I dunno, cord wood? Grains of sand? I guess pick your favorite trite representation for giant piles.

Actually, grains of sand seem apropos, since the mounting cliches in question are those that favor the California “lifestyle.” Yesterday’s episode featured a beach party complete with beer, blankets and a bonfire.

A while back in the new job mailbox there was some kind of invitation for said beach party. I asked a couple folks what the deal was, but clearly my target question answerers were not the beach party targeted audience. Then, as I was trying to wrap some shit up before the elusive, mercurial (but not assholic) boss lady fled for the weekend, she and other folks in our group were like “you gotta go, it’ll be fun.”

So, a few hustled phone calls to the man o’ mine, and M. turned around and met me in my office. What a sweetie to regroup like that, but please don’t tell him I think so, or he’ll get too much relationship currency on his side of the scales.

It was alright. I, of course, am considerably dorky and shy around new people, which currently is excerbated by my neurotic fear of co-workers. Honestly, people have been swell, but I’m looking over my shoulder trying to peer at the knife between my shoulder blades.

So far, no knife or even the hint of glinting blade. Yet, I’m still considerably dorky and shy.

But, still and all, I sat by a bonfire on a beach in view of the rolling Pacific, surrounded by cliffs, drinking a plastic cup of cheap wine with my boyo by my side. Really, does it get any more cliche than that?