Day 3

Miss Ive's successful frolic with her new bear friend, put her in the mood for seriously elusive sport. And this time she sought out a real challenge. Her plan: it should be obvious at this point that she does not have one. Apparently, she thinks saving the zoo is code for groping its entire contents. There may be something Freudian in that. She will get back to you. Shortly.

Her destination: the butterfly house. Because, after all, what is more fickle than a butterfly? Miss Ive half believes she is second cousin to entire butterfly kingdom.

And, just as she suspected, in this very house, Miss Ive was not wholly and affectionately welcomed as she had been by the primates and the bear. The butterflies paid her no attention. And Miss Ive could not have that. Ever. So she decided to watch the butterflies very closely and see exactly what it was that was taking up all their time and much sought after attention. The culprit:

And this.


So can you guess what clever Miss Ive did to turn the tables? Yes, she went to her loot. And she found this.


Miss Ive reasoned, something she generally hates to do, that if butterlies like plants, and they love flowers, then the logical corollary (yes she said c-o-r-o-l-l-a-r-y) was that they would go ape sh%@ for nectar. So she slathered an unfairly-advantaged amount of Peach body butter all over her clever little body. And within 14 seconds, she looked like this.

Point, set, match: Miss Ive. BRING IT BUTTERFLIES!

She's not even lying. She really did this. She would not recommend doing it yourselves.

Stay tuned for more Jane Jones Chronicles, as they turn a bit to the darker side, tomorrow. Bring hot beverage, and a snack, and a blanket, and four loaves of bread with which Miss Ive can wipe an entire tub of Peach body butter from her slippery body.

Day 2

After her successful affair with the primates, Miss Ive was hell bent on proving that she had 'the touch' with the entire animal kingdom. And so, true to Miss Ive style, she decided to hunt the biggest and hardest to tame.

She looked to mother nature to guide her and found said mother on black top, conveniently. Miss Ive loves this zoo, already. So eager to please. See how easy?



And Miss Ive threw herself into the task of finding her large friend. And, for the record, she did not appreciate the lewd comments from passersby. For the record.



And after only moments of tracking, she happened upon her quarry. And he loved her immediately. See? See how calm she makes him?



Miss Ive was so pleased at her zoo prowess, that she thanked that bear. A LOT.




Stay tuned for more Jane Jones Chronicles tomorrow. Bring hot beverage. And butterfly net.

Day 1

You'll remember from last week's breaking news, that Miss Ive arrived at the zoo full of fervor for her animal kingdom friends. Her three barista latte was at optimal effect, adding even more mania to her newly tweeded monochroMANIA. She was ready to wrap her arms (and as you'll see later, legs) around her new, far superior, slice of Wild Heaven.

First on her list: announce her arrival to new animal kingdom cohorts and discuss with them the best strategy for getting the word out about the big vote.

She decides she will begin with her new BFF Jane Goodall's life-long BFF's, the primates. And when she finds them, she wonders why Ms. Goodall claimed that it took her a lifetime to build the trust of said primates. Miss Ive found them very approachable and not one bit skittish. Perhaps it was due to the tweaking she undertook in the overhaul of the once frumpy monochromanic getup. Primates, she has decided, share her love of superior hemlines and tweeds. Must send note to Ms. Goodall. Will help her studies immensely.

Miss Ive decided to pose with an austere face, in attempt to emulate the similar pic of the lovely Ms. Goodall. See how austere? See tweedy hemlines? See how gamely primates welcome her?



And then she decided to up the ante and go for broke with 'austere' and 'reflective.' See how reflective?



And then, sadly, her unfortunate malady, known to most as A.D.D., set in. See her desperate look of 'get me the hell out of this pose because more than one-single-minute in same place will fry my nerves?'



And so she was off, to find new friends and new adventures.

Tune in tomorrow with hot beverage for more of the Jane Jones Chronicles. Please.

The Jane Jones Chronicles

Good Morning Campers!

Are you ready for this? Good. Put down your coffee. Strike that. Pick UP your coffee.

At this very moment, Miss Ive is sitting here.



And she is joining you in hot beverage with this.



And she is looking at this.



Remember why?

***************************Standby for blog interruption********

Miss Ive has climbed to the top of a mountain to gain reception and interupt this post, for reasons she will explain below. While the first part of this post was written last week, in anticipation for our week apart, Miss Ive was uncannyly spot-on regarding her AM activities for today. That may be due to the fact that Miss Ive is mildly clairvoyant. It may also be due to the fact that she only packed five-ish items, so her options for diversion were limited. She is more apt to vote for the latter, as recent activities that WERE NOT ON HER RADAR have made her doubt her clairvoyant powers. She has just encountered one pack mule, up from the bottom of the mountain, to deliver three important telegrams from one anonymous sender, to one Miss Ive. This event, in fact, was so FAR off the radar, that Miss Ive has sloshed her hot beverage into her lap and is now feeling a bit, well, frazzled. She will let the telegrams speak for themselves.

*****************************

Telegram 1:

Woman in near collapsed state is arrested at the Detroit Zoo, after sunset, on Thursday, July 24. It is believed that the call to police was the result of several episodes of 'lewd groping.' The assailant's highly distressed and animal feces-covered state at the time of the arrest, made it impossible for her to answer any questions regarding her wreckless spree. Two photographs were found on her person:



and this



Which has caused her to be dubbed 'Jane Jones' by the press. More on Miss Jones as she recovers in custody.


Second telegram:

The infamous Miss Jones from today's breaking zoo scandal has escaped from the zoo holding while awaiting trasfer to Beaumont hospital. It is rumored that she was last seen boarding a Northwest flight bound for Northern Idaho, just hours later. We were able to obtain one quote from a flight attendant aboard the plane.

"She DID seem a bit crazed, and, now that you mention it, poop-covered. I kept offering her water because her lips were so shriveled and sunburnt, but she kept slapping it out of my hand and grabbing for the bottle of Scotch on my cart. But, with scheduling delays as bad as they've been, that's not very unusual these days; we get a lot of that, actually."

Third telegram:

Police have a solid lead in the mysterious zoo groping case. It is believed that the escaped Miss Jane Jones and the humor blogger known only as Miss Ive, may be one and the same. An annonymous lead came in just hours ago that led to a photo comparison between the zoo security cameras and the thumbnail profile snapshot on her site. Police believe they have a solid lead. Authorities are en route to Idaho at the moment. Internet specialists are set up at Miss Ive's site www.sandinmyswimsuit.blogspot.com, carefully monitoring activity.

***************************************************************************

Miss Ive has put down her hot beverage and come to terms with what has occured. She has been found out. She is ashamed.

Please forgive Miss Ive for possibly misleading you all as to the actual reason for going off the grid (read: on the lamb).

She should also take the opportunity to say hello to the 'Internet Specialists' that are reported to be monitoring this site, at this very moment, as she sits with head hanging low in shame and hot beverage becoming increasingly tepid. Miss Ive is less clever than her wry wit would suggest. She will pick herself up, dust herself off and face the music at the bottom of the mountain. But first, she will take this opportunity to state her case, now that she has recovered feeling in her lips and outer extremities.

Miss Ive's Thursday of last week began as do most of her AM's, in a little slice of heaven, known also as this



She was on her way out when she was approached by a woman who looked like this



At first Miss Ive was certain, from the very depressing state of said woman's sad, monochromatic outfit, that she must be after Miss Ive's loot. After all, even Miss Ive's loot has the common sense not to DRESS DOWN on a Thursday, in the AM.



But she was not after Miss Ive's bags. Instead, she handed her the now famous pictures that were found on her person at the time of her unfortunate arrest. One of Ms. Monochromania herself, and one of Miss Ive's, hand to Heaven, BFF.



This woman, apparently, knew her audience WELL. The hook was sunk. Miss Ive was seduced and sat for the amount of time it takes three baristas to master her customized hot beverage, roughly one half of one hour. By the time Miss Ive and the cryptic woman parted ways, Miss Ive had heard many sad cases, whose outcomes would all be determined by this.

At whirlwind speed, due in part to three crafty baristas, Miss Ive swapted her loot for her very own monochromatic outfit of feeling-good-about-herself-and-the-world-around-her, in tweeds, of course. Obviously, she did tweak the proportions and hemlines EVER SO SLIGHTLY. After all, everyone knows that showing a little leg is the fastest way to conquering the world. Just ask him:



And off Miss Ive went, into the midday sun, to save the world and discover a new and ever-more-selfless slice of heaven, known also as The Detroit Zoo.

ONE IMPORTANT AND VERY OFFICIAL-TYPE DISCLAIMER:

Nobody at said zoo was aware of Miss Ive's plans for recklessness. Though, in the days ahead, you all may see official zoo employees smiling away with Miss Ive in pictures, they were only victims of Miss Ive's irrepressible charm, and had no way of knowing the debauchery that she was about. She super promises.


Stay tuned for more of the Jane Jones Chronicles: Day 1, in tomorrow's post. Please bring hot beverage. And three crafty baristas. And your best suggestion for Miss Ive's legal counsel, as quickly as possible.

Say 'Uncle'

Hello Dears,

I am writing this note as my last, official will and testament. This morning, in the ridiculous hours of the AM, Miss Ive will board one of these.



And, roughly twenty minutes before take-off, she will be swallowing the legally advised amount of these. Plus two.



And twenty minutes after the flight takes off, she will chase them with one of these. Plus two.



And why, you ask, will your dearest Miss Ive put her body through these excruciating feats and pay no heed to the NATURAL LAWS OF NATURE, which require that she keep both feet firmly on this solid earth? Well, she will tell you why. She will do so in order to get her tired body and mind some much needed rest.



Miss Ive has recently been inspired afresh by her new friends, one in particular, and has decided to ask them to think of her often, and fondly, while she throws caution to the wind and runs off to a place that does not have this.



And even though she will have this. . .



She has been warned that it will get reception only sporadically up on top of the world. Sorry, Mr. Jobs. Everyone has limits. (Stay tuned for Twitters. Miss Ive is diligent. She will climb the highest mountain when Twitter mania sets in.)

And Miss Ive is going to these very great lengths to avoid all distraction, so that she might finish writing this . . .



So that she may earn fistfuls of dollars and buy one of THESE.



So that she may do THIS for the rest of her Scotch-soaked life.



And now that Miss Ive is staring at the concrete image of her life's goal, it is perhaps possible that she has not thought things through in their entirety. It has also, at this very moment, come to her attention that the very crux of her plan rests on a highly suspect and oxy-moronic assumption: Life PLAN. Must up dosage of afore mentioned pharmaceuticals. Plus three.

In keeping with her very stringent deadline and concrete goal, Miss Ive has limited herself to packing only the bare necessities. She will bring one of these.



And one of these.



And only the essentials from her ONE AND ONLY LOVE, J. Peterman Company.

Like this



And this



And just for safe measure, one of these



After all, Miss Ive must, at all costs, maintain anonymity.

Though she will miss you all terribly, she will drive down the mountain whenever possible to check your notes, so please do think of poor Miss Ive and write her a comforting message.

She has scheduled posts for the days she will be gone and, let's just say, she has something scandalous up her Scotch-soaked sleeve. Curious? She will give you one hint as a departing gift. She is, at this very moment, whispering that it has to do with a VERY BIG VOTE that will take place in her city of Detroit and surrounding counties (Macomb and Oakland) on August 5, the very day she has slated for her return, for a dear friend that looks remarkably like this.



And, if you all play along and read each post carefully, following instructions to the 'T,' you will be rewarded by winning a bet which will force poor, ever-modest Miss Ive to appear publicly in something that looks remarkably similar to this. Hand to Heaven. She will do it. Has she ever lied to you?



Post script. If, in any case, Miss Ive's senses get the better of her and she stops and asks herself WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH she is doing out in the middle of God's green earth, she has decided to designate a safe word between you all and herself. If the word 'UNCLE,' followed by latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates, should happen to appear in Miss Ive's Twitter column, in the upper-right-hand side of this page at any time, please send helicopters and a life-line, STAT. And, if you would be so kind, would you please have them chocked full with plenty of these?



and these



and 17 of these



So, until we meet again, dears. And, don't forget to please, please, please read next week and get the word out about the vote. The Jane Jones Chronicles will begin Monday and run through August 5, the day of the BIG VOTE. This is not Miss Ive's shameless ploy for readership. Okay. Maybe it is. But it is also very, very important to her whiskered friend, in a 'Bridget Jones is lost in the wild' sort of way—so she feels alright about begging. And we all know how slack Miss Ive is in taking up a cause, so just DO IT.

And Miss Ive promises that if, upon her return on August 5, the voting booths are crammed with votes for her dear friend, and all of his other friends, and his home, then she will don one pair of these



and publicly appear in the above illustrated whiskers, tail, and indecent leg exposure.

AND Miss Ive will know if you have passed this link, because she will be up on the top of the world where things like that are visible—and because she will check her 'counter' and it, like Miss Ive, never lies. She has written down a number and sealed it in a vault (read: Scotch-soaked sleeve). If the number on her Visitor Counter tops (Welcome visitors!) that number, she will let you vote, once again when, on August 6, she posts five location and date options, which will all have to fall into this sort of category, per her outfit's 'limitations.'



And because she will need buckets of this before she publicly humiliates herself.



Cheers All! Now pass this on (But not to any known gropers, please—Miss Ive DOES have her standards), and VOTE, DO IT!

Post, post script.

If you would like to request an ADORABLE YARD sign, which Miss Ive HIGHLY recommends, as they come in a selection of COLORS and designs that will only give your home more CURB APPEAL, go here and fill out the info. DO IT. Get a little wild today for the animals. Just do it. Click the link, type in your name and address and where you'd like them to stick the sign (let's keep it clean, people), and hit send. Free delivery. Miss Ive is always a sucker for free delivery—and curb appeal. And hurry, Miss Ive's top-secret, inside source has told her that they are flying out the door. How many yard signs can that be said about?



Post, post, post script.

To all Miss Ive's friends who are working as editors, is this how you would correctly etch "SCOTCH-SOAKED" if you were putting it on one's epitaph? Please respond quickly, as she is chiselling away as she types. Very multi-task-like.

Be Careful What You Wish For

I am leaving for a trip tomorrow, and my first stop is in Seattle to see my mother. Last night, as I was packing, I remembered something that happened when I lived with her for a short time in undergrad.

It's early spring, March-ish, we've just gone shopping and I am supposed to drop her off at an appointment. She abhors lateness. It is unseasonably warm for a Michigan March, and when we pass the high school, we see all the kids without their coats, even though it's still probably not more than 50 degrees out.

Then we pull up to a stop light and a carful of kids pulls up next to us. They have their windows down and the boy in the passenger seat has his bare feet hanging out the window.

Mom: What is wrong with those kids?
Me: They're celebrating the sun.
Mom: Well it's freezing.

I take the next turn, in the opposite direction of her appointment.

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: I am not taking you to your appointment until your feet are bare and hanging out that window.
Mom: Are you crazy?
Me: You raised me—do you have to ask?
Mom: This is no time to joke.

I look at her, dead serious, with the face she knows too well, and hit the power botton to lower her window.

Yelling, screaching, and lots of utterances of my entire given name ensue.

And then her bare feet go awkwardly out the window—accessorized, mind you, with a look of death.

And then she smiles. And then we laugh.

Me: Remember that feeling?
Mom: Vaguely—thank you.
Me: Anytime. Now get your bloody feet inside the window because I'm freezing.

And now she lives in Seattle. Because, for her entire life, she wanted to live in Seattle. So she got up one day, shortly after fridged foot incident, quit her job, sold her home, and moved to Seattle.

And I miss her. And I think it might be all my fault.

Bloody window.

A Shortcut into J. Peterman's Eye

Morning, all. As you can see from her Twitter feed to the right, Miss Ive is delirious from spending the entire night transforming herself into Queen of Photoshop for her upcoming unveiling, promised to you for this Friday.

If you'd like to read something that promises to be much more engaging than poor Miss Ive on this day, please pop over here for your morning coffee. Miss Ive is there, too. Just look for the inappropriate innuendo written under her alias: missive.

Miss Ive is off at this moment to pour a pot of coffee over her head.

Oh, and GO SEE DARK KNIGHT. I have nobody to talk to about it, and it's killing me. GO.

Pancakes with Larry David

Last Saturday morning I woke to find my six-year-old son on the couch with his book.

Me: Morning, babe.
Son: Morning, mommy
Me: How 'bout some pancakes?
Son: No, thank you. I'll just have cereal.
Me: You don't want PANCAKES?
Son: (Finally looking up from his book) No. Pancakes make me nervous.
Me: I'm sorry?
Son: It's the syrup. You never know where it will show up. It gets on my elbows. And once on my ear.

I walk over to him and place a hand on either side of his face, tipping it up toward me.

Son: Mommy, what are you doing?
Me: I'm looking into your eyes to see if Larry David has, in fact, died within the night and entered your tiny body.
Son: Mommy?
Me: Yes, son.
Son: Now you're making me nervous.

Lucky Ducks

Someone was holding up traffic at the Southfield and 696 intersection this morning. That's not unusual. But this particular commuter was, you could say, 'show-stopping.'



I saw a lot of Loony-Tune-worthy double takes as my fellow commuters, one by one, snapped out of their trances and spotted one Jemima Puddle Duck and her ducklings marching steadily, in zig-zag fashion, through the backed-up cars.

Though I much enjoyed the break from mundanity, seeing them flattened would have ruined my day.

Dear Miss Puddle Duck,

Please consider my fragility, the next time you decide to live so wrecklessly. I have two references in particular I think you should peruse.

1) Google Maps
2) Robert Frost

The first source will provide you with a search box, inside of which you should tap out the following key words, "The road LESS traveled." It comes highly recommended by Number 2, and MOI.

Very best from your fellow commuter,

Miss Ive

Please feel free to comment and add your own words of wisdom for Miss Puddle Duck. Miss Ive will forward.

J. Who?

Remember this?:
J.Crew Vs J. Peterman

After I posted this face-off between my two favorite clothiers, many of you wrote to ask if, in fact, J. Peterman is real.

"I thought he was just a fictional Seinfeld character," you said. Well. He's real. And so is his retail company. And so is his blog. And so is his very funny marketing manager, who I met for the first time, in my inbox, on Monday morning, over green tea:

Good Morning Miss Ive,

I have thoroughly enjoyed your post: J.Crew Vs. J. Peterman

Let me be the first (hopefully) to contact you and put all claims aside as your bookmark favorite.

I am the Director of Marketing for the J. Peterman Company and want to thank you for your article. We've all enjoyed.

Wishing you great success.

Cheers,

So how do you like them apples, J.Crew? Or better yet, let me tell you how I like 'em. I like 'em a lot. I'm a woman of my word. The minute I publish this post, I am headed to my bookmark, will highlight J.Crew, and let my well-toned, shopping finger free fall onto the DELETE button. 

I'm not saying there won't be some tears. We go back a long way, J.Crew and I. But as with many great love stories, this one seems unrequited.

So this is my Dear J. letter:

My Dearest J. Crew,

I've given you my size-four years. And what have you given me in return? A bunch of over-priced, moth-hole-ridden sweaters? And what about all those years I was knocked up and you, well, CONVENIENTLY, were not THERE for me. No, actually, it's worse than that. I'll not hold back. Remember the time you sent me glossy pics of your SKINNY jeans in my third trimester? Well, I do. That hurt. Really hurt.

You're lucky I'm an efficient, band-aid ripping type of gal. Now go peddle your colorful stories elsewhere. I'm older, and wiser, and, well, about 10 grand lighter, thanks to you.

I feel cheap, in a broke sorta way.

Chin up, though. We'll both move on.

M.I.

And though I feel a little sleezy doing a break-up and a make-out in the same post, can I just gush for one moment about my new love? There's nothing in life I love more than a great adventure. And, in my brief affair with J. Peterman and Co., I feel a kindred spirit in that sentiment. They celebrate fine things, and not for their 'thing-ness,' but for the beauty that they bring, and for the richness of the lands from whence they come.

Go to their site. Not with your credit card—go with some tea, and some time. Their copy is art. Its jocosity, intellect and innuendo inspired a man like Larry David to jump on the bandwagon. What more can be said?

And go to their blog. It's full of the ruckus-raising  you'd expect with such a namesake. I especially say this to all my literary friends and mentors. Go and raise a ruckus of your own.

J. Peterman Company has dresses that quote Emerson, perfume that recites poetry, virginal-white nightgowns for riding on horseback, magnificent French kitchen pottery that thirsts for direct flame, New Zealand sheepskin rugs for naked frolics with Errol Flynn, and I've just scratched the surface. Oh, there's a couple things for boys, too. Sorry. I'm still thinking about the sheepskin. Got a little, um, distracted. 

So today, I say goodbye to J.Crew. And though I should be sad, I just can't stop thinking about that other 'J.' That email blew the fresh scent of foreign winds into my bookmark. I thank you, J. Peterman. Because of you, by lunchtime today, I can expect to find myself in the Outer Hebrides, lying on my back in a wool dress, hand-dyed with red Alder berries. I will love my dress. Not for its dress-ness. Not because it makes my butt look small. I will love it because when I slip it over my head and around my shoulders, our mutual love of all things beautiful will grace me with the gift of fluent Gaelic and the ability to discriminate between variants of peat in single malt Scotch.

Hello, J. Peterman