Visit to Paradise

I just spent the past week in my favorite place in the world. While I was there I sculled a single shell, swam across the cove every day with my dad, sailed with my cousin, ran in the trees, canoed with my mom, water skied with my brother complete with a face plant that felt like a truck injury the next day, and lazed on the floating dock like a seal soaking up the sun.

The sun however, was very minimal, while the life lessons on genes and nutrition were plentiful. New Hampshire is having a record high rain year and as a result, the blue berries were going wild. Besides the two blueberries pies I made,  I recently acquired a new found love of pancakes. I now have to make up for 22 years of pancakeless mornings by having blueberry pancakes virtually every single day from here on out (a daunting task). Just as I was frying a badcake (as my dad calls them) in oozing butter and watching the blueberries bubble purple on the sides, my 86 year old Grandfather went into his yearly lesson about the genes I inherited. The monologue goes a little something like this,

"Oh Robinson women, they are doomed. Doomed to be fat. OOOhaaahhh you should have seen my sister. She was enormous. And my mother ahh gaadddd! They all start out so thin. Oh when Lizzy (my aunt) was your age she was just beautiful. Thin and beautiful. But then every year she got a little more and a little more well covered. You watch yourself. Every year you'll add a little more on and then one day you will realize you have quite a bit more than you ever anticipated or desired!" 

He speaks of it like a disease I am doomed to and can only watch passively. It doesn't matter if I have a boyfriend over for dinner for the first time, or a room full of cousins; he will still give the lecture.  Luckily I find these little lessons absolutely hysterical. He seems to be worrying himself sick about the doomed poundage I am fatefully walking into. And every year, it was this exact age that "Lizzy was still thin at 22 (insert 16,17, 18 etc). Ooohhhhahhh but the year after that...." 

Besides the life lessons I reviewed, the week was the most peaceful I've had this year. It was incredibly stormy, which made it absolutely beautiful. The storms usually started with wind and lightning in the late afternoon. We sat on the deck and watched the wind whip the leaves of maple, birch and cedar into the darkening sky. The lightning was coming down right behind the lake on the other side of the cove and the combined sound of thunder and and rustling leaves lulled me into a happy stupor. Right before the rain came, all the colors deepened, the blue of the mountains, the green trees, the sky reflecting lake and the heavy clouds. The rain came in torrents that didn't let up until morning.

Most years you can sit down on the dock and swing your feet around without touching water. This year the water was above the sagging parts of the dock. When a boat wake came by, the water jumped through the slats in the wood, soaking the entire dock. And the mushrooms were just having a field day. In a place where I have never seen mushrooms, they were suddenly as abundant as trees. One was literally as big as a toast plate (read: the small plates)  They were spotted, pink, red, brown, lumpy, white, growing on trees, floating in the lake, and even growing on the benches. 

I also saw more loons this year than ever. If you've never heard a loon, I can't even explain the sound they make at night. Its somewhat like a wooden flute, hollow and elemental, eery and long. The sound reverberates down the cove. They are incredibly graceful looking with their bright white and black spots. One day I rowed to a little neighboring cove to look at the lily pads. There were blue lily pad flowers as well as yellow ones. I stopped rowing and started to meditate with my eyes open. A couple of ducks became comfortable enough to walk out on a half submerged tree right next to me. Then two loons glided right by me. They started calling in a short chortling whistle that they don't do at night. The echo seemed to be bouncing of rock walls in every direction. It was incredible. The sunsets were a whole other blog so I will stop boring you all. Needless to say it was very hard to leave. 

Tirade against the sink

Hello my lovely doveys! Now that I realized that I have a two person readership for which I am infinitely grateful , I can address you more personally. Also apologies for my long stint of silence, it has now ended. Which sadly means an update that may be too long to read.

This twilight zone that I work in....well I think I had it all wrong. Behind the glitz and glamour is a world I had only hoped to be ignorant of. Let's start with the kitchen sink:

We (I use this word sarcastically and with an ironic dose of cynicism) can now proudly boast that we are a sustainable company, dedicated to waste reduction. However, this involves a transition so radical and alien, that some people don't really know what to do. Once upon a golden time there was a trash can where one could dispose of unwanted paper coffee cups, resplendent with gooey Starbuck's sugar free sugar. But what is the modern cosmo woman supposed to do when the ceramic mugs cannot be disposed of in the trash can?

Of course! The kitchen sink is the latest trend of last year's trash can! By noon the sink is piled so high with mugs and plates that one can barely turn the water on without back-splash off the ceramic behemoth. Never mind that the dishwasher is right next to the sink and completely empty. Once I was even caught in the naughty act of loading a dish and was told cooly "Oh you don't need to do that. The cleaning people do that." 

This latest insight that we in fact have cleaning people makes the poster above the sink a curious and suspect piece of art. Right above the sink is a compelling picture of a naked baby in a sink full of dirty dishes. He is saying "Clean up after yo' self sucka!" Then in big bold letters at the top it says, "Don't make chubby baby do your dishes!" 

This heartfelt plea to clean up after ourselves  seems to imply that the cleaning people are....chubby babies? Are we just hoping that they don't read or speak English and won't be offended that we are calling them fat infantile cannards???

OH! Speaking of babies. Today I took part in a brainstorm at work. I thought it would be a good way to see if I want to get onto the creative team in my firm. We were brainstorming new ideas for a wine brand that caters to adventurous people. We had a list of what "THEY" (the other, strange adventurous being) likes and does. We were told that statistically speaking they don't watch TV, don't work in office jobs and are typically divorced. From this we accurately gleaned that our crowd of target adventurers are "losers, loners and babies" Why did we decide that they were babies you might ask? Well because people who can't sit still to watch TV, and who don't have office jobs (and I quote from a senior planner) " don't have the fucking attention span to sit their asses down for more than five minutes" People who can't sit in offices are babies. 

Let me tell you, my ideas for this adventure brainstorm were not wanted or appreciated. We decided that we should go for a sustainable, environmental bend to appeal to these adventurers whom we so abhor. I learned that sustainable means something completely different in this world. It is measured in dollars saved, not water saved; it is the latest marketing gimmick; it is the hottest buzz word and if you can use it to your advantage, you are on the cutting edge of profitability and street cred. Marketing a product as sustainable has nothing to do with the actual thing. 

I munched endlessly on cookies and tried to act mature while we decided how best to manipulate the tree huggers.

At the end I said to the senior, "I'm sorry I didn't contribute more, I am still figuring things out and learning a lot by just taking it all in and seeing what it is you are looking for in terms of ideas."

Her response: "Well if you figure it out let me know, I'll still be here tomorrow."

Oh also, she said that she "hates nature" and lived in Colorado for five minutes and then realized that there was "way too much fucking wilderness" 

Oh my there is so much more to share. Perhaps I should leave this at that and tell you the rest later. 

Tata my loves. I hope you live in the other sphere of our dichotomized world! 

The Twilight Zone

The twilight zone...a.k.a. my new job makes me want to scramble towards the nearest mud pit, or even good old, trusty dusty Quorum Review IRB and hide...  Not that it's bad; its just a little....scary.

A typical day:

 I double check my pits for stains and signs of distress, smooth my eyebrows with thumb and forefinger, brushing away and offending cookie crumbs and wobble in on sky high heels and a tight little number, which I am hoping will place me within the realm of normal at the diva fest going on within. When I enter, I catch whiffs of an exotic perfume from the wide eyed receptionis. With a bright smile, she flicks her dainty wrists in a friendly hello, as the colorful baubles on her arm jingle about merrily. 

I cross the open kitchen, and ping pong table-lounge area to sit at my desk. The walls are blue and orange and yellow. The two executives that I support have glass offices so that I can see in and right through to the turquoise San Francisco Bay. Their offices have enormous flat screen TV's, modern couches and chairs around an artful coffee table, and expansive desks that are bare save their elegant Mac book laptops. 

I try not to give myself a hernia as I work, stressing about organizing for two people when I myself have to have a whole entourage (read: Mom, Victoria, Connor) just to organize myself.

Luckily people are friendly and I need only go around the corner to chat with all the other young, welcoming young twenty somethings. 

Every girl is either beautiful in an asian exotic way, or is Amazon-woman tall, with curly blond hair, piercing blue eyes and such chiseled features you aren't sure whether their many expressions are model shot poses or genuine movements caused by emotion. They look like they just dropped off the set of Sex and the City, with their high waisted, tapered skirts, half tilted detective-esque hats and burberry scarves.

At first I was intimidated by them, wondering when they would notice that a stalky, grandma-hand midget had snuck into their midst. Okay who am I kidding, I am still highly intimidated. One of them came over to me and introduced herself as the director of such and such and then said, "Sweetheart you are going to be on my team soon!" Then she sped on down the hallway in a hustle bustle wave of excitement.

The guys could be fit into two categories as well. They either have the new culturally sexy silver hair that belies their also chiseled yet refined features. Regular George Clooneys. Then the others who work in the creative department have long hair, artsy glasses and accents.

A note on the accents: These accents, possessed by male and female alike, seem to belong more to the category of glamour than any dialect or country. 

When I get bored I peruse the magazines and find nothing noteworthy. I go to the bookshelf and find one on top called "What Not to Wear". This book is hilarious. On one side of the page is a woman who is slouching and looking upset. There is a woman behind her glaring with disgust and distain. Then there is a caption, one of which is: "This dress hangs unnat"ractively from arse, making thighs look wide and calves look like pins emerging from the Lincoln Tunnel." There is an entire section on how to hide "stump legs" and not look as if your ass hangs to the ground. 

After billing $700 dollar dinners, making $1800 dollar plane flights and talking remotely to my boss via blackberry the day ends. 

I emerge from the building and the evening light washes over me revealing real people, dirt and yes even, slovenliness. I relax and dig into my bag for my fifth dose of stress relief...the free office M & M's provided because we make their commercials. I chew and try not to think too much about my new livelihood. 

Living in a Fraternity

When I was in high school I always used to tell my dad that I wanted to join a fraternity in college. Needless to say, I was not even allowed to rush for the fraternities-sexist pigs. Well my comments, intended to scare and shock my dear father, finally came back to bite me in the ass.

Connor had his good friend Jeff to visit this weekend for St. Patrick's day. Jeff thinks that I'm the peanut gallery and just found out that I live with Connor two days before his arrival. I'm sure when he bought his ticket he wasn't banking on hanging out with the peanut gallery all weekend but that's what he got.

On this fine boy's weekend Saturday morning rolled around much too quickly. I awoke to find the clock at just past 7:30 am and an ice cold guinness pressed between Connor and I in bed like an unwanted stuffed animal. Kevin, our other house mate hovered over our bed telling us to get up and drink! Before I had time to roll over and hide from the day, 6 foot 2 Jeff galloped-or galumphed (hard to tell at that fuzzy hour) into the room and leapt gleefully into bed with us. Two men and two beers was a bit of a full house for me, but what was the other option? 

Fast forward to 8:00: Celtic music is blaring, three guys are laughing at the movie Boon Dock Saints over bloody mary's and I'm struggling into a green leprechaun suit.

I hadn't so much as walked out of the bathroom from an innocent tooth brushing session when I was accosted with accusations of having taken a pooh. In the next half hour I had to defend my honor, tooth and nail to prove that I was a bona fide girl and therefore would NEVER even dare think of pooping. I had to bear the newly coined term of "taking a Lindsay" which was thrown around like chihuahuas at a suburban park for new "moms". It's hard to face this onslaught of accusations from an increasingly drunk, small army of insurgents making merry on my precious furniture, but I bore it with courage, grit and a guilty smirk. Trust me, my explanations of what it is "to be human" did not help my cause.

We made our way to the St. Patrick's day parade by bus and quickly found ourselves in the "beer garden" in San Francisco's Union Square. The revelers went on for miles and miles in every costume imaginable. Connor's sister Quinn quickly made friends with a man wearing a bright green leotard and shaking his booty in the sun for our viewing pleasure. 

The drinking continued endlessly and I was biraged with questions about why I wouldn't so much as have one beer and what kind of Irish person was I anyway. This coming from other friends of Connor's whom we met while roaming with his cousin, sister, friends and more. Well I am not one to back down from a challenge, and when someone implies that I am no fun, I of course have to prove them wrong. Thus began the day of me acting like the drunkest person out there when I was in fact the only stone cold sober person in the crowd of thousands.

I don't remember the details of the live music or who was breaking out the harmonicas because I was "drunk", i.e. dancing like a hyena, laughing like a baboon and forgetting that I was actually not drunk.

Two hot dogs and five hours later we somehow made our way across the city to a bar in Northbeach. From above the blaring music of the bar came an even louder ruckus of sound. It came from the open bay windows one story above, where people hung their intoxicated limps into the California sunshine, enticing passerby's to stop on in. We went up to the what appeared as a dilapidated rat hole where bar crew might store illicit drugs. But nope, it was a someone's house and they had actually been living there for two years. There was a DJ, a balance board to dance on, a big black dog named Baby and well, quite a few relatives of Connor's. I was introduced, among others, to a man and his boyfriend. I didn't question this because one of the guys was wearing red and white long underwear that looked straight out of "Where's Waldo". The other one had a wiry beard as long as an obese hamster.

Once I got tired I assumed I was safe hanging out with the "gay couple". I helped one of them put on his necklace and stroked the other one's wiry beard.....Clueless. Suddenly they started talking about fucking girls in a most vulgar manner.

I said, "Wait, I thought you two were together." They laughed heartily at my gullibility and one said to me,

"No, no I've tried to be gay but I just can't. I love to fuck chicks. As many chicks as I can. In fact I want to fuck that blond chick right now. " I thought perhaps the conversation was over, but I was wrong. He continued,

"If I were going to fuck a guy, I'd do it reverse cowgirl style. You know, but instead of the pussy it would be the ass."

Was this conversation really happening??

I guess I looked a little too confused or innocent because he didn't feel that I understood his gist.

"You don't know what I mean do you?" Before I could assure him that I did, he grabbed the candy cane stocking-clad boy in his arms and bounced him violently on his lap.

"You see, just like this. Uhhh!" he said as he bit his lip and grimaced in mock pleasure.

Just as this was going on, Connor managed to spot me in the crowd...you know, just nestled in with two guys humping on the couch. I smiled sweetly and shrugged by shoulder with palms to the sky as the humping continued. 

Moral of that story: Don't think hanging out with the "gay couple" is safe.

I'll skip the details of the bars that followed, Jeff's increasing incoherence and tendency to want to wrestle, or Kevin's passing out and getting picked up for dinner by a crowd of strangers. Somehow we made it home around 9:00 pm and with more guys than we started with.

I can see the rest of the scene as if a fly on the wall. A group of guys shooting the shit, drinking beers and laughing. A Charlotte-from sex and the city-type nightmare girlfriend shaking in her boots, trying to catch every spill and splater, advising them not to eat on the couch and begging them to sit on her chairs (which I have carefully wrapped in heavy clear plastic, scotch taped everywhere to withstand butt jiggling) and telling her friends that she can't hang out because she has to stay at home and babysit the little devil boys.

With Connor's valiant help I managed to avoid doing the dishes of the employed who ate the unemployed's food (mine fools) as well as vehemently refusing to provide towels for certain gentlemen to make diapers for other gentlemen with a reputation for drunken couch peeing. At midnight after a long long day I crawled into bed with a giggle, a sigh and no unwelcome bedfellows. 

Karma has always been a spiteful bitch. I admit it, I am ever so glad that I never never lived in a fraternity.