Cumpleanos.

Birthdays are a wonderful thing. Not for the presents, but for the mere fact that it is a celebration of you being in this world. It is a time for you and everyone you know to rejoice in the fact that you have brought light and radiance to an otherwise dismal world. And while you share the day with thousands - perhaps millions - of other people in the world, it still feels like it is solely yours, and I think that's special.

For me, though, birthdays have always been bittersweet. As a child, I was most excited about getting presents. What kid wasn't? We're selfish and greedy (and some never grow out of that mindset), so all that we know is ourselves and what we want. But as I grew older, birthdays took on a different meaning for me. I don't know when it started, exactly, but at some point, it continually brought up thoughts of my birth mother. I used to ask my mom - and sometimes, I still do - whether or not my birth mother knew when my birthday was. Or if she thought of me at all. Or if she knew how old I was or was going to be. My mom always told me that there's no way for a woman to have a child and not know and remember all of these things. And while her words always brought solace to me, there was still this underlying twinge of doubt.

What if she really didn't remember? What if she didn't think of me at all? What if she had forced herself to forget giving birth to me or giving me up? What if she was dead? The last option gave me a sense of finality, at least, so I didn't have to wonder all of the time. If she's dead, she's dead - end of story. But all of those other thoughts? They tore me to the very core. The thought of being so thought-filled when it came to her, and to think of her not reciprocating that sort of emotion, ripped me apart. So while I smiled awkwardly as people sang "Happy Birthday" to me, I always had tears in my eyes at these swarming thoughts.

What if she had forgotten about me?

And now, I find myself six days away from my 23rd birthday. I can feel these thoughts tapping on my shoulder, beckoning me to turn around and weep at this hypothetical devastation. But I'm forcing myself to face forward. I've come to realize that if she has forgotten about me, then that's it. I cannot control her - I don't even know her. But even if I did, I wouldn't be able to control her thoughts or feelings or actions. They are hers, as mine are mine.

So, I'm taking five days off from work, starting on my birthday. I'm spending four of them with the one man who renews my faith in the world, in life, and in love, each and every day. I'm continuing to break out of my stage fright and singing a song of love and happiness at the store meeting on Sunday. I'm celebrating being alive. I'm celebrating having been born. I'm celebrating the fact that my birth mother, wherever she is, decided to give me up. I'm celebrating my life - what has come to pass and what will be in the future. I'm letting go of all of this pain and all of this fear and deciding that damn it - I'm worth it.

- May (you never forget to dance).

No Need to Complicate

I'm sure that most people are sick of hearing "I'm Yours" on the radio. I'm sure that people switch off whenever the beginning chords start. I'm sure people think it's played out and 'what's the big deal?' and it was good the first time around, not the 50239487th.

I don't care.

I will never get enough of this song.

I've been a Mraz fan since I heard "The Remedy." It steadily grew with songs like "Geek in the Pink" and "Wordplay." But his most recent album, "We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things." is my favorite, by far. And a lot of loyalists of Mr. Mraz detest the fans who were suddenly all about the hat-loving singer once they heard the upbeat, summer-appropriate notes of "I'm Yours." Personally, I'm not one of those people.

I've always respected Mraz, not only for his blatant honesty in his lyrics, but the sheer poetry of his words. He's one of the few talented song-writers still out there. Where most people are fulfilling the cookie-cutter mold of "Wahhhh life suuuucks .. Here's my soooong about ittttt. Wahhhh .." he takes the idea of heartbreak and turns it into something beautifully tragic. It's not a complaint about losing a loved one, losing a relationship, but rather an observation as someone outside of his own life, while still devastatingly involved.

With WSWDWST, though, it dove even deeper into the personal realm. With songs like "Love For A Child," we get to listen to his feelings about growing up in a broken home, riddled with divorce, celebrating separate holidays, and his struggle with reconciling it all. The first time I heard the song, I cried. I couldn't even make that up. The sad twangs of the guitar got to me initially, and then when the line, "They never checked to see my grades, what a fool I'd be to start complaining now" came out, tears flowed without hesitation. I'm not a child of divorce, but the family I once saw as forever together has been anything but - but don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade my family situation for anything. I love every single person in my family more than I can say. I respect all of them for who they are and what they bring. But there's something deeply personal in Mraz's lyrics that I think everyone can relate to, in some way or another.

But the point of this post wasn't to give a way-too-late album review of WSWDWST. It was to talk about "I'm Yours." Where people switch off the radio, I turn the volume dial higher. I hear it just about every morning on my way to work, and if I don't naturally hear it on the radio, I put it on my iPod and listen to it. As soon as I hear that 5/7 slide, followed by the off-beat strumming, I smile. The sun's a little brighter. The day's already off to a great start.

It's one of those songs that you sing along to without even listening to it. But when you stop and actually hear the lyrics, you realize how beautiful the song really is. The words stay in time with its upbeat, reggae-like swagger. My favorite part is the last verse, though, after the short interlude.

I've been spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror,
And bending over backwards just to try to see it clearer.
But my breath fogged up the glass,
So I drew a new face and I laughed.
I guess what I be saying is there ain't no better reason
To rid yourself of vanity and just go with the seasons.
It's what we aim to do;
Our name is our virtue.

It sums up everything. Don't take yourself too seriously. Go with the flow. Enjoy life without getting caught up in the ridiculous standards demanded by society. Be yourself. Laugh at yourself more often. Who you are is a gift to the world; don't waste it.

If you haven't already, go check out Mraz's blog. Every time you finish reading a post, you'll feel inspired to leave this world a better place than how you found it. One of my favorites is the post about the manicure set. The universe really is a wonderful thing.

- May (you make the life you lead YOURS).

PS. - After listening to something mellow, like "A Beautiful Mess" or "Love For A Child," listen to something insanely amazing, like "The Dynamo of Volition," which was written entirely around the one line (it was a challenge from someone Mraz works with/knows): "Driving off on a blind man's bike." The man's the miracle worker of music and lyrics.

Owl City, Owl Mania

You know those moments when you hear a song, by chance, and for some reason, you can never scrape it off of the linoleum of your cranial cavity? You're not really sure how it got there, why it's there, or why it's made its habitat on your brain-floor, but what you know is that .. you don't mind. You like having more company in your already cluttered space. You decide that it should stay there, splat on the ground, next to other random bits of information, like "your favorite yoga pose is the Sage Pose, followed by anything that stretches your back" which looks like a miniature Buddha figurine that's gotten super-glued to the floor, or "you need to feed your cat before he gets angry and starts gnawing at your ankles," which looks like a can of cat food with a bright, red exclamation point above it. Or a fang stuck in the cover.

.. Wow, that was a long analogy for something simple. Sorry, folks. I think I'm getting cabin fever, being locked in this office from 9 - 5 every day. I'm also getting creepy vibes from whatever still inhabits this place (it used to be a psychiatric hospital) .. and they are not very friendly. You know that feeling of being unwanted? Of being scrutinized from some invisible pair of eyes? Of being sneered at behind your back? Yeah, I get that feeling here. And it's not because of the people I work with - they're awesome. They're friendly and I can't remember most of their names. It's something bigger, something .. stranger.

But I digress.

The point of this post was to talk about songs that get stuck in your head. As of late, it's been all of Owl City's songs. I found them through the miracle that is Pandora, and I've been addicted ever since. My favorites include, "Fuzzy Blue Lights," "I'll Meet You There," "The Saltwater Room," and "Captains and Cruise Ships."

If you want they according to mood:
Mellow/Sad: Fuzzy Blue Lights, The Saltwater Room
Upbeat/Kind of Reminds You Of Another Song From Someone: I'll Meet You There, Captains and Cruise Ships

Go here and listen to them. The four songs are scattered about my blip station, but seriously. Have a listen. Then buy their stuff on iTunes. You won't regret it, I promise.

- May (you live a life worthy of a soundtrack)

I've Got Blisters On These Fingahs!

My pointer, middle, and ring finger on my left hand hurt from the blisters that I've self-induced by playing the guitar so much these past few days. I don't really mind the pain. Does that make me a masochist? Hm. I probably am.

I still suck like a Dyson vacuum though. Despite all my practicing and the blisters and the hours of time put into it. My hand was just not meant to play a guitar I don't think. I can barely spread my fingers across an octave on the piano -- it's that much harder on a guitar, and I can't really stretch beyond two frets on a good day. Also, my left hand is kind of like the "very special" cousin twice-removed of my right hand and is not nearly as nimble or quick (jumping over a candlestick) as my right hand. Maybe I should try playing a lefty guitar. Or maybe I should get one made for kids. I bet I could reach more than two frets' worth on that.

A friend of mine yelled at me for downgrading myself to an electric due to my small hand-span. He told me that anyone can sound good on an electric (and I can even convince myself with a few songs that I'm moderately good and will soon become a rockstar) but that an acoustic is where it's at. There's nothing like the meaty, raw sound of an acoustic guitar. I explained that I would love to learn how to play it properly, but that my hand is the size of a four year-old's. He suggested I look into a Baby Taylor, which .. I may have to do, once I have money again.

So. My fingers are blistered. They hurt. They burn when they're near hot objects (cooking myself dinner tonight was fun). They ache when I touch them on things, rendering them near useless as they're fingers, used for touching. Still .. I guess it's all a good pain. Something about the greater good, sacrificing for the craft, blah dee blah.

I just have one thing to say: this better improve my chi or my in-touch-ness with the musical universe. I like to imagine John Lennon listening from Heaven, cringing every time he sees me grab my guitar and prop it on my leg. I imagine him going, in his Liverpool-ian accent, "Oh for Christ's sake, not 'er again!" and covering his ears. I also picture him hanging out with Gandhi and JFK.

Is that weird?

- May (your wounds heal).