></div>Hi there - <div>I guess technically I have moved, not we. Find me now at <a href="http://sbennett.wordpress.com">http://sbennett.wordpress.com</a><div><br /></div><div>:)</div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-53122084048121942482009-05-04T04:58:00.003-04:002009-05-04T06:55:58.619-04:00Spring is Here<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NSpLFcLATov-OWtbwoQdM6c6cq28H-R__WLNTODkHc8EVpB3-gYso__fB3iP3g31QfAk4BMmJCGnfmBgFLmGFkaqRfDprHpT87wN-xlqLdcFLjvcDxME5gPfVMgedxrzo_EjgmEPCa2J/s1600-h/summer_view_06.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NSpLFcLATov-OWtbwoQdM6c6cq28H-R__WLNTODkHc8EVpB3-gYso__fB3iP3g31QfAk4BMmJCGnfmBgFLmGFkaqRfDprHpT87wN-xlqLdcFLjvcDxME5gPfVMgedxrzo_EjgmEPCa2J/s320/summer_view_06.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331920784356495458" /></a><br /><br />So, I know I need to continue on with the saga of what happened in London, and furthermore, what's gone on here in France since I arrived three months ago, but sometimes it's hard to leave the present.<div><br /></div><div>Spring has come to Serre Chevalier valley, and after a weekend picnicking in the mountain meadows with my host family and exploring the freshly-melted white water ravines in the forest drop off behind our garden, all I can do is wistfully look forward to Thursday afternoon, when I'll start my journey back to Florida for a three week visit to see my family and friends and to introduce James to all the places I miss and love back home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've got a challenging summer ahead of me, but today I'm feeling optimistic. I'm going to spend three weeks in Florida, then head back to London for a few days to visit my friends and co-workers, and take a look at a few university campuses, then I'm off to Paris, most likely (though Amsterdam, Prague, Nice, and Barcelona are still on the list) to attempt to find some hostel work and experience the city for two weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hostel work is usually unpaid, but if I can find free lodging and maybe a free meal or two a day, I'll be happy. I suppose I can always look for bar work too, but my research has me leaning toward hostels as the most ideal environment.</div><div><br /></div><div>After that, I'm taking a week in Spain to try my hand at teaching English at an English immersion camp called Pueblo Ingles in a tiny medieval village off of Madrid. I'll probably get into Madrid on Wednesday or Thursday of the week prior to meet my little group at a free dinner in a Flamenco bar, then catch the bus to our village, Vladelavilla, on Friday morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>This will be particularly useful to me, since ESL is the next career step I'm considering. So, hopefully my week in Spain will show me whether or not I've got what it takes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be back in France after that (with maybe another short reprieve to England for James' birthday), for the last six weeks of summer. It's a piecework plan that will most likely be followed by a month of classes in London or Oxford to certify me to teach English abroad, and after that, who knows.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the first time in my life I don't feel like I have a solid plan. I've been swinging back and forth between terrified/anxious and kinda looking forward to the whole thing. This morning, I feel pretty good about it. Reading it back, I know I sound like a crazy person, but I think it'll be okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>And who'd have thunk I'd miss Florida so much. I really am looking forward to a nice, relaxing three weeks back home. Maybe I'll even nip over to UCF and have a nap in the lawn facing the reflection pond ...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1052/1449237488_eb9ccd7060.jpg?v=0"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 333px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1052/1449237488_eb9ccd7060.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" /><br /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(85, 26, 139); text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></div><div>Just for old times' sake.</div><div><br /></div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-50611465370175495972009-04-25T12:12:00.009-04:002009-04-25T13:14:55.250-04:00Job Hunting in Stoke Newington<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjSAo0c-Bo-_GLGd2YFiDuUB3xaag7rJByOzJaahJYxOYONJvqgU7L5yyPc7sE5uhmA0xuFDg8eX5iX4EYE9a6tPt88O9LdYqcJC3XT5Fx-zjbjDGnoRfrD6dm1UJo0J8KlBf0JgGR_gK/s1600-h/Stoke_newington_church_street_1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVjSAo0c-Bo-_GLGd2YFiDuUB3xaag7rJByOzJaahJYxOYONJvqgU7L5yyPc7sE5uhmA0xuFDg8eX5iX4EYE9a6tPt88O9LdYqcJC3XT5Fx-zjbjDGnoRfrD6dm1UJo0J8KlBf0JgGR_gK/s320/Stoke_newington_church_street_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328665304612258066" /></a>The sub-borough separating Gina's flat in super trendy Angel from mine, in the heart of Hasidic culture, was a bohemian division called Stoke Newington. <div><br /></div><div>For me, it was the closest area for pubs, bookstores, a big family park, farmer's markets, local arts, and a larger (better) supermarket chain than my local Somerfields.</div><div><br /></div><div>For residents of Angel, it was a place best avoided, as it embodied all the dirtier sides of modern London, with its large, blue-collar Irish population, its infamy in the cocaine trade, and the innumerable cigarette-fogged basements where slam poets, folk bands, political focus groups, and everything in between met with no accounting for the style, privilege, and overall propriety of Islington's artistic standards.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since I was desperate for any sort of part time work, I knew Stamford Hill wasn't an option. My little division of Hackney was almost entirely residential, claiming only one supermarket, a Dominos, and a few privately owned bakeries and kosher butcher shops. There were a few other attempts at industry, including the creepiest toy store I've ever seen, full of whirring and bobbling ancient toy mechanisms grinning at you vacantly from their perches in front of the dusty shop windows, and a wedding dress boutique with options so comically horrible that it was one of the first stops I'd make when someone came to visit my side of town.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stoke Newington was the obvious option for me, and (perhaps shockingly) the least scary of the sub-divisions in the other three directions - Finsbury Park, Hackney Wick, and Seven Sisters. I'd spent little time exploring the area, having seen it most from bus windows coming to and from Gina's, but there were lots of shops and pubs that were probably a good starting ground for my CV distributing spree.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKqdeRV8Rjt-W7zkWVCnzN-bSQ4sRXhGJV3t71L8P3SqS08T6aVVbYlpph0AQwlI3Zqdt4B9F_wh1_UClIroUjJ6lJw1HLptd26CyimHSH_aDfmkr6YEOvlz0KlU7PCbLUYhm4vB_sXXO/s1600-h/1288949070_4c51754963.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKqdeRV8Rjt-W7zkWVCnzN-bSQ4sRXhGJV3t71L8P3SqS08T6aVVbYlpph0AQwlI3Zqdt4B9F_wh1_UClIroUjJ6lJw1HLptd26CyimHSH_aDfmkr6YEOvlz0KlU7PCbLUYhm4vB_sXXO/s320/1288949070_4c51754963.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328672457266295314" /></a><br /></div><div>I decided I shouldn't even spend the 90p on a bus ride, and just walk the 30 minutes or so between my flat and the main hub of Stoke Newington.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tried to dress relatively professionally, which perhaps wasn't the most strategic move for walking around London, and set out for Stokie's main road, which wasn't the high street, but rather the Church Street which led from the famous Abney Park Cemetery to the big Tudor steeple at Clissold Crescent attached to a renovated church called St. Mary's.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the way, I dropped off my CV at a pub called The Bird Cage (not what you're picturing), one called The Three Crowns, which I later found out was a creepy incestuous pub operation that stiffed "outside hires," and a small organic market. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd always intended to drop off my CV at Maggie's. The little pub had caught my eye every time I took the bus home from Gina's, mostly because it looked more like an American bar than a British pub, and it occasionally seemed to sport bouncers or people charging admission for the blaring music rattling the glass doors (I'd later find out, these were just squatters having a two hour cigarette break at the table Maggie put outside).</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQN-QwHY-fe_WvYE1z82LQdnBQi3PFRTCKZlKEMSweqvg4yLQ1oZMcXOMup9jqLR0fSi8bebMb_tA7n8pYtyEzUFHUuEA9wotwr260mAhO1hlUo6tEi8rtVgsjN8uwj7OIU5Wjvf2dOc1/s1600-h/3113333993_9cd00502b7.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQN-QwHY-fe_WvYE1z82LQdnBQi3PFRTCKZlKEMSweqvg4yLQ1oZMcXOMup9jqLR0fSi8bebMb_tA7n8pYtyEzUFHUuEA9wotwr260mAhO1hlUo6tEi8rtVgsjN8uwj7OIU5Wjvf2dOc1/s320/3113333993_9cd00502b7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328670519490949538" /></a><br /></div><div>In the afternoon, Maggie's didn't have the same glow-y bar effect it sported at night, but I noticed a petite blonde woman sweeping the doorstep out front, and decided to try my luck.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Excuse me," I said. "Are they hiring?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked up, leaned back on her broom and squinted at me. When she spoke, it was in a pleasant County Cork accent. "Yep. You have experience?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"A bit," I answered truthfully, holding out my last CV. I wasn't sure if serving cocktails at Universal Studios was really relevant to pulling pints at a pub in London. I'd done one other trial night at a different pub, so I at least sort of understood the concept of pouring a Guinness at this point.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay," she said, taking the CV but not looking at it, "come back at 10 for a trial." She gave a long appraising look to my white button down and knee-length black skirt. "Er ... wear whatever ye like," she said. "It's casual."</div><div><br /></div><div>She immediately went back to sweeping without looking up again. </div><div><br /></div><div>I took the hint, and immediately headed home to fish out my most casual jeans and a tee shirt for that night. I hadn't asked if the trial was paid, how much she paid anyway, what hours were available, or any of the usual employment rigamarole. I never ended up getting a straight answer about any of that anyway, but I'm not sure I would have at the forefront, even if I'd asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>The truth was, I'd later learn that Maggie probably never looked at my CV and she likely didn't care how much experience I had. She needed a weekend barmaid who'd be nice to look at for the gig crowds and she knew that my American accent made me a conversation piece. I wish I'd known that my first night. It would've helped a lot with my nervousness.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, bundled in my thin white overcoat, which was progressively becoming insufficient for the dropping temperatures, I splurged for the bus to Stoke Newington that night. I even headed out a bit early, hoping to make a good impression. </div><div><br /></div><div>To your generic office drone type, my next few weeks at Maggie's would likely look like a pointless smudge on my career record, a waste of valuable time sliding Kronenburgs across the bar to dead-end laborers and being paid a pittance, but, oh the things I learned over the next month.</div><div><br /></div><div>A waste of time, it might have been, but looking back on the experience objectively, I do not regret it.</div><div><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-8223035654973736412009-04-22T13:59:00.010-04:002009-04-23T13:03:03.305-04:00When I got to London - Pt. 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidRTTmP97MSxHh0pgPG3GAfPXS8jJaT9jBFegrpavWoH1ETv7ztiuv5p3ppA8Cc4cE2MfRMkFTOJJB-I1sdEfK3bUTVoGIpQyJ-6r9aPfCZJ54PBFglU55EP1gusUmZOlq7CZdShvZ-Ac0/s1600-h/n5108398_41242512_4332.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidRTTmP97MSxHh0pgPG3GAfPXS8jJaT9jBFegrpavWoH1ETv7ztiuv5p3ppA8Cc4cE2MfRMkFTOJJB-I1sdEfK3bUTVoGIpQyJ-6r9aPfCZJ54PBFglU55EP1gusUmZOlq7CZdShvZ-Ac0/s320/n5108398_41242512_4332.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327927995086206930" /></a><div><br /></div><div>I remember waking up one afternoon to the gray haze of an autumn drizzle glowing in through my tiny window. I remember twisting onto my back, tangled in my new red sheets to stare at the distorted reflections of dripping water on my ceiling, and thinking about how I'd adjusted so far to my new home.<div><br /></div><div>Living with me in the synagogue were an assortment of other 20-somethings from around Europe, including a Polish girl named Aga whose room was across the hall from mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Aga had been living there for about six years and had spent the whole time working in customer service for Eurostar. Though she seemed to like me, she had an astounding temper, and would frequently scream things in Polish and slam doors if something displeased her. She mostly seemed to take issue with the Eastern European couple on our floor, which I resolved was better than her taking issue with me.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdaDOVRpd4m6Bz3L7j1PUUPge8Mju35PouZERMcLkWnEG5P27agOyqowL-Jyu0q93Pt90I1VqElL1cmO5-4WubgVKyUD8t8_R2H5YSvswEQcY_DDVf-fVj8iSsmm5GFYawFS47r_JR5n_c/s1600-h/n5104524_40295516_4115.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdaDOVRpd4m6Bz3L7j1PUUPge8Mju35PouZERMcLkWnEG5P27agOyqowL-Jyu0q93Pt90I1VqElL1cmO5-4WubgVKyUD8t8_R2H5YSvswEQcY_DDVf-fVj8iSsmm5GFYawFS47r_JR5n_c/s320/n5104524_40295516_4115.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327925735560983074" /></a><br /></div><div>As far as the job hunt went, I'd been shortlisted for an editorial position at an independent film company, but was never even called in for an interview. I'd also registered at a media recruitment agency on Poland Street, which also never amounted to anything. So, needless to say, I was feeling pretty dejected.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few halfhearted trips to the BUNAC offices to look through the job postings, or to send out my CV to internet listings were equally fruitless, and perhaps the truth was that I was enjoying the unemployed life a bit too much to really throw myself into it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gina and I met frequently to take days to places like Hampstead Heath, where we'd lay in the grass, secluded in the little glades that dot the massive reserve, and watch the clouds go by; or to sit at a fountain in Hyde Park with cheese and crackers and sink into our respective reading material.</div><div><br /></div><div>London was golden and red with autumn, and the call of the little park across from my flat, or taking a day to explore the South Bank or trek to the Brunel Museum in Rotherhithe to do research, were just too seductive. That is, until my funds started running incredibly short.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfcEkLiQeqdhoZdJTGbMA4tMNbYfmLNbzF7F6DJRKFhPy0KGwbSAQhyHZQa4yFZXwZbuBPcEp_6KO9MNK5O7pE1ZJgPLUKaORPwQv9vNgUEGKmoS2IuWSIIj_t3WOGShcGG8KGOiHqPy1/s1600-h/100_0695.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfcEkLiQeqdhoZdJTGbMA4tMNbYfmLNbzF7F6DJRKFhPy0KGwbSAQhyHZQa4yFZXwZbuBPcEp_6KO9MNK5O7pE1ZJgPLUKaORPwQv9vNgUEGKmoS2IuWSIIj_t3WOGShcGG8KGOiHqPy1/s320/100_0695.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327924841195619986" /></a><br /></div><div>What I resolved that afternoon, staring at my ceiling after a mid-Wednesday nap, was that I needed to find anything to supplement my income while I was still searching for media work. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pulled myself out of bed and into a pair of waterproof boots, threw open my umbrella, and headed out to take the tube to Farringdon, where I would print out a handful of CV's and march up and down the high street until I found gainful employment.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I stumbled onto the next day would dramatically affect my London experience, and put me into some of the most terrifying and exceptional situations I've ever been in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Obviously, I had no idea what would follow when I approached a little Irish woman sweeping a pub doorstep in Stoke Newington the next day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Her name was Maggie.</div><div><br /></div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-68466794345965940302009-04-21T04:21:00.009-04:002009-04-21T05:03:52.062-04:00Birthday WeekendAs though my recent moments of panic over what direction my life is headed in haven't been stressful enough, on Friday, without much pomp or circumstance, I turned 23. <div><br /></div><div>The first half of the day was rather a nightmare, as I had to get up early and clean the house, meet the girls for lunch, and find them in an unusually bad mood. Then, to top it off, I found out that my employer seems to think she owes me 150€ less than she actually does ... this is an issue I still haven't resolved and am perpetually stressed out by.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was pretty much living for late afternoon, when I could drive up to a little village in the French/Italian borderlands called Oulx to meet my boyfriend for his weekend visit. My friend Mimmi managed to drag me to a French class to get my mind off of the money issue for the few hours before, but it was hard to focus, and the coursework was a humbling experience.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJYewXwpzrelE5_-g1iaCudnC0tvQCX_uT4AMnLCY1-Jiwg_YlR6TcB016cFLhUzhPtxWzt3akno8xlOZT9eXZDe5MqMSvrKh3xkdMLmkHl9NOtCNN0PKxmER_1Mz52zCykphSI0gPhXm/s1600-h/2345_53674154910_514904910_1378351_7520955_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJYewXwpzrelE5_-g1iaCudnC0tvQCX_uT4AMnLCY1-Jiwg_YlR6TcB016cFLhUzhPtxWzt3akno8xlOZT9eXZDe5MqMSvrKh3xkdMLmkHl9NOtCNN0PKxmER_1Mz52zCykphSI0gPhXm/s320/2345_53674154910_514904910_1378351_7520955_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327061085445453570" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>I ended up leaving the house over half an hour early and driving up the mountain leading to Italy. I hit a snowstorm in Montgenevre, but, mercifully, I've made the drive so many times that I didn't feel threatened or nervous driving through it. Soon enough, I'd arrived to the all-too-familiar view of Oulx Station.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHrnm7qCwwQ6ujp_4z7Sc8ASdXEmnkpgd7Ytqvq9JAV-BKYCkth4eVJg6aQlQPsRkzoXDsDQsbK8lpj_ZD59ns9SzLk9SDbSBeN7m3X2XmCaTgaFjA-3vbTxOpodg7zVRIdxEuJTetlSX/s1600-h/2345_53672144910_514904910_1378306_1800754_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiHrnm7qCwwQ6ujp_4z7Sc8ASdXEmnkpgd7Ytqvq9JAV-BKYCkth4eVJg6aQlQPsRkzoXDsDQsbK8lpj_ZD59ns9SzLk9SDbSBeN7m3X2XmCaTgaFjA-3vbTxOpodg7zVRIdxEuJTetlSX/s320/2345_53672144910_514904910_1378306_1800754_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327062024260127458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" lkjlkj=""></a><div>I met James on the platform as the familiar double-decker Trenitalia service from Torino rolled into the station, a journey which we've both taken countless times, since the nearest airport to my tiny village is Turin. </div><div><br /></div><div>The snow had started to clear, so the drive back to Serre Chevalier was a quick 45 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both too exhausted to bother with much in the way of dinner, we ended up at the local McDonalds, which has been an adventure in ordering in French for both of us over the past few months, and slumped into the plastic booth, just happy to finally be together again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day was when actual festivities were planned to celebrate. Originally, we'd wanted to have a bonfire in the woods with my fellow au pairs, including lots of cheap wine and snacks, but the spring weather here in the Alps has been quite rainy and cold, and it became apparent pretty early in the day that it wasn't going to work out. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, we decided that we'd go for tapas in the historic Old Town instead, and then maybe head out for drinks following. James and I spent the day around Briançon, the biggest village in the resort. </div><div><br /></div><div>I brought him to my favorite burger place, where we both promptly consumed far too much, and then up to the Old Town to buy gifts for our moms (blueberry mustard for mine, handmade french soaps for his), and one of the villages patented sundial necklaces. It started to rain, giant, sharp dollops of freezing water, and we were forced to race back down the stone steps to my car, attempting to duck under as many shop canopies as possible to stay dry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Needless to say it took some quick repair work to be ready for my birthday dinner. I opted to wear the shoes James had gotten me for my birthday - a beautiful pair of turquoise brocade shoes with see-through heels.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_LReH51efKkZUjGRYYDHrMajXT8O0kMbh7bF4GqHpnEYkOzNypJUYzKkY1MYCuTjrut8_wyvav68I1dqI88bivMkRvTRLDhFYytRvk-TRGHzUevOrKHrDorAe3pbpFixEkGjUtukTdug/s1600-h/31y2tqnp8fL._SS400_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_LReH51efKkZUjGRYYDHrMajXT8O0kMbh7bF4GqHpnEYkOzNypJUYzKkY1MYCuTjrut8_wyvav68I1dqI88bivMkRvTRLDhFYytRvk-TRGHzUevOrKHrDorAe3pbpFixEkGjUtukTdug/s320/31y2tqnp8fL._SS400_.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327067683072382578" /></a>><br /></div><div>We met some of the other au pairs at a tapas bar across from the giant church in the Old Town called Spirit, and tucked in for dinners of chili con carne or curry with a big bottle of French rosé provided by the restaurant owner at a discounted price.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div>Dinner was an emotional affair for me, as the music selection in the restaurant twice played songs I strongly associate with my late stepfather, who passed away on my sixteenth birthday, seven years ago, including the song we chose for his funeral procession. This was a bittersweet thing, both a painful reminder of loss, and a comforting sense of presence at my dinner, halfway around the world from where I'd lived at the time.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2748/250/80/1010808043/n1010808043_30156132_919577.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-e.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2748/250/80/1010808043/n1010808043_30156132_919577.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /></div><div>Afterward involved going for drinks at our favorite haunt, a Danish bar in town called Saloon, and a brief trip to a night club across the street. We parted ways agreeing to meet the following day for Saloon's farewell bbq, as all the bartenders are headed back to Denmark this week.</div><div><br /></div><div>To wrap things up in a less-than-graceful manner, the bbq was probably the highlight of the weekend for us. We got there in the afternoon and stayed for about twelve hours, drinking for free, and making conversation with anyone nearby. </div><div><br /></div><div>It serves as what will likely be remembered for me as the finale of my time here (allowing I don't come back in the summer), from watching people dance on bar chairs to in depth conversation with people I thought I already knew, to the end of the night playing fetch with a giant stray dog outside of the Saloon while we waited for the guys to finish evicting an enraged drunk girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was hard to say goodbye as James headed back to England yesterday morning, knowing it'll be almost three weeks before I see him again, and we're headed to Florida for our big holiday, but I think that I can safely say that I've finally had a birthday that lives up to the year that I turned 20 ... which I thought I'd never outdo.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-80096391282043105682009-04-15T09:13:00.011-04:002009-04-15T13:12:49.039-04:00When I got to London - Pt. 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpgTW8AEJyHwSYCzUJLUTf8haNAsGdg-EpKKjy094p3NSSCu_GCXTB6ducKc6j373wj2MFhPsyusGOSxek7FI4xjl7DbhmmzyxcFJPBIgb2O7QUFizbFIvrOpK6lFDvyIlqPRx-eFRwe1/s1600-h/100_0717.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpgTW8AEJyHwSYCzUJLUTf8haNAsGdg-EpKKjy094p3NSSCu_GCXTB6ducKc6j373wj2MFhPsyusGOSxek7FI4xjl7DbhmmzyxcFJPBIgb2O7QUFizbFIvrOpK6lFDvyIlqPRx-eFRwe1/s320/100_0717.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324917565713876018" /></a><br /><div>The last I left this blog, I was about to board a second plane into the unknown with about £1000 and two suitcases. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline;"></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I spent my last night in Florida in a hotel room on International Drive with my mom, whom I'd been arguing with non-stop since missing the initial flight, and her girlfriend, Diane.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unable to sleep that night, I left the hotel room to walk around the cheesy, resort-style pool, an area decorated with a bunch of over-groomed palm trees, strategically lit water, and ping pong tables. I sat on a plastic beach chair, staring out at the water with a mixture of blind fear and excited apprehension. I knew I was making the right decision, terrifying as it may have been.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mother and I managed to make nice before I went through the international terminal at the Orlando airport the next afternoon, and parted happily at the gate. Somehow, I managed to walk with composure through the boarding gate and onto the plane, right to the emergency row, where I'd spend the next eight hours chatting with my neighbor, a fun Canadian girl off to visit family, and being repeatedly bumped into by drunken first-classers wanting the toilet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gina met me at the airport, looking as sunny and fresh as I looked haggard and exhausted. We boarded the Heathrow tube and took it to a subdivision of Islington called Angel, where she'd recently moved in with a seemingly-normal couple comprising of a Cuban man and a German woman with a decidedly bohemian disposition. Refusing to let me nap, Gina immediately started emailing potential landlords, and pushing me to put on something warmer so we could go get dinner.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.gothereguide.com/Images/UK/London/Covent_garden.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 438px; height: 294px;" src="http://www.gothereguide.com/Images/UK/London/Covent_garden.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /></div><div>I know now that we were at the Spaghetti House in Covent Garden, but at the time, everything was just a blur of total exhaustion. I had some pasta dish I probably couldn't afford then allowed Gina to literally steer me down the street, back onto the tube, and then mercifully, into bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, after figuring out how to activate my timewarp of a cell phone, we started to look at apartments. What we saw ranged from the terrifying (half a room with a washing machine inside shared with four Eastern European guys), to simply uncomfortable (bedsit with an elderly gay man in a renovated council flat in Whitechapel, who had only a bathtub with no shower, and required his flatmates to also be his friends). </div><div><br /></div><div></div><br /><div>I'm not sure when it registered that we'd hit gold upon finding my home-to-be. It definitely wasn't an instant thing as we tentatively walked through the largest Hasidic community in Europe, even passing by a yellow house with a massive Menorah affixed to the front wall, or when we met my future landlord, a portly Hasidic man named Asher, who shook my hand, even though I was later to realize it was a taboo for him to touch the flesh of a female he wasn't related to.</div><div></div><br /><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHH1iwFXktCHE419gpsAia6P-O7u3bRGYmAq3W0Vbe3D5iXIGVCHdoGvjtSEN3EaLWsydpJUupzlHxy_Fw72gnI58YSgoheiubCZ0M_xwpJAXoOQA_axKbyHpn1HoAUAUfJSIg4OleLTk/s400/100_1121.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324915561421019202" /><div><div><br /></div><div>The house was a duplex, half of which was used as a synagogue, particularly for Sabbath worship (which is Saturday in Jewish culture). My room was located at the top of the narrow boarding-house division, up a flight of very stereotypical crooked stairs, with red ermine carpeting that may have been there for the past hundred years.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the top floor, we had a small kitchen with a tiny wooden table, suited for one or two people, and two bathrooms. My room came with a desk, a television, chest of drawers, and a twin sized bed with no bedding. My window faced only the roof of the adjacent house, and there was a working sink tucked behind the door with a small medicine cabinet. It was perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>I agreed to move in the following day.</div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-15133595465940843482009-04-15T08:44:00.005-04:002009-04-15T11:47:35.270-04:00A Bashful Return<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBo2KGl3mAMkf7YAn7ks0b7pBvc8Kbq2FkhcCPbGnu5wNgEERdxCeAVuLISJCHhoZU13bcWjTACkDp6zI3gzqWz2ykt_ot9kgEIyG9JCTtIWs-qkhHPL7zVV0wCfP8s2Q245v24f0-McI/s1600-h/100_1204.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBo2KGl3mAMkf7YAn7ks0b7pBvc8Kbq2FkhcCPbGnu5wNgEERdxCeAVuLISJCHhoZU13bcWjTACkDp6zI3gzqWz2ykt_ot9kgEIyG9JCTtIWs-qkhHPL7zVV0wCfP8s2Q245v24f0-McI/s320/100_1204.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324945320108445714" /></a><br />So, I know it's been almost a year since I moved to England and abandoned this blog completely. It's been an eventful eight months, during which I've seen a great deal of exotic places, entertained three jobs, and gotten into my first adult relationship.<div><br /></div><div>Truth be told, for the first five months or so, I was just cheating on this blog with another blog, but that didn't work out so well. So, now I've come crawling back - for the time being - though I still might just import this whole thing over to wordpress, since my brief affair over there did expose me to some advantages that are pretty hard to ignore.</div><div><br /></div><div>Presently, I'm sitting at the kitchen table in a little cottage nestled deep in the French Alps, eating salted fries (or chips) off of a plate, and debating what my next step will be. James, the aforementioned other half, thinks it's a good idea for me to start recounting all I've been through over the past several months, in order to re-stimulate my writing processes (which have admittedly gone a bit stale over the winter) and to help me reflect on what I've gained out here and what I want to pursue next.</div><div><br /></div><div>Right now, I'm an au pair in a ski resort for two beautiful girls with a Scottish mum and a French dad. They're bilingual, which helps me on the professional level, but doesn't do much for my French learning curve. In fact, it's even started to affect the way I speak English. ie. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Why you is not meet us at thee bus?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>My original plan (as far as it went), was to stay here until September - with a two month break in May and June which I'd spend visiting home and doing a bit of backpacking to the homes of some of the international friends I've made over the past few months. However, I'm not sure if that's going to work out, and even if it does, money is running out and I haven't got a plan for what follows.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, my options are in a continual juggle. Am I moving to Australia to try to find media work? Getting my TEFL and teaching English in Prague? What about graduate school? Why not just go all in and move to a hut in Bali for the next two years, selling seashell sculptures to tourists? Etc. etc. etc. It's really a great big vortex of confusion.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how to even begin to sculpt seashells.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, maybe James has a point, and I should reflect. It looks like I'm reflecting in that photo above, but really, I'm just asking my friend Catharina if she's taken the damn photo yet. I aspire to reach the level of zen that is portrayed in that photo. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, sorry for the short absence to my spattering of readers. Let's get this thing going again.</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-36192639495709579732008-08-04T23:18:00.002-04:002008-08-04T23:28:26.978-04:00I missed my AirplaneGotta tell you, today has sucked more than your usual moving-to-another-country stress out.<div><br /></div><div>I've already got some major emotional issues with leaving behind everything I know and love here in Orlando, and had to say goodbye to a really awesome job and some fantastic people over the last few days, leaving me drained and a tinge of depression over the whole affair, which I really wasn't expecting at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, it's been a nightmare trying to lock down a flat in England, as Gina and I had decided to move in with a friend of a friend of hers, and he's proving to be unreliable and overpriced, so, this morning, on three hours of sleep, still underpacked and hoping to do a few last minute things before leaving, when I got a phone call from her, it was the beginning of a giant unwind that would leave me stranded and even more uncertain about this whole thing than I've been at the very lowest of points.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gina told me that, though she'd been planning to move into our new flat this evening, it wasn't happening now. At the earliest, she'd been told (from the estate agent, whom she'd had to call directly, not the guy renting the place out), she could move in tomorrow afternoon, but only if x-amount of paperwork went through perfectly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since none of that paperwork belongs to either of us, it's still not really a certainty that we'd have a place to sleep tomorrow night. So, I vomited, then I called my mom, who was on her way over, to let her know that things were going in the crapper and I was sort of having an emotional melt down.</div><div><br /></div><div>In retrospect, if I'd slept properly or was more well-prepared, packing wise, in the days prior, I might have sat myself down, weighed my options, and come up with something else to do. But I didn't, and my mom's reaction wasn't the best in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lots of family arguing, sub-par packing, and travel drama later, I was late to the airport (my fault), and begging the agency to move me to a later flight for an affordable penance. $130 was the best they could do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully, I still have enough to activate my visa now, as I lost my apron with all my earnings from Saturday night in it, and that leaves me a little short of bliss.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the plan now is to leave tomorrow, August 5th, at 6:30pm. I'll be in England a day late and several dollars short.</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-64627384047332464052008-06-27T12:55:00.007-04:002008-06-27T13:12:58.305-04:00Ghost Boy<div><br /></div>I have a mystery for you, dear friends. <div><br /></div><div>My new roommate, Jessica, is putting together a slide show for her sister-in-law's upcoming wedding, and was sent a large pile of digital photos to sort through. I'm going to help her out a bit with the slideshow, and we were looking through photos last night, and found this one (click to enlarge): </div><div><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhzJRe-HxdYEpFM7WPCxv881Wl6goOoGVp86nRzhzwt7OFO9DLFsCEOsAdV9NxWorriogPDcIQz-uiYFhL2lqU23-K1picLx4a-045hqISMILL9drcPKMMli8-hw29X61cgcznbNiYWXb/s1600-h/laurachris+067.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhzJRe-HxdYEpFM7WPCxv881Wl6goOoGVp86nRzhzwt7OFO9DLFsCEOsAdV9NxWorriogPDcIQz-uiYFhL2lqU23-K1picLx4a-045hqISMILL9drcPKMMli8-hw29X61cgcznbNiYWXb/s320/laurachris+067.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216606364666395170" /></a><br /><br />Now, what the hell is going on in this photo? Is that boy transparent? <div><br /></div><div>My first assumption was that this was a film photo, and it was just a case of double exposure, but it turns out that it was definitely taken on a digital camera. It's not a case of the shutter being open for too long, because the image on the television is quite sharp and stationary.</div><div><br /></div><div>I also can't make him out in the reflections in the fireplace panel. The child does belong to the family in the photo, but unless he's got some astral projection abilities, I can't sort this one out. Any theories?</div><div><br /></div><div>And, furthermore, is this as good as the ghost I caught on camera on spring break?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Just behind the brick thing, on the left - I've even got it zoomed a little. Totally a face.</div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v194/74/41/5108398/n5108398_38406665_5955.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v194/74/41/5108398/n5108398_38406665_5955.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v194/74/41/5108398/n5108398_38406673_614.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v194/74/41/5108398/n5108398_38406673_614.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-90057809678463796572008-06-23T02:50:00.004-04:002008-06-23T02:56:41.205-04:00I keep forgetting ...<div><br /></div>I actually do have some new stuff up - <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.ehow.com/how_2307373_take-gap-year.html">How to Take a Gap Year</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://movies.gearlive.com/movies/article/q107-sex-and-the-city-boom-in-frame1/">Sex and the City: Boom in Frame?</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=Yu_moia-oVI">Late to the Party: Loving Fads that May Have Already Died</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-20120021939803309902008-06-21T17:42:00.003-04:002008-06-21T17:56:37.557-04:00The Grass on the Other Side Keeps Changing Colors<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.explosm.net/db/files/Comics/Matt/the-grass-is-greener.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.explosm.net/db/files/Comics/Matt/the-grass-is-greener.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So, as steadfast as I generally am, something's going on with me here lately, where none of the decisions I'm making are coming along with that pre-packaged feeling of "this is absolutely the right choice!" <div><div><br /></div><div>That's normal, I know, but I'm used to that feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know I want to live in England, but I'm starting to get really nervous about it, and found myself today even looking at barmaid jobs there, because I guess I'd decided that finding film work wasn't going to happen. Now, even if I do find film work, it might not be a bad idea to do a few nights a week at a pub. The hours are decent, and I have bar experience, so I don't know why this is freaking me out so much.</div><div><br /></div><div>I even had a moment of panic during the first day of my move in with Jess. I think that's just because I stupidly didn't go look at her house before the move, so I didn't mentally prepare myself for it. I'm okay now (because I had a few days of mental prep), and we're finishing up the move tonight and tomorrow. At least I learned something about myself, yeah?</div><div><br /></div><div>So, right now there's this line between Orlando and London for me, and while no matter how my mood may swing, I know deep in my heart that staying here would be the worst thing ever, there are these moments at work, or with my friends, or staring at the hot guitar player, that I start to become concerned that I don't have enough time left here to wrap things up in a perfect little parting package. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think this may be due to the fact that, in the past, I've been completely miserable when it's time to move on - thus the reason why leaving Arcadia forever, and graduating UCF didn't make me all melancholy. So, in theory, I should be pleased that I'm not leaving Orlando at a rapid pace to flee a giant mess of unpleasant, but I guess I'm just not used to walking away from things that aren't broken.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really hope that this reflection won't bring down a flurry of negative self-fulfilled prophecy, since that's not what I want, or what I'm saying at all. I just needed to get it out. I think big life changes are scary, and as my manager said last night, in reference to me up and leaving for London for no other reason than because I want to, "who does that?"</div><div><br /></div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-53360501684527310502008-06-15T17:13:00.004-04:002008-07-20T03:50:17.779-04:00Progress!So, over the past few weeks, the plan has officially been revised. <div><br /></div><div>Next week, I'm moving in with my friend Jess, who is allowing me to live with her, rent-free, until the move. This is going to save me piles of cash, and, I feel, improve my living situation, even though Jessica has a hubby and two kids. </div><div><br /></div><div>While this might sound strange, anything is a step up from Queen Hick, her ghetto thug Prince Regent, and the dog(s). Also, I won't have to worry about mice, giant roaches, or haunted happenings. Hopefully. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also booked my plane ticket! (yay!) So, I will officially be leaving on July 21st, which is Monday, at around 5 in the afternoon. I have a few hours layover in Washington DC, and then a straight shot to London.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wasn't able to get my Prior Entry Clearance, unfortunately, so if I'm going to see any of Europe for my first six months in London, I'll need to do it before September 30th. This is kind of a drag, but it's hard to be bummed about specifics when I'm moving to London. Plus, I'll be able to travel within the UK at my leisure, and there's more than enough there to keep me occupied for six months.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, for now, I'm keeping my eyes peeled for potential job and flat postings that I can reserve ahead of time (though I have a feeling that won't be an option until much closer to my move date), and am trying to make the most out of what time I have left at my job, which I've definitely come to love :)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3ferMgxrJe0&hl=en"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3ferMgxrJe0&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-16164653256691013992008-06-02T14:17:00.008-04:002008-06-02T15:32:06.926-04:00Worst. Night. Ever.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ps3029.k12.sd.us/State/Humpback_Whale_underwater_shot.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://ps3029.k12.sd.us/State/Humpback_Whale_underwater_shot.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Maybe not - no one died or anything, but the night itself was hellacious in a way only comparable to <a href="http://skbennett.blogspot.com/2007/11/thanksgiving-horror.html">that night before Thanksgiving </a>thing, last year.<div><br /></div><div>Orlando is presently hosting a hair stylist's convention, and while these ladies tip well individually, in large groups, they seem to move around a lot and get too drunk to remember that they bought six rounds, each paid to the dollar in cash. I got stiffed out of tips so many times last night that I lost count, which just never happens, even when I've got tables full of Europeans. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I worked my ass off on the level of around a $200 night, and ended up making around $70.</div><div><br /></div><div>To top that off, the mood amongst the staff of Rising Star was also pretty sour. We don't have the band on Sundays, so that already adds a layer of suck to the festivities, but we had an unfortunate combination of bartenders that get off on feeling superior because ... I'm not really sure why. Because they mix drinks? I dunno, but they seem to think they're meant to teach the servers lessons and talk down to us. I suppose when your only career step in life is to make drinks, you need a means to validate yourself, but honestly - at one point, they made a server dig in the trash for a ticket she accidentally tossed, and at another point, decided to give change to a server who needed it $20 in one dollar bills. "To make a point." </div><div><br /></div><div>What's the point the bartender was trying to make? That menopause can happen at 25? I'm not sure, and I don't think we'll ever find out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, negative emotions continued to spike as the evening progressed, ending in a grand finale of the new girl getting a walk out on a $140 tab. In most cases, I'd say it was her own fault for giving back the credit card before having closing funds, but I wasn't there and apparently she was bum rushed in a deliberate con. That sucks, but it was difficult to sympathize for her when the laziest worker at the club told me and my dear friend Jess that it was our fault for not sticking downstairs to help. As though we'd say anything to leaving guests other than "have a good night!"</div><div><br /></div><div>They don't turn blue if they haven't paid. There's no way to know that!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, so finally escaping out into the moist night air, we made it almost to the escalators before a man burst out of the Latin Quarter, projectile vomiting. We were able to avoid him, just barely, but at this point, it's been seven hours of hell, and we all looked like war veterans, worn and haggard and just needed to get home.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, we make it to the moving walkways and lo and behold, spot the man who stiffed poor Sylvia out of her giant tab. As Sylvia is still stuck at the restaurant figuring out how to fix this debacle, and security is no where to be found, Jess and I figure we might as well approach him and let him know what happened on the off chance that it was an accident.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, we round the corner, (and once again let me emphasize how haggard we looked), only to spot Guitar Guy standing near the garage escalators talking to a few of his friends, apparently just casually out for the night, and looking absolutely perfect. I'm pretty sure I muttered, "Oh, my God," a little louder than was strictly appropriate.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you don't know who Guitar Guy is, and we're friends, you don't talk to me enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, he spotted us, and said, "Ladies!" looking happy to see us and all, and we told him to hold on for just a sec while we approached the Walkout Man. The Walkout was very flamboyant, clearly a liar, and obviously deliberately skipped the check. He kept saying he had never even been in the restaurant, which was absurd, because he was wearing a bright red and white button down cowboy shirt, and we'd all seen him. He'd ask his friends, "Did we go into Rising Star?" and they'd all vehemently deny it. If they hadn't, they probably wouldn't have been quite so high pitched or determined.</div><div><br /></div><div>He then called us a slew of objectifying female-specific adjectives and we backed away before he could get physical. My limit on being badgered by asshole male clients is one per month. I've still got bruises from last time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Guitar Guy was sympathetic, but I really just wanted to escape before he had any more time to see me looking the way I did. He was also possibly with a girlfriend, which I knew there was a possibility of, and really doesn't bother me as much as you'd think, but I don't want to have to see her.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, after a few minutes of standing, drained, in the parking garage, attempting some sort of recovery, Jess hugged me and pushed me in the direction of my car, which I climbed into and put into drive.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was completely out of gas, so I drove past the I4 turnoff to try to find a gas station, ended up driving about ten miles in some unknown direction, and pulling into the only 7/11 on the planet with no gas pumps outside of it. Seriously, what the hell?</div><div><br /></div><div>Another two miles down the road was an overpriced Chevron, so I filled up there, and attempted to find a way to get back on the interstate. That's a saga that can only be explained in stretches of road, so let's just jump ahead 20 minutes to my pull off onto the 408 ramp, where they'd closed off the side that leads in the direction I need to go. Why wouldn't there be a warning sign on something like that? </div><div><br /></div><div>I ended up on Orange Blossom Trail, or the infamous redlight district known as OBT, if you're an Orlando local. I sat at a literal red light for twelve minutes and was actively accosted by three (3) working prostitutes, one of whom was no older than 13. They yelled through my rolled up window that I should give some spare cash to my fellow woman, and that the li'l sister should be home studyin' for algebra and not walking the streets. Mercifully, a cop drove by and they vanished into the brush. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Then</span>, I stopped by Taco Bell to get some food, just to comfort myself, and they totally screwed up my order, charged me too much, and when I did get the thing I ordered, it was gross for the very first time in around six years of ordering this product. </div><div><br /></div><div>Upon reaching my door, the lock jammed up again, which I've only ever had to deal with outside of daylight hours, so I spent a few minutes apparently breaking into my own home, surprised that I hadn't been bitten by some tropical spider and died by this point.</div><div><br /></div><div>This all following the previous evening where I received a text message from my idiot roommate accosting me for accidentally locking her boyfriend out of the house. When I responded that he shouldn't be there without her anyway, she said it was rude. I told her it was rude to move someone in against the lease, and she responded that I'm messy, and that's worse. It was a very logical flow of events.</div><div><br /></div><div>Someone hug me.</div><div><br /></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-41531867354899863582008-05-30T06:36:00.003-04:002008-05-30T06:42:14.312-04:00Blogging BrillianceSo, I've had this really evocative idea for a while, involving a blog I'd write under a pen name where I'd be perfectly comfortable disclosing intimate details about my life and my thoughts on matters because everyone would be under a pseudonym and there would be relatively little danger of anyone ever finding out it was me.<div><br /></div><div>It could be sexy and risque and totally frank and entertaining, and I'd be drama free. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've been having trouble sleeping tonight, and this idea has been rolling around in my insomniac mind for a few hours. Thing is, the more I think about it, the more a shame I realize it is that I feel like I need to hide behind an alias to write about the interesting stuff; and to be completely honest, I feel like I need to edit out a lot of the good stuff for this blog upon the chance that someone involved in my neuroses might stumble upon it and be alienated.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, the whole reason I love writing so much is because I love peddling my stuff around to my friends and demanding feedback on it. I like to entertain those I know, moreso than faceless strangers in a cyber void. However, the problem still remains that if I'm to really rant about what's on my mind, some poor guy I might be trying to woo could always find out about this page, see how obsessive I really am, and be completely freaked out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I need an outlet, and I want to share the fun stuff with my friends, but I'm at a loss on the solution to this particular quagmire. Suggestions are welcome, as ever.</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-10142734882723059042008-05-23T15:01:00.004-04:002008-05-23T15:40:40.500-04:00The Plan, Pt. 2 - Expenses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Money-Print-C10055084.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Money-Print-C10055084.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, I think I might need to pick up a second, or possibly third job. In fact, if I can just stop sleeping all together, I might stand a better chance of making it to England in the near future.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The more I think through how much I need to save, and the reality of the expenses here, the more disheartened I become. However, I may come into a surprise windfall of luck, which I found out yesterday. We'll see what happens. Below, I choose to share with you, fair reader, the intimacies of my financial woe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Check it out:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The set of costs here are what I need to leave in July, granting that everything in my bank account right now will be gone come Monday to other people I owe, so starting from scratch - </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Expense:<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Cost:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Housing (2 months)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$1,000<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Cable/Internet<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(2 months)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$90<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Plane Ticket<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$500</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">BUNAC fund requirement<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$2000</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Add-on Visa<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$130</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Owed to UCF<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$130</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Living Expenses (2 months)<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$800</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>_______<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Total<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>$4650</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Right, so obviously, I'm not making 5 grand in the next two months the way I'm moving right now. Rent is probably the biggest hinderance here, so, maybe getting out a little earlier would save me a few hundred, but then again, maybe not.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, right now, I'm doing some fiscal planning, trying to figure out how exactly to push these funds into my bank account in time to get the hell out of here. Also, I've had the nasty shock today of finding out that most British employers pay monthly, not weekly or biweekly like here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh well, we'll see what happens.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'll use the above list as a checklist and keep the blog abreast of my success, granted I have any.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In other news, I have some new eHow stuff coming soon. Perhaps supplementing my income with a few new freelancing gigs wouldn't be a bad idea, considering.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-37661198477303123562008-05-13T17:00:00.005-04:002008-05-13T17:12:50.947-04:00The Plan, Pt. 1 - My New Job<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_OoAGD4zafL7CxG0t8D6trtUmNWeoV_l_Eq6I0c02NO2I1CB2iONYMvpHkAIPTFpY3fIjbEnd0ppAMoebrac8ePEe1Zu6Wy114dyF3cuWEfYKPkOYwqSFPZx65IV59AgO85bwzVLm0wK/s1600-h/rising-star-logo.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS_OoAGD4zafL7CxG0t8D6trtUmNWeoV_l_Eq6I0c02NO2I1CB2iONYMvpHkAIPTFpY3fIjbEnd0ppAMoebrac8ePEe1Zu6Wy114dyF3cuWEfYKPkOYwqSFPZx65IV59AgO85bwzVLm0wK/s320/rising-star-logo.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199970291755728514" /></a><br /><div>Around two months ago, I started working at City Walk's newest club, Rising Star. The goal here was to find a money-making job, that I would enjoy, and could rely on after graduation to save for London.</div><div><br /></div><div>So far, most of the time, these criteria are working out just fine. In fact, I insist that everyone who reads my blog come visit me at work. I'll get you onto the stage and you, too, can do karaoke with a live band and back-up singers. Check out the video.</div><div><br /></div><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_zAK5Jjyr70&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_zAK5Jjyr70&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />Anyway, aside from the fact that the same ten songs will be stuck in my head for the rest of my life, and that sometimes the repetition grows tedious, it's a lot of fun. Hopefully this week will be a bit more lucrative than last week, which was awful beyond my abilities to express.<br /><br />Please, please, please come visit me. And tip well. I need to get to England ASAP.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-9258432671723288902008-05-05T13:50:00.002-04:002008-05-05T14:23:34.168-04:00I Graduated!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v240/128/101/5101897/n5101897_38918529_8748.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v240/128/101/5101897/n5101897_38918529_8748.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />So, Saturday morning, I did the commencement thing and am officially finished with college (that's me on the far left). <div><br /></div><div>It's been a hell of a semester, and honestly, I'm not sure that I've accepted that college is over. Though it hasn't been a perfect run, it's been a great experience, and an indisputable cornerstone in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>This week, I'll be wrapping up some loose ends on campus, finishing up our Capstone DVD's, and officially moving into active mode for saving up for London, which is looking like a July move right now. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a feeling it's actually going to be a really good summer. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the writing end, CollegeTips finally put up an article I wrote for them months and months ago. They didn't do a great job with the formatting or coming up with a good title, but here it is:</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://collegetipsforparents.org/article14.html">PT Job Vs. Joining an Organization</a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm actually talking with them about working on some podcast episodes for them. I need to get some video software onto my computer first.</div>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-85089877335945753862008-04-04T14:18:00.003-04:002008-04-04T14:23:10.466-04:00A few updatesOkay kids, I'm still on the laze-train in the blogging world, trying to deal with the playpen of horrors that is my schedule. Thought I would share two quick things - my new favorite web-stop, and the only write up I've had the gumption to get done over the past week or so.<br /><br />Enjoy both.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://overheardinnewyork.com">Overheard in New York</a><br /><br /><a href="http://television.gearlive.com/tvenvy/article/q107-spaced-remake-snubs-creators/">More justified ranting about McSpaced/Granada</a>, but this time, I actually published it instead of doing it verbally over dinner at Bangkok Square.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-62667602517019243792008-03-24T12:57:00.003-04:002008-03-24T13:07:33.099-04:00I'm still alive<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.kerrygoldrecipes.co.uk/EASTER/IMAGES/easter_eggs.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.kerrygoldrecipes.co.uk/EASTER/IMAGES/easter_eggs.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />My computer got sick. It had to go away for a while, and I was uncomfortable blogging from school. So, computer came back, symbolically very near Easter, and we're back in business.<br /><br />Here's what's gone down in my blogging absence.<br /><br />I'm back working for <a href="http://tvenvy.com">TvEnvy</a> and<a href="http://filmcrunch.com"> FilmCrunch</a>. I probably won't post every article I do for them individually, but there will be occasional favorites and reminders to check the sites. There should be a good one going up soon, which I will feature.<br /><br />Still blogging for <a href="http://weightreductioncoach.com">Weight Reduction Coach</a>, and <a href="http://cruiseshipssite.com">Cruise Ships Site</a> when I can, though my numbers have dwindled in the absence of my computer.<br /><br />I'm also doing some guest blogging for <a href="http://billiedoux.com">Billie Doux</a>, which is very exciting for me, as I'm a big fan. I'm just doing summaries of the <i>Lost</i> Missing Pieces, but still exciting. And, I may have a new gig at the local newspaper doing community profiles, which will be good experience, since I've never really done newspapers, and it's a different type of tone.<br /><br />And I'm working on some new stuff that I will inform you guys about as it becomes available.<br /><br />In my personal life, I've also gotten my British Work Visa (woo!), and the job hunt hath begun. I went on Spring Break in the Carolinas and got some kick ass photos that I'll post in good time. And, I've started waitressing at the new live-band karaoke bar in CityWalk.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-2347982681163306562008-01-29T16:52:00.000-05:002008-01-29T16:58:37.206-05:00FocusI just wanted to share the music video I finally finished for local artist <a href="http://chrisburnscbradio.com">Chris Burns</a>, on his single Focus.<br /><br />Written, Directed, and Edited by yours truly. <br />Performed by Chris Burns, Joanna Eliza Stevens, and Johnny Sawyer. <br />Cinematography by Marco Cordero. <br />Assistant Direction by Jesse Chapman and Priscilla McEver. <br />Makeup and Costumes by Janine Godfrey.<br /><br />I will have a list of the extras up here soon, but the band <a href="http://myspace.com/theflingpage">The Fling</a> is also featured in the video, during the beach scene. Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsDOyPgbPUQ&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsDOyPgbPUQ&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-24608703563720829432008-01-22T02:26:00.000-05:002008-01-22T02:27:01.413-05:00Announcement!Hello, fans and admirers. I have officially finished an assembly of my Capstone film - Edgar's Last Donut.<br /><br />Woo!Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-29275494433273526992008-01-20T00:03:00.000-05:002008-01-20T14:47:21.855-05:00Some InspirationI've been mulling over something I read last night. Occasionally I stumble across something that I read, something true, that strikes me as so deeply sad that it's ingrained in my memory forever.<br /><br />Last night, after revisiting <i>A Hard Day's Night,</i> I was reading an interview Paul McCartney did for Playboy in 1984, where he was asked about his response to John Lennon's death, which he'd never really talked about. Not surprisingly, he said he still hadn't really let it process, because it was just too much to take in.<br /><br />But this story really, really got to me:<br /><br />---<br /><i>PLAYBOY: Once you began to understand Yoko, Paul, did you two talk about <br />John?<br /><br />PAUL: Yes. We did. In fact, after he died, the thing that helped me the <br />most, really, was talking to Yoko about it. She volunteered the <br />information that he had . . . really liked me. She said that once or <br />twice, they had sat down to listen to my records and he had said, "There <br />you are." So an awful lot went on in the privacy of their own place. So, <br />yes, it was very important.<br /></i><br />---<br /><br />Anyway, I guess there's really no need to explain why that hooked inside of me so firmly. It's horribly tragic, isn't it? They had this incredible bond, and it never really got to be completely repaired. The rest of the interview can be read <a href="http://www.music.indiana.edu/som/courses/rock/paulint.html">here.</a><br /><br />So, like I said, that piece of information has been tugging at me all day. And then, to top it off, I found this amazing photograph by David Bailey that is now my desktop image - <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/images/multimedia/sixties/bailey_lennon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/images/multimedia/sixties/bailey_lennon.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />It's possibly the jump I needed to get my brain working again. I've been in a creative slump for the past few weeks, with school and all. I'm very intrigued by this whole relationship and story. I don't know if anything will come of it, but since it affected me so, and sort of got the gears running again, I felt it necessary to share.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-76950251654861968122008-01-03T15:19:00.001-05:002008-01-03T15:24:10.518-05:00Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.local6.com/2008/0103/14970510.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://www.local6.com/2008/0103/14970510.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />So, apparently we had snow flurries in the Central Florida area this morning; a capper for the coldest day in years.<br /><br />And I missed it. I missed it, and I've never once, in my whole life, witnessed snow. Sigh.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.local6.com/news/14959516/detail.html">Snow Falls in Central Florida</a>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-85226608926419438842008-01-02T01:07:00.000-05:002008-01-02T01:56:32.732-05:00New Year's NewsI don't even know where to start. I suppose first, and foremost, let's talk about what happened on New Year's Eve, and then we'll move on to other stuff.<br /><br /><b>1. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.baynews9.com/images/news/2008/1/1/lgtampaexplosion1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.baynews9.com/images/news/2008/1/1/lgtampaexplosion1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />To the left of the screen, you'll see a picture that looks kind of like a crater in the middle of a street. <br /><br />It looks like that because it is a crater in the middle of a street. <br /><br />Last night at approximately half past one in the AM, a bomb was detonated about four houses away from where my family lives in Tampa. That's right, a bomb. In a suburban area. Mere feet away from my mom and brothers. WTF.<br /><br />My family is all right, and according to the news, there were no serious injuries, because the bomb was placed mid-street instead of near a house or vehicle, where it would've caused, obviously, quite a bit more damage and possibly fatalities. The windows in most of the houses down the street have been blown out, and from the photos it looks like there's some minor charring.<br /><br />If you don't believe me, (though if you've known me for any significant amount of time, you've learned not to question stories like this by now) check out the very brief news coverage <a href="http://www.baynews9.com/content/36/2008/1/1/313905.html?title=Police+investigating+explosion+in+Tampa">here</a>.<br /><br />Hopefully, this was just kids screwing around with Internet how-to's and not practice for taking out an abortion clinic or some such nonsense. I'll keep press coverage up here if any develops, though, judging from that article, Tampa news isn't much for thrilling readers.<br /></b><br />2. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://janet.vertesi.com/files/mind_the_gap%20logo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://janet.vertesi.com/files/mind_the_gap%20logo.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I've decided to move to London.<br /><br />I'll probably talk more about this, and in much greater detail over the next few months while I'm finishing up with school, but I've made the final decision, and will probably move sometime this summer. It will initially be for six months, through what's similar to an internship program, but hopefully, while I'm there, I will be able to secure permanent employment and get a work visa.<br /><br />If the visa through employment thing doesn't happen, and I still want to stay for longer, there's a special visa meant for recent grads that allows two years of occupancy and an additional year of employment. It's all a bit complicated, but I'm working through it. <br /><br />Putting my resume and CV together is presently giving me more stress than the legal stuff. I think I'm going to attend one of those campus workshops.<br /><br /><br /><b>3. I'm really, really, really sick. I think I have the flu, and it's my own fault for not getting that damned shot before I started shooting my Capstone.<br /><br />Gifts and pop-up sympathy cards are welcome.</b><br /><br /><br />4. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n44/n220550.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n44/n220550.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I finished the Gemma Doyle trilogy. Being sick, I've had lots of time to read. I'm going to go ahead and recommend this one, even though it's technically YA reading. I've been following this thing since I was a YA, and the final book came out the day after Christmas.<br /><br />Oh, I feel weepy.<br /><br /><b>5. My 2008 Resolution<br /><br />Okay, so, how do I phrase this? I know that the next year is going to, without question, change everything in my life. Chances are, the jolt from the schoolroom to the workforce, leaving the country, etc. is going to be jarring and I know that I'll want to have lots of crying fits.<br /><br />I'm not going to say no crying fits. Sometimes they're justified. But, dealing with life in an optimistic manner has always been important to me, and I think an unwavering employment of that this year will be crucial to the life that follows. <br /><br />So, here's to keeping my chin up, and good luck to you all on doing the same.<br /></b>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8855100238452895601.post-87890633097186910932007-12-24T15:25:00.001-05:002007-12-24T15:35:25.181-05:00Merry ChristmasWhile procrastinating on doing an assignment for Boxoffice this afternoon, I stumbled across <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071224/ap_en_ot/people_caroline_kennedy">This Article</a> about President Kennedy answering a letter to a third grader concerned about nuclear tests killing Santa. I thought it was fantastic, and I highly recommend checking it out.<br /><br />Before I go drive illegally across the state to see my family in Tampa, I wanted to share the Christmas present I got from my friend, <a href="http://photos-201.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-sf2p/v80/177/1/5103201/n5103201_35353892_8066.jpg">Jesse</a>, last night before he too headed home for the Holidays - <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.spawn.com/toys/movies/lost/charlie/images/lost_charlie_photo_01_dl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://www.spawn.com/toys/movies/lost/charlie/images/lost_charlie_photo_01_dl.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />That's right, folks, that's a<a href="http://starbulletin.com/2006/05/31/news/story04.html">Dominic Monaghan action figure </a>- via Charlie Pace of <i>Lost</i>. I suppose Jesse knows me very well, and that I almost had an asthma attack upon opening it.<br /><br />I think I'll take Charlie home with me for Christmas. Perhaps we can all make jokes about how I finally brought a boy home.<br /><br />So, off I go to finish some long overdue assignments for my favorite employer, and to all of you, Merry Christmas and a safe holiday. I'll probably blog about some horrendous adventure at home in the next couple of days.<br /><br />It's inevitable.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17596412064324033691noreply@blogger.com0