This morning a man offered me his hand to shake. The F-150 parked behind him and the low, guttural, one-syllable bark in which he announced his moniker gave me every reason to expect a Full Monty, brace-yourself-for-this-one kind of a union. Instead, he grabbed the end of my fingers, pinched them with—I think— no more than three of his own, and executed what could best be described as a drive-by attempt. The fact that I had, in fact, braced myself and leaned into the motion with all I had, left me kiltering between "yes this is me on my ass" and "oh, sorry I'm licking your boots so early in this relationship." That's okay. He DID at least LOOK like Steve McQueen, so we'll just chalk it up to too much booze too early in the morning—cuz that's still manly.
In all seriousness though, gentlemen, you should know that when you're going in for a shake with a lady, no matter how fragile she appears, better to break two of her fingers and knock her into next week than to flop like a fish in her palm. Trust me. She will judge you. For a girl, the Richter scale measurement of the handshake is directly proportionate to the size of the . . .
Free zoo day for kiddos 12 and under today. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Miss Ive will be attempting to pass for 'less than' 12. Shan't be too difficult. If you have never experienced the zoo in the snow, for shame. The critters are very frisky. Bring a thermos of warming fluids and meet me at the Arctic Circle.
. . . is, apparently, known as the ‘Caffeinated E-mail.’ However, one important caveat to this otherwise apt comparison is that at least when you drink and dial, the recipient can HEAR the two buckets of vodka in your VOICE and therefore understand that you are not in your right mind. Unfortunately, an email sent during business hours is not granted that sort of immunity. I have come to this conclusion after arriving to work and checking my ‘sent mail’ box from yesterday. At first glance, I was certain I’d unwittingly hacked into the account of an extremely powerful and well-connected person—or possibly, that of a celebrity stalker. I read through the list:
To: Very Important Literary Agent Subject: Wanna read my bad-ass novel?
To: Very Famous Blogger Subject: Wanna be my best friend?
To: President of My Company Subject: Wanna let me run this circus?
I’ll stop here —a sign of mature, rational restraint which, evidenced by the 17 or so more outgoing emails that are not listed above, I must have misplaced yesterday, in the A.M. Bloody Starbucks. And it wasn’t even my fault (read: denial is the first sign of addictive behavior).
To the best of my recollection, this is how it went down: I ordered a S-O-L-O espresso, as I always do. However, the very N-I-C-E man at the drive-thru window explained to me that he had accidentally made a D-O-P-P-I-O. Actually, judging from the claw marks on the interior of my truck, it was more than likely a T-R-I-P-L-E---O. The fact that I, for the moment, still HAVE my job, makes me quite certain that it WAS NOT a Q-U-A-D-R-U-P-L-O.
I was reading Dooce yesterday and she was saying that she was not tempted by the espresso machine in her kitchen. Though there was much more to her point, I could not get past that phrase, “espresso machine in my kitchen.” It remained lodged in the forefront of my red, dehydrated, coffee-saturated eyes all day. It called to me. I went straight home and cleared a spot for it on my kitchen counter. (Read: in a mad frenzy I flung all things non-espresso producing from every countertop). I stood, polishing its future local, dreaming of all the things that the two of us (my pink Francis Francis, model X7 and I) would accomplish together. The first thing on our list: relocate all home furnishings to the ceiling, as that’s where I would be spending most of my time. Have, however, reconsidered that purchase since checking afore mentioned email account.
Have refrained from all coffee related beverages today. Inspired by Dooce, I have decided to cleanse and renew by body, in seek of a calmer outlook. Must run. Am out of my new beverage, recently discovered in office fridge. Is called R-E-D B-U-L-L. Is very fruity and deliciously refreshing. Will, no doubt, calm my nerves from yesterday’s debacle and restore order to my cyber etiquette. The other great thing about new fruity beverage: is easy to keep track of how many ounces of liquid consumed in one day by counting number of cans on desk. Thirteen. . .fourteen. . .Does anyone have Jennifer Aniston’s email address? No?
I had a conversation over the weekend that hit on these two topics: winter and women shaving their legs. As you can imagine, the discussion debated the frequency and, even, necessity of the latter whilst the the former was underway.
Ladies? Thoughts? Confessions? Any more or less likely if wearing tights as opposed to nylons? Consider the definition of 'smooth legs' loosely defined by either: sans hair OR hair-so-long-it-lays-flat? Find that you need an intermediary device when the time comes to 'come clean?' Hedge clippers?
Due to the sensitive nature of this topic, I will not be offended if comments are posted anonymously.
And if by chance you are a person in the know regarding Miss Ive's winter-razor-weilding frequency, please, God, let this be a very busy work day for you. Will absolutely understand if you are unable to post. Not that it matters, as Miss Ive is relentless in her winter grooming. Fastidious, you might say.
Before you push play, please be sure to have all your snacks and beverages in hand. Potty breaks taken. This request comes from the director, Mr. Scott Contor, who will shush you, wherever you may be, if you disrupt. Trust me. He's the king of the shush. And he hasn't slept in three weeks so irritable doesn't even begin to describe his state today.
Part One
Part Two (My favorite part begins at 7:32—cracks me up)
Part Three
Part Four
Three months ago, I wrote a whimsical post about wanting to take a road trip to Chicago to see, for the first time in person, a painting that had come to mean a lot to me. And I proposed wearing a dress from J. Peterman's new line because it was aptly called the Portrait Dress. And I felt that wearing a dress from the retailer famous for his sense of adventure was very fitting—pun intended. And apparently so did he.
Though you'll see evidence of his generosity in the film manifested in matching dresses for the lark girls, I wanted to publicly say how much his gift meant to our adventure. Watching what began as a lark of a post transform into something very real and life-changing has everything to do with people like Mr. Peterman who believe. I can't thank him and the entire Peterman gang enough for doing so.
A great big thank you also to:
Director, Scott Contor, who has seriously not slept a restful night since October.
Beaten By Yuri, the Chicago-based band responsible for the kick-ass music throughout. Unbelievable.
The Art Institute of Chicago for allowing us to film The Song of the Lark.
Ayelet Waldman, an amazing woman and writer who says very brave things and sent me her latest book full of the proof—Bad Mother, on bookshelves this spring.
Last week I made the dire mistake of casually stating a preference for Jimmy Stewart, in lieu of Cary Grant. Lemme tell ya, there was a bit of a fuss. Let's just say the beating my email inbox took and the comments on the post weighed in heavily for Senor Grant. And so the debate is on.
One reader, dear friend and fellow blogger went so far as to post in favor of her argument with three admittedly very healthy pieces of evidence in favor of Grant as Heartbreaker Numero Uno. And can I say, Exhibit B was my fave. The man can seriously pull off feathers.
However (Miss Ive clears throat), said friend, authress of Bird in the Hand, has admittedly not yet seen The Philidelphia Story. And that's all I'm-a-sayin'. Okay, I'll say one more thing. Ms. Kelly, you yourself posted that the line that made you laugh the most, "C.K. Dexter Haven, you have unexpected depth!," was SPOKEN by one Mr. Stewart.
And Kell, can I just say, Stewart plays a quiet, thoughtful, brooding, sarcastic, PUBLISHED WRITER in this flick. Yeah. He does.
So brace yourself, baby.
Ms. Kelly has challenged me to a live debate. An evening of champagne, The Philidelphia Story, and fellow girlfriends of the hightest cerebral capacity (I'm talkin' 'bout you, Booth—and Moser, don't think you're gonna get out of this—or you, Mutschler) to drink said bubbly and serve as impartial judges.
And reading that took all the steam out of my argument. Wanna know why? Cuz an evening like that sounds better than an evening WITH Stewart or Grant. Or even Stewart AND Grant. Honestly. You're on, girlfriends. What do they say about men and fish and bicycles and all that? Wink, wink.
And though the steam is out of my sails for the moment, please feel free to weigh in. You can view all evidence in favor of both gentlemen in the above links. Men, don't be shy. We know you love them, too.
Tell. This is me with short hair. And I really liked it.
But then I saw this girl. Trixie. The one on the right.
And I HAD to have Trixie hair. So I grew it for a long, long time. Pretty much since the first episode aired. I actually wanted Trixie's uncanny use of foul language, too. But I can't seem to pull it off.
You can see me with long hair to the right in the profile pic. Or, if you want to see it really well groomed, here:
But keep in mind, when it's long, it's almost ALWAYS like this:
And so last night I watched this:
And now I want my short hair back. But without the special hair gel.
BE HONEST. Don't just say 'cut' cuz it's fun to see others chop their hair. And not to nudge, but I DO have a Locks of Love envelope all filled out and ready to ship the ponytail off for a good cause. I'm sorry. I know it's a good cause and all, but it's just gross to think about a ponytail in the mail. Yuck.
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 a 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
Our short film premieres (drum roll). . . Saturday, December 6 from 7 to 9, and on into the night. . .
At (more drum roll—actually, just keep the drum roll going—all day). .
COMMUNE, the Uber-Chic, newly-renovated club (formerly known as Cinq), downstairs from Bastone
Just find your way to 419 S. Main St in Royal Oak, MI, park it, and find your way downstairs to Commune. And to moi! I highly recommend heading east about four blocks when you see this joint and parking it in the bungalow hood. Very safe. Nice walk. And no chance in hell you're finding a spot on a Saturday night. None. Plus, no meters in the hood. (There's a map under the address, ya'll). Oh, there is valet. But most of my friends don't actually know how that works.
And see how pretty Commune is?
And cozy?
And see how they have places for people who 'sort of want to hide?'
And rooms with curtains for people who 'really want to hide?'
And why would anyone want to hide? Well, possibly, if say, somebody had acted like a drunken fool for an entire weekend in Chicago whilst a camera was fixed on her every move. And say if that footage was going to be plastered (much like the Chicago version of Miss Ive) all over the numerous versions of this. . .
One might hide. This one. But you all can roam. With free conscience. And take full advantage of all of these. . .
And if they run out over there (because Miss Ive has beaten you all to it), no worries. They have plenty of these just lying around. Actually, the very reason Miss Ive chose this particular venue. And for the place to hide, of course.
And most obviously, for this. . .
For when the cards really hit the deck. And considering the director will also be at said premiere, with said camera, in the midst of said surplus barrels of Belgian brews and bewitching green liquors, Miss Ive may have to hide again when that footage rolls, as well. Or she could just BEHAVE herself. For once.
But leave the horse at home. Royal Oak Police will thank you. Although, come to think of it, your odds of finding parking would increase greatly. Six in one. . .
Many mysteries loom over the Chicago trip. Some things are known.
One, we were in fact in Chicago. Two, we were there so I could see this painting, have an awakening, and finish writing my epic, never-ending novel, that is currently going nowhere, like this sentence, apparently.
Three, J. Peterman read about my caper and SENT DRESSES TO ALL GIRLS GOOD ENOUGH TO ACCOMPANY ME (READ: RISK THEIR LIVES) in pursuit of the Lark. Yes, he did. And you should have seen the girls faces when we checked into the room. You shoulda. Ribbons, box tops and tissue paper everywhere. Fantastic.
But, there are still a few things unknown to yours truly. And here's one of them. Look closely at the above picture. Behind the boxes, you will see a long, rose-colored, cylindrical pillow. See it?
Okay, now look closely at the public displays of affection I appear to be bestowing upon it in the lobby of the hotel, where things of such a 'nature' are not encouraged. Can anyone explain this? I'm serious.
I have two theories. One, I was already in bed at the hour this photo was taken, like a very good girl, and these other hooligans pulled me from said bed, pillow still in tow.
The second theory is more colorful, and I hesitate to implicate myself needlessly with slanderous details. But still, I'm curious. If anyone was in the greater Chicago area on Saturday night and knows anything about the case of the Public Pillow, please write.
Another, even bigger mystery: Who in the hell is this 'gentleman,' and why was he following us around with a camera all weekend?
I know there were a few elderly ladies who put him to a similar line of questioning. Will look into this one further tomorrow. For now, back to the pillow.
Well all, we're back. The larks have landed. Though I had intended to close the site today for cleaning (read: a full-day bath for Miss Ive), I have decided that it may be the best thing to get a jump start on apologies, considering that the extensive list of offenses committed this weekend in Chicago is so long, this theme could dominate the site until the New Year. Easily.
Though I have recently sought the advice of legal counsel and learned that an apology is in fact an admission of guilt, have decided to take a chance.
Today, I would like to apologize to the city worker from whom I wrangled a (still running) rototiller, under the guise of being "a country girl who grew up pushing one through fields." That was, perhaps, a mild exaggeration.
Though, in my defense, the bit about the "county girl" was true. Which means that one would assume that the city worker would have the edge in the "street smarts" department. Right?
Not so in this instance. Let's call this installment an 'apology' with a gratuitous 'public service announcement.'
To all Chicago workers (or rototilling operators the wide-world over), if a girl with a wine-stained grin asks politely if she may try her hand at said apparatus, in a very tiny and difficult to navigate city flower bed, no matter how sweet or scantily dressed she may be, do not agree. Under any circumstances. Especially if you value your feet.
And that's all I'm saying at this time. Per the above referenced legal counsel.
And there's not much to say about this one. Number 4 is a sub. We got her from an ad I posted last minute at the local theater house. Have been assured that she's not psycho, by her agent.
However, have since found this rogue picture floating around the internet with number 4's name. Am a bit nervous about what is actually under that helmet. And, I believe, justifiably so. Check the hair.
Only kidding. She's my sis. And, for the record, she has very nice hair.
Should be a fantastic trip. Have decided there are only two things you need to know about Lark #4. She's a hellofa navigator and she randomly steals drinks from strangers' hands when I ask her to. So, yeah, we'll have a blast.
And on to Lark #3. Let's call her Kathy. Though I also went to high school with this Lark, we did not have our very first, heart-to-heart (read: I blabbed and she graciously listened) until she signed up to join me on this escapade.
Yeah. I know. And she STILL wants to go. Very brave girl. Apparently the zoo is a near and dear place to her heart. And apparently she was able to see that Miss Ive's heart WAS in the right place, even if her actions were what some may call (read: legally on record as) "groping."
Her knowledge of my previous antics (read: considered 'illegal contact' in 48 of the United States) puts me at ease. I have no doubt that she knows what she is in for. However, her lovely child seems to already be preparing for the inevitable barrage of press that tends to follow me on these sorts of shenanigan. Smart girl.
And just look at the mug on her dog. Think SHE trusts me?
This is Lark #2. Her identity must remain even more secret. Why? Well, sadly, we share a love for one great man. But we play fair. We write to him daily and sometimes compete over who we believe his favorite to be.
She is feisty and articulate, though, so I cannot dislike her. Actually, truth be told, I genuinely respect her. Sometimes I read her letters, and have to admit, she is a worthy rival.
She joins us in Chicago after a solo road trip, for our whirlwind adventure. A true adventurer herself.
Any more hints? I'll let her leave them if she so chooses, in the comments below.
Oh, and I hope she doesn't mind, but I've taken the liberty to post one of her letters to our mutual friend, of which he was particularly fond. It describes one of her adventures, not taken with the girls, but all by herself. A truly grand way to have an adventure.
"One of my Greatest Fears was eating alone, in a restaurant, a hostess seats you to a table, waitstaff tells you the specials type of a restaurant. Don't really know why cuz I do the Movie or shopping thing alone all the time...
Anyway in Labor Day I decided to face this fear of mine, (I know its not like a fear of sharks but hey I live in the midwest the closest thing I have to sharks are Lampries & I already caught one those) so I got all dresse dup I'm talking dressy top & skirt, heels, make up, & clutch purse and drove around town until I found a a place that I felt like eating at. Walked up to the two 16yr olds at the hostess stand & said table for 1 please. (WITHOUT FAINTING, it was Shocking I tell you) It was not that busy but I was left waiting for 10 minutes.... Then the table they led me to was never even close to have been occupied at all that evening... I think the hostess thought maybe someone would show up & I wouldn't be alone. I ordered a drink (it ws AWFUL, never will order another mojito there EVER) ordered off the menu, people watched, had dessert (Creme Brule was not that good either) paid the bill & walked out. The funny thing was that I had the feeling that the staff was trying to rush me out. That having someone eat alone was a bad for their image or something.
Nonetheless to my GREATEST SURPRISE I ENJOYED it & can't wait to do it again. Of course this time it will be at a different restaurant."
Find more of our mutual letters of admiration at Peterman's Eye.
Very gushy stuff. I warn. There is just something about this particular gentleman. It's like sitting in your hair stylist's chair. You tell WAY MORE than you ever intended. Go ahead. Try it.
This marks the beginning of my profile posts. Profiles are extremely difficult to do when you have promised all girls involved you wouldn't give away personal information.
I can say this much. These girls are coming with me on my Chicago adventure. And that, in and of itself, says a lot. They VOLUNTEERED. They are coming along to see me break down in front of a painting. Do I really have to say anything else about how awesome they are?
Well I will. And I've decided to do it in reverse alphabetical order. Only I can't tell you their names, so you'll just have to trust that I know my alphabet.
This is Becca. That's what I'll call her. We went to junior high and high school together. Both of our maiden names are so similar, that our lockers were right next to one another. And we used to talk between classes about life. And hair brushes. And boys. And football games. And silly things. See how silly? I love silly.
And then we planned our ten-year reunion together. And we both said, "Why didn't we talk MORE between lockers?" And isn't that always a bitch? What you missed out on in high school? At least we both have that in common.
And, thank God, there's always the future. She's awesome. She's funny. And satirical. And self deprecating. And sarcastic. Did I say satirical? And she LOVES GIMLETS!!!! And, hold applause please, she does one hellofan Elaine dance. And that says it all.
She also has a beautiful family. A husband and son who are generous enough to let me have her for this adventure. And I thank them. I will take care of her. Promise.
And, super bonus, it looks like this family venue is also a pub. Which means Becca and I have even more in common than I had imagined. Meaning pub=family venue. Fo sho.
And my very favorite pic. THE one that says that Becca loves a good adventure, and is nurturing that in her wee one.
