Being 'edgy' on the east side--Images from Shoreditch

Inspired by punk eclectic, curry houses, and graffiti walls we left the comfortable upscale neighborhoods for a bit of a different scene. Although we collected quite a bit of writing material, photos, instead of my prose, captures the spirit of the neighborhood best.

Modern Feminist Femininity

I am wearing purple plaid in Chelsea, attempting to look (and thus be) artistic. The girls are off hitting the Designer outlet shops while I, attempting discipline, seat myself at Bluebird café on King Street, with my macbook out ready for prolific prose and whimsical wit. I fear that my novel is starting to turn into a mythological creature and thus am motivated to reinvigorate its life with mad typing.

Monica and Valerie, two character studies for my book, have given me much insight into varying depths of feminism and femininity. As self created women, we realize we typically fall on the brazen end of the spectrum.

Yesterday we saw the Tate Modern’s “Pop Life” exhibit, full of Andy Warhol soup cans, Keith Haring’s dancing stick figures, and Jeff Koon’s 18+ room. We didn’t have to enter the 18+ room, but the curious bold women that we were couldn’t let it pass in favor of a more subdued Matisse downstairs. The room was definitely not for the faint hearted; it was filled with life size images of the artist’s private parts to “create powerful communication.”

After such a er...large…spectacle we felt that we ought to wash our hands and do something distinguished and proper, such as have high tea with the wealthy at Claridges. At the desirable time of 4 o’clock we rushed into the 5 star hotel lobby barely pausing for the front gates to be opened for us, and approached the hostess. “I’m sorry, she said, eyeing our assertiveness disapprovingly, “unless you are a guest at the hotel you’ll have to book out one to two months in advance.”

Two months in advance for colored water and small cakes? We got a bit puffy chested; booking a full set dinner at The French Laundry was easier! But instead of arguing, we fought against our rising testosterone and walked ladylike out of the hotel. In fact, we even waited for the doormen to open the doors for us.

However, do not think acting as ladies made us meek and tealess. We quickly made a new tea plan, opting for a recently written up modern tea bar, Sketch. Apparently a place called ‘Sketch’ was all us porn watching assertive gals could get into. Sketch, however, was a pleasant surprise. It was trendy and delicious; better than a snooty old ambience. And if the tea cakes and sour jams weren’t noteworthy enough, the bathrooms were. Each toilet was a separate porta potty enclosed in a giant white egg. Once you closed the door you listened to german language learning tapes. A DJ spun outside.

After spending too much time in Sketch’s toilets, we felt we should once again try for a classier British place. We headed toward the cocktail bar at the Ritz. The doorman (aka security guards) however wouldn’t let us in. Monica was wearing jeans. I am typically a huge fan of dress codes for they establish a sense of class and fashion. I am not a fan, however, when it applies to my group of friends and implies that we have no class. As if on cue, Monica started to unbutton her pants and asked if she would be let in if he took off her jeans under her (Burberry) trench coat. The doorman security didn’t find it amusing. We turned around, tails between jeaned legs, and decided to go back the next day in couture. But in the meantime we needed to save the evening. We went to a martini bar at Duke’s hotel where Ian Fleming wrote James Bond and apparently coined the phrase “shaken not stirred.” The white coated staff was beyond courteous and wonderfully charming. We let them remove our coats, treat us to appetizers, and make us martinis tableside with boutique gin and freshly grated lemons. We felt like proper Bond girls. Bond girls, after all, maintain a perfect balance of the feminine and feminist.

I see London, I see France.....

Since the past entry on whitechameleon, written well over six months ago, my friends, family, and I have capitalized on life in a way that only self proclaimed San Franciscans can: Day trips to Napa, weekends in Tahoe, and city evenings sipping wine in-between bursts of laughter at slightly offensive jokes.

However, despite the fun there was still something pulling at me. I was yearning for another escape. I coveted time to think, inspiration to write, and freedom from capitalist puritan mores.

My girlfriends, Monica, Valerie, and Trent felt similarly. Although they didn't need designated writing time, they all wanted to flee material yuppiedom, romantic ambiguity, and walk down carefree down old world cobblestone streets to enjoy nothing but the present tense.

Naturally we found ourselves in Europe.

LONDON

The first part of the journey would focus on the city of literary genius. Marks of Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Virginia Woolf were all over London.

Indeed, it was hard not to be motivated to put pen to paper. Unfortunately (or fortunately) there were also many other distractions. Quaint shops, fragrant bakeries, and cozy pubs all vied for out our attention (and share of pocketbook).

And trying to navigate the tube system made one much more thirsty for a beer than a novel. Our first tube journey put us in exactly the opposite corner of London we aspired to be at. Needless to say multiple beers and cider (and highly caloric pub pies) were necessary to commiserate the experience.

Also distracting me from writing was the adorable English accent that permeated the city. I just wanted to sit still and listen to the London voice and its uncanny ability to make commonplace words sound extremely educated. In comparison, I found my own accent ignorant and stupid and have a very hard time not imitating anyone who speaks to me. Not more than 2 hours into the vacation, Monica put me on strict accent probation. Hmmppff. Personally I think I sound much better English and do not understand why my friends insist I speak American.

Valerie, although diligently keeping her Midwest way of speaking and cursing, has embraced London dress. She has decided to wear leggings, a rain hat, and tall boots every day and looks decidedly chic. Given the never ending rain, I am about abandon my Californian attire soon. Wet jeans, stringy hair, and soggy shoes are very unattractive...especially when paired with my now unrecognizable accent.

We stayed up 36 hour yesterday to bite any jetlag in the ‘you know what’…but now are well rested and off for a day of small street walking, high tea at Claridges, and naturally multiple pub stops. After all, wants a sober vacation? Or a non alcoholic writer? ; )

Stay tuned as our adventures are truly just about to start.....

Christmas in Montana

Last time I was in Montana with my highly eccentric and loveable family, I had just completed an epic journey around the world. At that time, Montana was homecoming-a welcome back to the core of my soul. This time, after six months of 15 hour days, multiple dating disasters, and a few competitive races, it was a reminder of who I was and most importantly, what really mattered in life. Ahh yes…..Montana always provides wisdom….even more so around the holidays.

MONTANA LIFE LESSONS

Dancing releases the soul

Somehow…some profound moves (I think) of mine had been…er “caught” on video. Thanks to the internet, my entire family was able to witness a drunken dance performed at a wedding where a friend and I did our best butt shake to Tom Jones’s Sexbomb. My brother passed the laptop around at dinner where UTube indulgence replaced the usual decedent desserts. When I saw my shaking butt doing a very bad impersonation of a Madonna move, I feared Granny was going to have a heart attack on the spot, but what do you know, she clapped her hands and tried to mimic the moves herself. Dancing and laughter (or perhaps laughter AT dancing) was bringing the family closer.

In this spirit, my aunt, fond of all things new age and meditative encouraged us to take a Nia class. I was VERY skeptical. I had harsh memories of my “Mediation through Movement” class in Bali. But Nia was uplifting. In Nia you are encouraged to release your inner self. Members of my family suddenly transformed themselves to dance as a warrior, a disco princess, and a karate blackbelt, and could it be a gasping frog? I saw my mother shimmy across the room seductively…my sis in law pretend to shoot an arrow during her ‘warrior set’ and my aunt flex the butt cheeks to the rhythm of the drum. Who knew moving around like idiots was well……inspiring? Dancing……even as a gasping frog….. is quite freeing.

Farting Dogs are still loveable
My aunt and uncle’s dog Beaux is cursed with a severe gastrointestinal problem. Sadly, regardless of food intake or exercise, Beaux cannot stop farting. It’s a serious condition, mainly because he doesn’t realize he is doing anything wrong. He’ll sit smiling in the living room and let them rip one after another, causing a mass evacuation as humans flee to other parts of the house.

There may have been a time when my aunt and uncle debated giving him up for adoption…they likely considered pawning him off on neighbors after giving him a box of Gas-Ex to mask his “issue.” But Beaux is such a sweet dog that they couldn’t bring themselves to part with him. They instead decided to purchases gas masks for the times the smell got really bad. Yes, we must accept family however they are. This means Granny’s reluctance to throw out expired food, my father’s insistence at finding a salsa dancing spot at every town we go to (yes, even in Montana), and my brother’s overly schmoopie behavior that only aggravates my tendency to turn to the bottle.

Schmoopie is as Schmoopie doesMy brother and his finance are famed for their schmoopie-ness. There are multiple arguments of “you are cute” No, you are cute” No, you are cuter!” Sometimes they even poll the audience as backup for the schmoop-a-thon. “Heidi, isn’t Lily’s butt the best butt you have ever seen in these jeans? Shouldn’t I buy here 10 pairs of these jeans to show off her cuteness?”
People wonder why I drink more over the holidays.

HOWEVER, even though we may roll our eyes, I am not sure we would want the schmoop factor to go away. For some reason every time Hans and Lily are present, the entire family loses its cynical edge and becomes more affectionate and attentive toward one another. My uncle starts offering to help clear the table. My father decides to give bonafide hugs as opposed to the standard high five. The cousins smile and plan more get-togethers. And granny stops cursing and demanding whiskey…..well for a bit anyway.


Ornery is where the heart is


Granny is a woman of maxims. ‘Quit yer bellyachin’” ‘eat til it ouches you’ and ‘I need a stronger drink.’ She is likely the most stubborn ornery woman I have ever known. She refuses help to walk down the street even if it means she’ll topple over into a snow bank. “Granny down!” And she’ll force feed you until you burst…there is no way to get out of second helpings—“fat and sassy is where it is at.” But no one in our family wants a sweet docile grandmother. We wouldn’t trust it! And due to her orneriness the love she sends out is more meaningful. She relates to her independent granddaughters all the more. Most grandmothers would be praying at church every day for me to get married. Not granny. It makes her proud. ‘You don’t need a man….you stay goddamn independent!” In addition we don’t have to mask our actions or speech while around her. She’ll encourage us to drink and curse and gossip about whatever we want….as long as she can chime in with her ornery opinions.

‘I love you means never having to say I’m sorry’…..for beating your sorry a** at cards again.

Besides the occasional schmoop syllable reserved for Hans’s finance, our family shies away from affection. I remember a time when my brother was little he tried to express “I love you.” My dad’s response: “Son! We don’t use those words in this family!! Now, let’s shoot pool.”

So how do we express love? Well, besides my mother’s “I love you” baking (who needs words when you get a cake?!), we share out emotions by trash talking over a hand of cards. Poker, crib, spades, tic, you name it. Those 52 pieces of laminated paper bring us together more than dissecting Grandpa Dick’s will or planning upcoming weddings. The only rules are: If you win, you must gloat, if you lose you must whine, and regardless of your hand you must boast and ridicule the others to no end. The one that gets their ego beat up the worst is indeed the most loved. Next time I’m home in San Francisco and my friends give me a hard time…I just realize that they are telling me how happy they are to have me in their life…..ahhhh….I feel schmoopie!

Eating Cookies to Win the Tri...

So after three months of dragging myself to 6.30 am spin class, eating calories like Michael Phelps, and attempting to do more than doggie paddle in the pool, I did it. I finished my first triathlon. Correction—my first SPRINT triathlon. Most triathletes would mock my race… ”Do you really need to train at all for an hour affair?” I can imagine them saying. But I was determined to kick some butt, and excel at doing three sequential activities at once. The sprint distance is all follows: 400 meter swim, 11 mile bike, 3 mile run. I um…er….was a bit OCD on my training plan, completely doubling the distance to ensure my muscles could handle anything especially the dreaded swim

In fact, the real reason I did a Sprint and not an Olympic was my paranoia of the swim. Diving into cold water, flaying around as other swimmers kick and paddle on top of me, swallowing waves, and having strange sea life nip my feet just is not my thing. Plus I am not a strong swimmer. I have been told that my stroke resembles something a spastic frog would do. I needed to ensure my other ‘stronger’ activities would carry me through the race.

I would like to say that my friend Brooke, who encouraged me to sign up for the race, was my swimming motivation. She equally hated the water, but insisted that we power through.

On race day Brooke and I bravely got up at 5am, eat the breakfast of champions (peanut butter on whole grain bagels) and drove with Brooke’s supportive family over to the East Bay. After a few wrong turns and missed exits, we finally found our race destination. Brooke’s family cheered us on as joined the 800 other women about to embark on a morning sprint of adrenaline.

As they called our age group (30-35), Brooke and I held hands briefly in good luck wishes before we climbed over kelp and dove into the murky water.

Luckily for me the spastic frog maneuver did okay in the 400 meter distance. In fact, I think I scared enough people away that I had space in front of me at all times during the swim. I finished the swim somewhere in the middle and spent the rest of the race catching up and passing the other Sprinters with by bike and running shoes. After biking up SF’s hills the flat roads of Pleasanton were a cinch. And running—well, no one is going to beat me in that category! When it was all said and done I came out 5th in my age category and in the top 5% of the 800 person race overall. Not bad for a newbie. More sprint triathlons to come. And if I turn my spastic frog strokes into something that resemble swimming I may do an Olympic distance next year. Regardless, I am definitely adding peanut butter to my nutrition plan!

The Masks We Wear

While In India I remember experiencing a unique state of being. This state of being didn't know the anxiety of overbooked schedules or the pressure of "making it" or any confusion about where I fit in. Things just were. And I just was. In the Ashram people were sappy and shiny and we joked around about our own elevated cheesiness. We all hoped to take our peaceful bliss back home to our respective countries and cities with us. Why were we so happy? I think because for once we were truly ourselves...all facets of ourselves at once.

Here in San Francisco the synergy of my combined facets has dissipated. Once again a different facet presents itself on different days to different people and different situations. I have revisited my closet of masks and carefully select a new mask for each day. For some reason I am too afraid to be all of myself at any one point in time.

To some I am the athlete, the over compulsive 'will try anything especially if it bruises me' athlete.

To others I represent the socialite that thinks in terms of hors d'oeuvres and guest lists; both must be equally attractive.

And what about the type A career driven women that even brings her blackberry to the toilet? Is this me? Or merely a San Francisco 'must have' mask---necessary as wine tasting to live in this city?

And then there is the romantic poetry writing side that I am not sure I have let anyone get close to since I have been back. Well, besides a few rhyming poems on Evite invitations anyway.....

Juggling different personalities is exhausting. After all going from introverted poet to high heel wearing party girl in the same evening is no easy task!

I wonder if a time will come when I can take all the masks off and just be myself, all parts of myself, at once and not be considered schizophrenic....

Hopefully the wine enthusiast personality will take a major role...

It's a Wonderful World

Do you ever have those days when you are in love with your life? I think it takes a few sunny San Fransisco weekends, some laughs with friends, and the realization that the world is once again your oyster.

Last weekend some friends and I went to see a music festival in Golden Gate Park....I am not sure if it was the mellow tunes of Wilco, Jack Johnson, or Tom Petty that swayed my heart....or perhaps it was the wine tasting stand that only a music fest in California would have.....or maybe it was even the morning bike ride across the Golden Gate Bridge that convinced me.....I am so blessed to have this life.

I still fall off my bike with the clip in and clip out fiascos. (scrapes on my knees as evidence) Navigating the dating scene in this city remains next to impossible (scrapes on my heart as proof). My housecleaner still shakes her head in dismay at my perpetual disorganization. (my desk has never been more unmanageable). My body quakes at every 5.30 am wake-up call to either jump on a conference call or trek off to the gym for training (how I work 15 hours and still run 7 miles is an enigma). But somehow through all these trials great music, wine, and friends make it completely worthwhile.

It's a Type A city here and for once I have a motley self chosen family that understands the world is meant to be sucked dry of everything it offers.