My Dossier

{ fleurdeleigh photography, fellow LookingGlassLane girl}

You won't find me here too often these days, as I've shacked up with four talented chicas at our new clubhouse on LookingGlassLane. But I still get all your emails, so feel free to peruse, comment and send me notes. I love them. And obviously, come visit us at the clubhouse. If you like Miss Ive, you'll love Miss Ive times FIVE. Yes I just stole the Body Imposters' tag line.

Meet the girls:

Morgan
Leigh
Ria
Suzanne


Jen's LookingGlass Dossier

Looking Glass Powers:
Finding and gathering extraordinary people. Just look at these girls. Voila.
The ability to simultaneously harness the uncensored voice of Henry Miller and the jaded acerbity of Erma Bombeck, and write it down whilst hanging from the limb of a tree.
The ability to shotgun a beer in such a fashion that even Emily Post would approve and add it to her "Things that will impress your mother-in-law" list.
The ability to reel in a fish and use her charm and wit to find someone else to take it off the hook for her.
The ability to pitch a tent in the pouring rain. And by pitch a tent, she means the canvas-and-pole variety, for the record.
The ability to groom so minimally that something as little as gloss on her lips garners accolades from the Queen. [Curtsy and bow.]

Dress-up Closet:
J.Crew. Hands down. Why? She WAY digs the rubber-boots-with-Irish-linen look. WAY.
J. Peterman Company. Why? She can never remember because the copy always leaves her fanning her face and somewhat disoriented. Yuh HUH.
Farm dresses circa 1940, in any condition, preferably paired with flip flops, in any condition.
Aprons. Any and all. It's a domesticity fetish. Is that oxy-moronic?

Disguise:
Burt's Baby Bee Apricot Oil in copious amounts and their not-to-bee-outdone Beeswax lip balm. Makes her lips tingle and she gets panicky when she can't find hers. Remember Napoleon's pleas to Kip? She's resorted to pinning arms behind backs to get information leading to her missing balm.

Go-To Gadget:
Two. One in each holster. Her iPhone on one side and a roll of duct tape on the other. Although she is currently in talks with Mr. Jobs about developing an app that will dispense duct tape, which would render the latter unnecessary. Cross fingers for major gadget consolidation.

Vice:
People Magazine. One copy can take her out of commission for a good three hours. If Jen and Ben are on the cover, make it four. How DO they keep the magic alive?

Magic Potion:
Starbucks RedEye and Gray Goose vodka, neat. Sometimes both, simultaneously. We don't recommend that she be reintroduced to the public for at least an hour after she's consumed this combination.

Battery-Recharge Hub (other than Looking Glass Lane, of course):
The tip-top of the tallest sand dune overlooking Little Traverse Bay, Michigan, and night trains racing across any open terrain.

Bratty Spoilers:
Extra long runs with no end in sight. Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey, microwaved for 37 seconds.

Owner's Manual:
Moby Dick, Melville. She has read Chapter XCIV, The Squeeze of the Hand, 12 and one half times. Also Bridget Jones's Diary, lest she get too full of herself.

Weapon:
First line of defense, her Wilson ProStaff racquet. Never approach the net when playing her. Never. Second line of defense, her overly-sharpened tongue. Again, never approach the net. Evahhhh.

How she gets to the Lane:
In her Mazda3, generally starting in first gear, but skipping 2-4 and shifting directly to 5 for expediency. And if she's extra eager to get to her girls, she'll opt for her Adidas SuperNova's and run through all yards standing in her way. Please watch your small pets.

Secret Ambition
This. Right here. Working creatively and collaboratively with a dream team of powerful DOERS. I heart my LookingGlassLane girls. Please join us as we pull off some seriously outta-this-world sh$%.

And recent inductees who have dared to write their own (so awesome, btw, especially John, the brave male adventurer in very girlie waters.)

Christeen Mary
Nakia
John
Jenn
April
Erin
Steph
Kim
Elora

And our honoree inductee, Rajesh Pancholi of R27 CreativeLab for his amazing design and generosity on LookingGlassLane.com

Naming Names

TODAY'S THE BIG DAY!!! Come here to see us talk live with Ayelet Waldman, author of Bad Mother, at Noon EST.

Those of you who have followed my journey here this year will know the name Ayelet Waldman. You'll know how I wrote about her controversial essay in the New York Times that landed her on Oprah. You'll know how we corresponded and that she was generous enough to send me an advance copy of her new book, Bad Mother. You may even have seen me read from it in my film, The Lark.




Well Bad Mother is back on my radar. It hits shelves and virtual shopping carts May 5th, and I can't wait to start talking about it with all of you.

I pulled it off my own shelf and started reading it again. It's A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace. It's about how we talk about moms, with names like good mother and bad mother. It's about how when we describe a good father, the discourse is sparse. The archetypes few. But when we talk about good mothers, omigod do we have thoughts, and more importantly, names for what she should be.

It's about why that may be the case, and becomes increasingly more the case every day. It's about lots of interesting things like how we use spectacle and "bad moms" like Britney Spears and Andrea Yates to soothe our private fears of bad mothering.

It's about, mom-on-mom crime and how grown women are also guilty of playground bullying. It's about how flipping the paradigm and becoming an openly bad mom, a confessaholic one might say, isn't quite the answer, either. Though it's fun, and you've all seen me do it here and on Twitter often, and you KNOW how I love me some Bombeck, as Waldman says "there is no inherent nutritional value in the antidote to poison." God, I love this woman. One smart cookie.

Most importantly, it's about understanding that in the daily question of Am I a bad or a good mother? Is she a bad or a good mother?, we are wasting precious time looking inward, that could be spent watching our children, and just being curious about them.

This book will make you think about the way you think, and here's what it made me think today. (Warning: I'm about to close my eyes and write, and you all know what happens when I do that.)

My oldest son was eight months old. We'd just finished our first winter together in a tiny apartment in a suburb of Detroit. Mostly, we read and nursed. Well, he worked on the latter, I on the former. I often read out loud so he could hear my voice. I read him Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and DeLillo's The Names, something I was glad I read after naming him, by the way. I read him some Austen on gray days and some Wharton when I felt like crying anyway, so what the hell. I think he even got some of Foucault's thoughts on sexuality on days I felt particularly jocular.

But on this day, we were going to meet our people. The other moms. The other babes. And I remember thinking, as I approached a group of women, "Finally. Adult conversation." And then I distinctly remember hearing one mother say to the other three standing near the slide that Eddie Bauer's baby clothes had just been marked down. And I remember how surprised I was at the buzz that announcement generated. And I remember my upper lip curling and my eye twitching, instinctively. And then I remember, as I slowly backed away, thinking, "My poor son. He'll never ever be able to play at the playground, because his mommy growls and twitches when she hears other mommies talk."

And then I got over myself and learned to talk "mommy." I'm actually quite affluent in it now. Go ahead, ask me about my warrior-in-potty-training series. And as William grew, I even found comparing the stories interesting. I can do this, I thought. I can BE a soccer mom. But as Ayelet said, I was so "soul-crushingly bored" with the monotony, the lack of engagement, the conversations that refused to be provocative and rested on the safe veneer of re-establishing good-mommy goals.

And then I started blogging. (Big grin.) And then people found me out. And then guess what happens to all the names you've given yourself and all the selves you've become to different people at different times, and to all the names they've given you?

They . . . fall . . . away.

And you can just stand there, and say what you think. Ophelia wades out of the water. The fractured girl collects her parts—the daughter, the sister, the mother, the wife, the reader, the writer, the good mommy on the playground, the bad or sad mommy alone in her home. She gathers them all together, finds where they overlap, and says, "Yes, I like HER. Whatever her name is." And furthermore, I want my children to meet HER.

And I want to talk about that with all of you. So please, say something. Ayelet Waldman is saying something. ModernSingleMomma is saying something. Ria Sharon is saying something. Suzanne Tucker, ZenMommy, is saying something. Leigh Caraccioli, Fleurdeleigh, is saying something. Many of you are saying something on Twitter, by adding #badmother to your thoughts. You can join any of us on Twitter, by finding our Twitter links on our sites. Please keep talking.

I want to hear you say something here, too. But no name calling. Okay?

And if you want to hear us say something live, with Ayelet Waldman on Monday, May 11th, Noon EST, pop in here and watch.
Sign up below and we'll remind you that day, and send you the first chapter of Bad Mother immediately, so you can join the conversation. I can't wait to hear.

"Get Busy"

This is me last year.

There's no dialogue bubble, so lemme subtitle the expression on my face.

"Where the HELL am I, HOW did I get here and WHERE on God's Green Earth am I headed?"

(Metaphorically and in a life sense, of course. I'm actually quite adept at geography.)

Now fast forward to today. I'm a blogger now. I do things. More specifically, if you've read my bio, I do shenanigans. I tell people I keep it short and cryptic because I dig white space, but everyone who reads this blog knows that's a LIE. Truth is, I don't know exactly what it means yet. But I know I'm getting much closer to a hard plan.

And I attribute much of that to the amazing people I've met in this socially-cyber place who are making a real go of it. I'm speaking with them. I'm listening to them. And I'm watching what works.


I recently had the honor of joining Talent Revolution's site, and was bowled over by the sheer force of positive energy that greeted me. Nay, greeted is too prosaic. Let's just say that when you sign up, get in your best athletic stance, and brace yourself for a herd of running huggers and excited screamers. And it's genuine. The energy there is unnerving and moving. And when they promise "a drastic change in thinking and behaving," they mean it. And when people's actions match their promises, I sit up and take notice. Like I said, I watch what works.

Now here's where this story gets a little goosebumpy. If you've read my Twitter Current Theory, you already know how I feel about the crazy coincidences of the paths we cross here and why.

Three days ago, I sat reading an old blog post by Talent Revolution Founder and CEO, Amanda Hite, aka @Sexythinker.

You can (and absolutely should) read the whole thing over at Talent Revolution. To summarize, it's a piece about her bucket list. Her goals. The path that led her to defining them, and then to realizing them. It's powerful. It's honest. It's brave. It's flipping hilarious.

And ya wanna know when she published that post? Ya wanna?

Literally days before that shot of me was taken. When I was thinking of my own bucket list.

Yuh huh.

And if you have a second to follow me through my own journey, you'll see what can happen if you listen and watch others who have done what you want to do.

These are the three passages that lingered as I finished her post. And still do.
. . .
As I write down things like "get busy on the roof top of our favorite restaurant/bar in Laguna Beach," I hope I won’t have to share the list with my class.

Ultimately, I leave with a five-year plan, complete with a budget and 12 months worth of action steps. (Apparently, this is a process only 3% of the population takes the time to do. A process I swear by now that I’ve done it.)

At this moment, I couldn’t ask for more.
. . .

My God's honest, hand-to-heaven, first reaction after reading the post? These two questions formed, almost simultaneously: What does she have to "get busy" fixing on the roof of that restaurant? And, What is this thing she calls "a five-year plan?"

Yuh huh.

I'm that lame. When I read it over for the third time, I got it. Oh, get busy. She's talkin' about . . . (huge smile, partial blush).

And that led me to think, Why does a girl my age, who has two children, not know what that means?

Which led me back to my own bucket list, written in a flower-embossed journal, by a 17-year-old, barely-been-kissed girl, which says things like . . .

Buy a farm.
Own a home that is more porch than anything else and has a screen door that sees a lot of action from neighbors.
(Note: AT least something on my bucket list was "getting busy.")
Own a 1976 F-150, oxydized blue.
Wear braids when you're a grandmother.

Are you hearing this chick? She has everything on her list but the sunset and the rocking chairs, and is hailing a dilapidated old rust bucket to drive her straight into it. And so can you guess where she's been heading for the past decade? Can ya?!

Yuh HUH.

I once had a ski instructor tell me, "You'll always head where you're looking. Always." That stuck. But apparently I hadn't made the metaphoric leap.

Honestly, all the things on my list still sound nice. But I've been building a paradigm rather than living a life. Daily. Every minute. Every second. Right now. On rooftops. I've been wishing and waiting, rather than just getting busy.

So can you guess what I'm doing today?

YUH HUH.

New bucket list. And this one is being written based on the Amanda-Hite model. Write it quickly and from the gut. Things I want RIGHT NOW. Things I can go get RIGHT NOW.

(Huge smile spreading across my face.)

*Warning* If you're on my list, brace yourself, because the driving theme is "Get Busy."

And speaking of driving, first item on the list:

Road trip to Drastic Change.

In the mood? If not, read Keeping Right, another brilliant post by the Talent Revolution team. You will be.

Kicking off shoes and loading the iPod with driving tunes.

Thank you, Talent Revolution for your amazing welcome. Thank you, Amanda for your bold honesty. Thank you, Leigh for the introduction. And thank you, Chris for pushing me to write.

#untweet

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

(Bearded, dancing ladies compliments of the deliciously wacky mind of @LindsayGriffith)

Dear @unMarketing,

First, you should know that all the girls who got involved with this stunt did so because they love ya.

Because not only are you the king of unMarketing, you're . . .

unSelfish, as seen by all the ways you push us and encourage us, and the fact that you did so even when we were new here.

unDaunted, as seen in your 12for12K Tweetathon with @dannybrown.

unCreepy (a big one, in my book), as seen by the fact that you don't shoot DM's like this: So, whatcha wearin' today, sweet stuff?

and finally . . .

unStoppably Optimistic, as @fleurdeleigh termed so aptly in the way that only she can. You bring amazing energy to our lives daily. Without fail.

And that's all I'm sayin', before you think I've gone soft. But anyone can feel free to add to more of your unQualities below. I suppose.

Hope this made you smile today, ya Hooligan.

And UNLadies, I can't begin to say what it means to have met girls so game and ready for mischief. Seriously a bit overwhelmed by the level of shenanigan you bring to the table. This stunt has been great fun, but it's also allowed me to plot with unbelievable women of the marketplace who bring everything they have to all parts of their lives, even shenanigans. And for a girl who takes that term seriously enough to bill it as her sole service to the world, that's something.

To @LindsayGriffith, @fleurdeleigh, @balemar, @SarahRobinson, @marieforleo, @sexythinker, @sandygrason, @GinaLaGuardia, @RedHotCopy and to all the rest of you fun enough to join in today, you rock. I look forward to many stunts with ya'll in the future. These gals are all must-follows.

Going back up to play @Lindsay's video again. And laugh my arse off.

That's a Wrap

Come see us on Peterman's Eye tomorrow, March 26. Do it. And say hello when you get there.



The Lark (trailer)


The Painting that Started it All

The Pitch

The Plot Thickens

The Nitty Gritty of Producing a Film

The Larks:

Lark 1

Lark 2

Lark 3

Lark 4

Public Apologies

And More Public Apologies

Save The Date

The Premiere

The Film

Have Struck Land

Today, I ordered a landline. Tomorrow, by 10 in the AM, Eastern Standard Time, I will hear the sweet music of an audible BRRRINNNNNNNGGGG throughout the ENTIRE house. I am giddy. For some reason, I have attached all sorts of romantic nostalgia to having a REAL phone in the house. It’s like it’s Christmas, but the 1950’s version. I can already see myself standing in the kitchen, phone pressed between ear and shoulder, wiping flour from hands on red pintucked apron, half bent in laughter at friend Suzy or Jane or Rita's incredibly witty joke, Golden Retriever passing through, rubbing against me and getting half tangled in the cord as I lovingly extricate him. And then I remember—I don't have dog. And I don't have a Suzy or a Jane or a Rita, witty or otherwise. And I don't have an apron, pintucked or otherwise. And I don't rightly know what pintucked means or if it's even available in red apron-wear. And, perhaps most importantly, I don't have a phone with one of those cord thingies. And do they even make those anymore? And why in God’s Green Earth am I working so hard at moving backwards in technology when it's doing nothing but make me yearn for smelly dogs and flour-covered aprons that are tucked with pins?

Well, I think it's this. It's not that cell phones don't rock, because they do. But they, well, CHANGE the home-time dynamic. Don't they? A landline in the house means no more tearing through the house and (that's only if you actually hear the thing) digging around in a Texas-sized purse for a muffled Justin Timberlake ring tone. Ever flipped open your phone to "Bringing Sexy Back," only to hear your mom's voice saying "Hi, Honey" an instant later? I wouldn't recommend it. Also, what about the lost art of intercepting calls intended for other household members and keeping them on the line way past the appropriate welcome and greetings by telling them about how much you paid for gas that day as compared to the day before that, and the week before that, and the year before that, until they have a veritable spreadsheet of gas prices embedded in their brain. C’mon. Those are good times.

The weirdest thing is, when I ordered the line, the guy didn't try to upgrade or sell me ANY extras. He asked if that was all, a bit incredulously, and then got me the hell off the phone as soon as possible. Young punk. And then it hit me. I'm that guy who takes the fifty-year-old pipe fitting into a hardware store and gets handed the one dusty replacement relic they have in the back along with a sour look and a "Don't worry about it; we can't charge you for it cuz it's not even in the computer, Pops." I'm him. That's me.

And that’s okay. Hey, does anyone remember how to make your own phone ring? You know, how you punch in a few digits and then hang up and then it rings? Remember that? Will be doing that A LOT tomorrow. Who wouldn't love a landline? Who?

Maybe next week, I can order a very cool number. Will have to call the young punk back and see if I can get myself something more along the lines of "Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand." And then maybe I can sign up for service with these girls and not have to talk to the young punk ever again.

Here Is Where We Meet

This the title of a John Berger novel. I love it, and recently picked it up to read again. I know I'm rarely serious on here. What's my ratio of cynicism to sincerity? Anyone counting? In real life I'd say it's roughly 5:1. On here, probably 25:1. I like it here best. See, that was sincere. Damn.

At any rate, here are two of my (sincerely) favorite passages. I dare you not to cry. I dare you.

"Lisboetas often talk of a feeling, a mood, which they call saudade, usually translated as nostalgia, which is incorrect. Nostalgia implies a comfort, even an indolence such as Lisboa has never enjoyed. Vienna is the capital of nostalgia. This city is still, and has always been, buffeted by too many winds to be nostalgic. Saudade, I decided as I drank a second coffee and watched a drunk's hands carefully arrangeing the accurate story he was telling as if it were a pile of envelopes, saudade was the feeling of fury at having to hear the words too late pronounced too calmly." pg 13

See? You're crying aren't you? I told you.

"And I wondered how many times in my life I had taken part in the ritual of men showing to women the special little risks they run while working. (When the risks are large they don't show them.) They want to impress, they want to be admired. It's a pretext for holding the women to show them where to step or how to bend. There's another pleasure too. The ritual exaggerates the difference between women and men and in that expanded difference there is a fluttering of hopes. For an hour or two afterwards the routine feels lighter." pg 66