Hasta La Gadget!

Kate Upton can rock a bikini like it’s her job, probably because it is her job.

Upton looked totally at ease in a teeny bikini on the beach in Cancun, Mexico this week:

The 22-year-old model soaked up the sun with her boyfriend, baseball player Justin Verlander, while on vacation.

In a recent interview, Upton told the Huffington Post that her body confidence stems from a focus on herself rather than others:

“I never really compared myself to other people, and I think that’s maybe where insecurities are drawn from –- comparing your body to other people’s bodies,” she said.

“Instead of looking at someone and envying part of their body or their face, look at how they hold themselves,” said Upton. “Appreciate their confidence.”

“The world with all its enjoyments, could not return him to the tranquility of his solitude.” – Richard Steele

Daniel Defoe’s novel, The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, was based on the real-life adventures of Alexander Selkirk, a Scotsman who was a sanctioned pirate, capturing and plundering enemy merchant vessels for the Queen of England. This swashbuckling privateer dreamed of returning to England a rich and admired man, but life took a strange and unexpected twist for Alexander Selkirk.

In 1704, Selkirk was First Mate on her majesty’s ship, the “Cinque Ports.” The unfit captain, William Dampier, was determined to round the dangerous waters of Cape Horn in a stormy sea. The worm-eaten ship was badly damaged when it finally limped into the Pacific, barely making it to a tiny uninhabited island sometimes used by pirates.

Captain Dampier, who had made every wrong decision, made yet another one and decided to set sail without repairing the crippled ship. Rich merchant vessels sailed these waters and Dampier dreamed of the loot they could capture.

Rather than risk his life on a ship that was sure to sink, Alexander Selkirk decided to remain behind on the island and await rescue. The Cinque Ports left him, finally sinking off the coast of Peru with all hands drowned, save eight men, seven of whom spent the rest of their lives in a Peruvian jail. Selkirk was entirely alone on the island.

Nighttime was the worst time as he heard strange howling noises coming from the beach. Fearing that they were sea monsters come to shore, he hid in the rocks, screaming in terror until he fell asleep from exhaustion. He didn’t sleep for long. Soon he was awakened by the sharp pain of island rats gnawing at his feet. Eventually he discovered that the howling noises came from sea-lions and not monsters.

Selkirk thought he wouldn’t have long to wait for rescue but weeks turned into months and he resigned himself to making his home on the island. He had brought only a few things with him from the ship: his bedding and clothing, a rifle, a pound of powder and bullets. He also had a hatchet, a knife and a kettle. And to pass the time he had a Bible, his mathematical instruments and a few books. Without human companionship, his loneliness consumed him and on many occasions he was close to suicide.

He explored the island and found freshwater springs as well as wild goats and cats left behind by Spanish ships. There were fat turnips and sweet cabbage trees, Jamaica pepper and Malagita for seasoning. He found sweet black plums which were difficult to get; they grew on high trees in rocky terrain. He also ate tender turtle meat and rich crawfish which were as big as lobsters. At first he found it difficult to eat meat and fish without salt and bread, but in time he grew accustomed to these simple tastes.

Selkirk built a hut out of fragrant pimento wood, covered it with long grasses and lined it with wild goat skins. Almost out of powder, he began running after the goats to catch them and soon wore out all of his shoes. His bare feet became hard from running on the rocks.

The big rats that gnawed on his feet at night were still a problem, so he tempted wild kittens with goat meat until he had tamed a hundred cats. They slept in his hut with him at night, keeping the rats at bay. A few of the cats even followed him like dogs on his hunting expeditions. He also tamed goat kids. Sometimes in the moonlight he danced with his cats and goats for company.

Vigorous exercise kept him in remarkable shape and in time he began to find joy and tranquility in his solitude. He practiced devotion with prayers, meditation and reading the Bible, his cats always close by. In time he gave up speaking altogether and relaxed into a blissful state that he had never known before. His adventure became an inner tranquil journey that few ever experience.

Four years and four months later, he was found by an English ship but Selkirk was indifferent to being rescued. The sailors had to talk him into returning to England and even stayed for some time with him on the island before he was ready to leave. They knew Selkirk was a good privateer and they wanted him to help them capture rich enemy vessels.

Selkirk worried most about his hundred cats. They were so tame that they were semi-dependent on the goat meat he fed them and he knew they could not all survive without him. When the sailors finally convinced him to leave the island, it broke his heart to leave his cats and he cried like a baby until the island was out of sight.

Selkirk returned to England a rich man from his pirating but he never adjusted to life in civilization. Without the vigorous exercise, he lost both strength and agility and he frequently voiced regrets about leaving the island. He was never able to get used to drinking alcohol again and the food did not agree with him. For a time he lived in a cave in Scotland. And at the time of his death, he was planning to return to the island.

He once said, “I am now worth 800 Pounds, but shall never be so happy, as when I was not worth a Farthing.”

Not all of us can be like George Costanza. We’ve never managed to eat a pastrami sandwich in bed without finding mustard smeared on our pillow case. George can eat a soft-boiled egg while having sex and somehow not end up covered in yolk. George is a master of the in-bed meal, unparalleled in bed-eating-prowess. This list is not for George. This list is for those of us with the normal skill set, for whom eating in bed can be risky. This list is cautionary, culled from personal experience. Listen to us! Keep your bed separate from these foods!

1. Eggs. The egg — a ticking time bomb, set to explode yolk all over everything only as soon as it approaches your bed. We mean, how does that stain even happen? Yeah, we know that Costanza could have handled this, but us normal bed-eaters have to stay away from yolk-splosions. Scrambled fans, you’re safe. This probably won’t happen to you.

2. Banana Split. Everyone has their own banana split technique. Some eat each ice cream flavor separately, then tuck into the bananas themselves. Some refuse the whip cream. Some may even skip the cherry on top. But regardless of how you do it, the banana split is a perfect storm of messy, sticky stuff to be avoided in bed. It will melt and drip, and your sheets will be super gross. Gew.

3. BBQ Ribs. We don’t want to get into the great BBQ debate. We don’t care whether our ribs are prepared Kansas City style or like how they do it in Memphis. What we do care about is that those ribs stay away from beds. Ribs do not belong in the bedroom.

4. Spaghetti Marinara. When was the last time you slurped up some spaghetti, and DIDN’T end up with tiny red flecks all over your shirt? Even when you think you’ve somehow gotten away with it, inevitably, maybe three hours later, someone will point out that small, red stain on your sleeve, and you’ll think to yourself, how did that even get there?! It’s worse when you’re lying down. You can’t control the flow of sauce in the same way. Your bed will end up covered. It’ll look like you left it outside during Tomatina.

5. Pizza. You know when you’re walking down the street, eating a slice of pizza, and the oil starts dripping out the back onto your paper plate, and even though you’re being as careful as possible, that oil lands on your shirt? Or maybe you wiped it from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand and, without thinking, wiped the back of your hand on your pants. Oh, now there’s that glob of tomato sauce, just like the spaghetti marinara, and you’re out of napkins. If you’re trying to deal with all of this in bed, your bed will get stained. It’s unavoidable. And that oil stain is never coming out.

6. Fondue. Do we even have to say anything? This is a hot, painful disaster just waiting to happen. This is a fon-don’t.

7. Lobster. Rip off a piece, crack it open with a nutcracker in the shape of a lobster claw, dig your finger in there to get out all the meat, dip it in melted butter, eat, realize your hands and face are covered in lobster juice and butter, wipe hands and face, repeat. Keep lobsters out of your bed. Any food that comes with a bib is unsafe in the bedroom. Your sheets will thank you.

8. Hard Shell Tacos. Why do hard shell tacos even exist? The hard shell taco might be the least efficient self-contained food item ever. It will break and you will spill. There will be ground beef and sour cream in your lap if you’re not extremely careful. Try eating a hard shell taco in bed. Go to Taco Bell, get yourself a few Crunchy Taco Supremes, get cozy in bed and see what happens — we dare you. You’ll be finding shredded cheese between your sheets for months.

9. Sloppy Joe. Come on, this one’s in the name. Avoid this slop at all costs. If you eat this in bed, there will be a red, ground beef mess. You will regret it.

10. Buffalo Wings. Any food served with wetnaps should never come near your bed. Eat a wing and you’ll end up with sauce under your fingernails, and in your beard if you have one. You may think you got away with it. You’ll scrub your hands and the corners of your mouth. You’ll be so sure that you’re clean, that your sheets survived without incident, and then you’ll wake up the next day and there will be buffalo sauce in places you never knew existed. You don’t want this to happen. Buffalo sauce burns. Trust us.

— Josh Segal for Casper

If you asked me two months ago whether I learned anything during my first year at Harvard Business School, my response would have been a resounding “Yes!” But, if you followed up by asking me for an example of how I applied the lessons I learned into practice, my response would have been a hesitant “Umm…”

The FIELD (Field Immersion Experiences for Leadership Development) curriculum provided me an incredible opportunity to learn leadership skills not only in the classroom, but also through practical experience in Ghana and in Boston. However, at the end of the day, FIELD remains an exercise constrained within an academic environment. The question I asked myself was “How do I actually put what I learned to the test?”

As I was starting my summer internship in Zambia over seven weeks ago, I pondered “What am I bringing to the table that I would not have been able to had I not gone to HBS?” At that moment, the answer was not quite clear. However, as the days passed and the summer (technically, it’s winter here) progressed, it became clear that what HBS equipped me with was not the hundreds of cases I read and analyzed, as I will be the first to admit I will be the last to recall any of the case facts. Rather, it was the persistent pushing and prodding by my professors, section-mates, and discussion group members that I remember the most.

As I dove deeper into the managerial and operational issues of working in Zambia, I found myself asking whether the problems were really as simple and clear as they appeared at first glance. The many times I was pushed to justify my stance — from the morality and ethicality of pharmaceutical patents in the developing world to the negotiation tactics I would use with Steve Jobs — became constant reminders for me to go deeper than just the first layer of the metaphorical onion.

What I learned at HBS and what I have applied in Zambia was more than just root cause analysis or the typical “Five Whys” questioning. It requires combining a dose of empathy with an equal dose of traditional problem solving. Just as I had to put myself in the case protagonist’s shoes, trying to understand the motivations, pressures, and stakeholders influencing his/her decision making, I found myself standing in the shoes of our sales captains, sellers, and buyers. I forced myself to distinguish what the problems appeared to be and what they really are, as well as what the solutions should be and what they really could be given the real and practical constraints we face. This “method” of thinking has become my de facto mindset whenever I’m in the field with our sales team or in a meeting room with a multinational telecom.

There isn’t a simple list of “Things I’ve Learned at HBS and How You Can Apply Them Too,” because the skills I learned, and am constantly honing, are those that can only be learnt through the experience of having been forced repeatedly to defend my logic despite knowing it was not perfect.

To end this post on a lighter note, my HBS experience also never lets me forget that having fun is just as important of a success metric as any other. Here are a couple snapshots to explain why I may never leave Zambia (more photos on Google +).

At the age of 57, I am attempting to reinvent myself as a writer so I decided to attend the Southampton Writers Conference. There is so much to learn and inspiration is everywhere. This week I am taking a class with the amazing Robert Emmett Ginna. His stories of publishing through the years, working at Life magazine and interviewing Ernest Hemingway are a joy.

We had an assignment to write a small piece using irony. It could be a true story or something we made up. I haven’t done homework in 35 years. Here is my very feeble attempt. I hope I got it right.

Irony Assignment

My husband and I lived in an old farmhouse built in 1728 along the banks of the Squamscott River in Exeter, New Hampshire. Scattered across the two acres were a wide variety of mature trees that thrived in the dark alluvial soil. Apple, lilac, magnolia, blue spruce and larch. Opposite the river side of the house, behind the old barn, a one mile dirt road led to our riverside neighbor’s place, an older couple who owned 60 acres of mostly wooded property where wild turkeys and deer roamed the white pine forest.

Across the dirt road, our street side neighbors lived in a small ranch. They were a young couple, friendly enough. This was New Hampshire, where most people keep to themselves… until the day we all received the notice. Our neighbor along the river was selling off several acres of land to a developer who planned to build five McMansions set on a minimum of two acres each. They were billing it as an upscale corporate community.

The neighborhood was divided on the issue. Everyone had an opinion. None of them mattered. The expansion of Route 101 was complete, making Interstate 95 easily accessible. The bedroom communities of Boston, only an hour’s drive south, were marching across the tax-free New Hampshire border and there would be no stopping progress.

I wasn’t home the day the town work crew came to chop down the tree at the corner of my street neighbor’s property. The dirt road was scheduled to be paved and state law required the removal of any visual obstructions at intersections. The next morning, as my daughters and I waited for the school bus, my neighbor approached us in a state of self-righteous indignation…

“Did you see what they did to my tree?” she asked, pointing to the stump at the corner of her property. “I woke to the sound of chainsaws and when I came out to raise holy hell, they told me the tree was on town property. That was my favorite tree. You know, the one with the orange leaves in the fall?”

For the life of me, now that it was gone, I could no longer remember the tree. A lot of leaves turn orange during autumn in New Hampshire. Red and yellow, too.

“What kind of tree was it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, spitting fire and ready for a tussle. “They’ve ruined my property. But just you wait. I’ll show them and their upscale neighborhood.”

Two days later a clothesline showed up in her side yard. The next day old nursing bras and faded boxer shorts waved in the breeze. A week later a toilet was added to the protest staging area, then a sturdy cardboard figure of a man wearing a red shirt, blue jeans, and a straw hat. He was holding a rope that from a distance looked like a stream of urine arching from his waist to the toilet.

We hoped this was a temporary protest, but it lasted for the two years she lived there. I called the town manager to see what could be done. “I know it’s awful to look at and I’d sure hate to be her neighbor, but this is New Hampshire. Live Free or Die.”

In the winter, the bras and boxer shorts hung stiffly frozen from their weather worn wooden clothespins. The toilet was used as a planter with daffodils in springtime and burgundy mums in the fall. The McMansions were almost complete when my neighbor’s husband lost his job and they decided to move to Buffalo, where their parents lived. “Good riddance,” my husband said.

The new neighbors planted tulips, daffodils and blue hyacinth along the stone wall and a vegetable garden where the clothesline used to be. The trees in their backyard and along the newly-paved road turn vibrant shades of red, orange and yellow each autumn as foliage season returns to a road along the Squamscott River in New Hampshire, where the new upscale neighbors are unaware of the protest staged in honor of their arrival.