Does anyone remember when Ayelet Waldman showed up on Oprah to talk about (read: defend) her New York Times essay, entitled "Motherlove?"
Here's the gist (though it's a great read if you have time):
She's married to Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Chabon. She has four kids with him. And she posits that she loves her husband more than her children, hence their still-steamy love life after twelve years of marriage. She also posits that the children are healthier because of it. Interestingly, she is a lawyer/author who chooses to stay at home with said brood of children. She does the carpools and the play dates, yada, yada. BUT, she is not IN LOVE with them. She has not refocused her passion on them. It is still on her husband. And why shouldn't it be? Did I mention the Pulitzer Prize? Yeah? Well he does dishes and bath time, too. Yeah, I know. Must be tough to keep that passion so focused, Ms. Waldman. Kidding. Only sort of.
Seriously, I want to know what you all think of this. It's articulate and smart and seems to work well for the Waldman/Chabon clan. After all, their kitchen and babies ARE clean, but their bedroom is torn apart. How bad can that combination be? There's something that feels right about it. Not gonna lie.
This is a theme I've revisited often lately. Write to me. And be honest.
I had to put this in here, too. Just watching her do the eighties 'sway' will make you ask the very trenchant question, "What in the hell does this have to do with her topic?"
Most of you know I grew up with all sisters—in the woods. Boys were an enigma. Years of sex ed classes and dating didn't clear it up, either. And then I saw this movie.
And I started to get it.
Cool Hand Luke—the original Fight Club.
I am unspeakably sad about the loss of Mr. Newman.
Cool Hand Luke made me get IT. The impossible internal fight every man faces between remaining unbroken and surviving.
And now I get it when a man looks like this~
And it makes me sad. This movie—a MOVIE—has given me a place in my heart for the fact that most men in our world live everyday doing this for THE BOSS.
But this movie—a MOVIE—has also given me the boldness to declare today as National Cool Hand Luke Day. Wanna know what that means?
It means that today, you have to put the boss away. It means that today, you are to look into the eye of the storm and give it your worst, whilst donning your very best Luke grin.
If you're an ad man, tell your ridiculously conservative client to step aside and let you do what you do well. If you're a brand man, don't talk about your brand. Scream it from a rooftop. Are you with me? If you're a politician, turn off the teleprompter and tell us what you really think.
And then, come back here and tell us about it. Help me get over my Paul Newman blues. I'm not joking. Do it. Please.
Well that's where Miss Ive is today. Behind that door.
Big interview today=short post.
But before I go, answer me this. When they ask the inevitable, "Do YOU have any questions for us?," what do I say?
Please post and tell.
I have decided that, on second thought, they may frown upon my originally intended response of, "Yes. Actually I do. Will my office door have a lock on it?"
Oh, and can I just say that instead of watching the long-awaited premiere of the American Office last night, I worked on my writing samples for today's big interview. Yeah, I know. Very serious business girl all of a sudden.
Scratch that. I'm back. I did watch it. No restraint.
I'm sure you all have pumpkin pancake and bourbon hangovers like me today. Can you tell which of these scenarios I chose?
Yeah. Numero tres. Only, unfortunately I was dressed for numero dos. Very sad, indeed.
This might help the picture~
So, time to pick self up in true Bridget Jones fashion and begin healthy, new woman regime.
Why, you ask, when the pancake binge was clearly such a success, would I want to cease such shenanigans?
Because, ever the fool, I ordered my Portrait Dress for the big Chicago trip from J. Peterman and Co. yesterday and I made a grave mistake. Ya know how we're all sort of between two sizes, always? Well thanks to bourbon-induced stupor, I ordered the smaller one. So midnight-pancake-bourbon binges are clearly a thing of the past.
Begin new-woman, healthy regime by raiding fridge and digging out can of leftover pumpkin. Also, plain yogurt. Stir together. If your head hurts very badly, like my own, then add some honey, too. Go ahead. Delicious. I call it pumpkin-pie pudding.
And, bonus, the pumpkin is great for bringing color back into your face and removing bags from under eyes. After eating, you will feel cleansed and new. Go look in the mirror. Really.
The only thing the pumpkin concoction will not do is wipe one's memory clean of the naked dancing. Ahhhhhhhh. The only thing that will help this is more bourbon. And more dancing. And, obviously, more pancakes.
Clearly, the smaller size was a smart move. Perhaps Mr. Peterman has one of these in my size?
I always think to post my favorite recipes on here. And then I remember that I don't like to share my recipes.
But, recently, I realized that I don't have time to cook anymore, so I'll share. Someone should be getting use out of them.
Know this, though—I hand it to you with fingers still tightly clasping flour-covered recipe card. Go ahead, take it, she says begrudgingly.
Write quickly. I can't promise I won't get cold feet today, pop on and pull this post. Or, even better, sabotage the ingredients. No, really, it calls for Spam, the powdered kind.
Then scan down to see my three options for preparation:
Oh, and don't even think I'm going to walk you through the 'dry' then 'wet' thing. If you don't get that, you do not deserve this recipe. Really.
1 tsp Pumpkin pie spice 1 cup whole wheat flour (I dig King Arthur's—it's lighter-bodied) 2/3 cup white flour (Please use unbleached—c'mon, people) 2 tsp baking powder (get the aluminum-free stuff at Trader Joe—don't want anyone suing for Alzheimer's—if they remember to) 1/4 tsp salt 2/3 cup canned, raw pumpkin 2 eggs (don't even get me started on eggs—just use your head) 1 cup milk (again, don't get me started) 2 tsp melted butter (yada, yada)
So mix, whisk, serve with sauteed apples, butter, cinnamon and dust with sugar. Then shut the hell up and don't even think of telling me how awesome they are. I know. Can not believe I'm giving this up.
Now, if you're making this for small children, wear an apron that makes you look friendly, soft and domestic. Something in the pintucked variety. Play something from Harry Connick's "Songs I Remember," like Candyman. Dance around, whisk in hand, and let them crack eggs all over the place. That's what Golden Retrievers are for. Go for it. It's Saturday!
If you're making them for a lover, no children involved, follow the above instructions—apron, whisk, dancing. . . but skip the outfit underneath the apron. Also, add some bourbon to the apples. And play this:
Finally, if you're making them for yourself, skip the apron. Who cares how messy you get, right? Also, skip the apples. They're not all that. Pour the bourbon straight down your throat and chase it with a pile of pancakes. Fantastic comfort food. Really.
Over the weekend, I decided to take the very sage advice of one of my female mentors and nick-namesake, Virginia Woolf. The quote below introduces her famous essay on women and fiction, entitled "A Room of One's Own." To boil it down in terms that I can understand, she extricates the things that keep women from themselves and their goals, here, writing fiction. In a nutshell, she makes the claim, something she defines as her humble opinion, that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." I'm being greatly reductive. However, so is her thesis. And that's why I like her so much. She gets to the point. And so will I. . .
So can you guess what I did? I'll tell you. I have begun construction on a room of my own. So far, I have one of these:
Lots of these:
And I am in the market for one of these:
Because, it seems, the Internet is not accessible on this variety of type pad. And, apparently, the Internet is very distracting. I think I have Twittered two entire novels, so far. It seems I have a problem with the Internet. Apparently.
When designing a new space, Martha Stewart (yes, I wrote "Martha Stewart" in the same post as "Virginia Woolf") says that you should choose one special piece—a piece of pottery, a clock, a favorite chair—and build around it. And so I have chosen my piece.
Can you guess? . . .
Shocked? It seems this painting has re-entered my life with a tour de force. It's all I write about here and I am planning a trip to go see it here. Have I mentioned that? I have even gone to great lengths to find the perfect dress in which to view it for the first time—aptly named the Portrait Dress, by the ever-romantic J. Peterman and Company.
So it seemed fitting. I couldn't think of anything better to signify my life-changing 'removal of head from sand and onto new horizons' transformation. A renaissance, you might say. Do you see her eyes? Do you see how they are sans sand? Me too.
And before you all worry that Miss Ive has lost her edge and become a complete romantic, you should know that the first thing she had installed was this—in the ceiling:
So she could put away her writing every night at a reasonable hour and watch something wholesome like this:
Sorry, gotta laugh for a minute before I push on to serious matters. Nope. Still laughing.
Okay.
I would love nothing more than for this room to represent this space. This place where I have come to meet with you all daily and, as a result, have realized the need for this renaissance. I would love for this room to be a collaboration. So I leave you today with one very important, space-changing question. . .
What color paint???????
Even if it is your first time here, please leave a suggestion or a link to a color sample. Miss Ive is in paint paralysis. It has to be perfect. PERFECT. Inspired by the painting? By a mood?
When you have hot beverage in hand, please come back and read about my Friday adventure, and laugh.
I guess you could say it began on Wednesday, when Miss Ive decided to add a tag line to her blog title, a slogan of sorts. She thought long and hard and then resorted to common thievery, as she often does, by pinching her favorite Jane Austen quote, which begins with "Run mad as often as you chuse (old English spelling)," and is already plastered all over the rest of her life. It is engraved on her pink iPod, it is silk-screened on her favorite running shirt, and now it is etched permanently into her blog masthead. And, after this weekend, she is beginning to wonder if she is not starting to internalize the directive and perhaps take it too literally. You read, and tell me what YOU think.
Friday afternoon, she returned home after a very long work week. She found her house quiet and vacant, a rare treat. So she decided to indulge in an even more rare treat, an afternoon run, something always relegated to early morning hours.
The sun was shining and she was looking forward to an evening of weekend wine-down and vintage eighties movies. She was giddy, so she decided to begin her run with this song:
Can you hear how playful? And Miss Ive was in a very playful mood. So playful, in fact, that when she rounded the last corner of her first mile lap and saw three men, her neighbors, standing in the middle of the sidewalk chatting, she decided to be sweet and go around—even though they were LOOKING STRAIGHT AT HER AND DID NOT SHOW ANY SIGN OF MOVING. Can you hear how calm Miss Ive sounds, even now? GRRRRRR. But Harry Connick soothed her. And she ran out onto the street and waved. And they WAVED BACK! Apparently they were able to move their hands, but not their feet. Still, she remained calm, smiling, and ever the lady. But, can she just add one important little piece of information to illustrate just how CALM and SWEET Miss Ive was being considering her neighbors' blockhead-ed-ness? She would like to tell you that one of said neighbors is a runner. A runner that Miss Ive often passes in the morning on her runs. And so she knows that HE KNOWS how annoying it is to have to run into the street because SOME PEOPLE do not know how to step ONE step over and out of said runner's way. Just saying. And can she also add that ALL THREE men were staring directly at Miss Ive as she ran (barreled) toward them, and that she is SURE THAT IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HER SPANDEX and everything to do with platonic neighborly curiosity. GRRRRR. Anyway, I digress.
And then something happened. And this sort of thing generally happens to Miss Ive as she begins her second mile, so it really came as no surprise. It is actually, arguably, THE SOLE reason she runs. Remember her theme line?
Well, that's exactly what happens. She remembers those words. And then she speeds up her pace and shuffles through her iPod in search of this song. (You'll want to pause Harry, if he's still crooning, for the full effect. But go back to him later. Great song.)
Can you hear it? Miss Ive is not exactly sure if it is the beat or the voice, or both, but something in the mix of these elements and her endorphin-charged pace causes her eyes to glaze over. The minimal amount of testosterone she contains in her person begins to race through her limbs and attack all reasoning function in her brain. She becomes a cage fighter.
And, unfortunately, on this day, all these forces aligned just as she rounded the final corner of her second mile, and again, came across those very same neighbors—who had not budged an inch. AND who did not show any signs of BUDGING ONE INCH EVEN THOUGH THEY ALL STARED DIRECTLY AT HER FOR A SECOND CHANCE AT A SPANDEX SHOW, AND SMILED THEIR PIE-EATING GRINS AT HER.
And so MISS IVE—the cage fighter—did not budge either. She just kept running (barreling) straight at them. Surely they would move, she thought. Surely they were not entirely raised in a barn. They are educated men, dressed in medical scrubs, surely they have LEARNED something about manners on their road to M.D.'s. Surely.
But no. They did not. And, unfortunately, neither did the tree that Miss Ive ran directly into as a result OF HER MISCALCULATION OF HER NEIGHBORS' LEVELS OF ASSHOLE-NESS. Her entire right side was introduced at high speed to the well-established oak tree in Dr. Asshole's yard. And she hit hard.
See how hard?
See even closer?
And as she stumbled back to the sidewalk, grabbing her mutilated shoulder with her left hand, surveying the damage, all the blood in her body rushed to said shoulder, and even further away from her reasoning brain. And when she saw the blood beginning to surface on said shoulder, the quantity of platelets left in her body began to boil and she fixed her eyes on her scrub-wearing neighbor who was mouthing the words, "That looks like it hurts."
Miss Ive is not even kidding one little bit. That's what this DOCTOR said.
So she walked slowly toward him, crazy eyes fixed. And, if you can believe it, THAT look made him MOVE ONE STEP OVER and away from Miss Ive.
As she began to compose the litany of insults that were forming in her throat, she pushed pause on her iPod so she could thoroughly enjoy the exchange, not that she planned on letting him speak.
And when the music stopped, guess what happened? Can you?
All the whipped-up testosterone levels subsided. They settled quickly and were replaced by her regularly high levels of estrogen. And then, girls, can you guess the very NEXT THING THAT CAME INTO HER ESTROGEN-FILLED BRAIN?
Her Portrait Dress—what else? Because estrogen is logical, right? And she was in a panic, such a panic that she turned her back on stupid-scrub-wearing-man and sprinted, left-hand-on-right-shoulder, all the way home, up the stairs, and directly to her computer where she could load a picture of her Portrait Dress. And while she typed the address w-w-w-j-p-e-t-e-r-m-a-n-c-o-m and waited for the page to load, her mind was screaming with THIS VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION:
HOW MUCH SHOULDER DOES IT SHOW?
And then, HOW MUCH TIME DOES SHE HAVE TO BATHE IN VITAMIN E AND MAKE THIS WOUND GO AWAY? And then, WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE THINKING MIXING TESTOSTERONE AND DRESSES?
And then she calmed down. And then she remembered the trip was more than a month away. And then she plugged in her iPod and deleted all remnants of Eminem from it. Just to be safe. He can come back after the trip. Maybe.
Until then, Miss Ive will nurse her arm and remember that her theme line is just that, and nothing more. Breathe.
lark1 [lahrk] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation –noun 1. any of numerous, chiefly Old World oscine birds, of the family Alaudidae, characterized by an unusually long, straight hind claw, esp. the skylark, Alauda arvensis.
I need all of you to go to your calendars and let me know when. Don't post your dates—email me. Top secret. Shhhhh. Click on the profile link to the right and there is an email address on the left. Shooting for something between Nov. 1 and Dec. 6.
Oh, one more thing I need for right now. Please click on the arrow below and turn the volume all the way up. Jump around on your furniture and learn all the words. Will be playing this a lot on the road trip. You know, cuz it's a French painting, and all.
And sometimes it's exactly what you want it to be. Tonight, I spent the evening with my two sons, as I always do. But tonight I took them to the grocery store and told them to pick out what they wanted for dinner—anything. They looked at me strangely. I'm pretty pushy with the vegetables, usually. But I said, "Really. Pick anything."
I guess what I'm saying, without telling you all how to raise your children, isn't it important to show our children that life can be exactly what they dream it can be? Most of the time, as parents, we don't know when 'yes' is good or bad. We just shoot from the hip and hope for the best. But can't we teach them, subtly, that we DON'T always know if 'yes' is 'good' or 'bad?' And doesn't that teach them about us—and about life? Does that make sense? Does the fact that I'm asking all these questions on the subject reveal anything about my parenting philosophies?!
I just want them to know that I would do anything for them. I also want them to know that I don't always know what 'anything' should be. I think that's just as important. This is all obtuse. I've just been thinking.
Such a good night. Chocolate ice cream, vanilla cupcakes and pizza. And a pillow fight. Love those boys.
I swore I would never post about this crap. I did. And now I am. But just to be clear HOW MUCH IT ALL BORES ME, know that I am eating an apple as I write. Like Costanza, that's how casually bored I am about dirty, black-hat SEO's and marketers. I think that's what they're called. Again, casually bored with the subject all together.
I just got an email from an SEO asking me, very nicely, to write about his client's product, and include certain searchable keywords in the copy. In return, I would be paid with product. Wanna know what it was? I'm not going to say the words. Not because I'm shy. Rather, because I don't want any more SEO's or marketers finding that word on my site and getting all excited that I'm willing to talk about it and offer me MORE product. Let's just say it's a ring, of sorts, that men might use to enhance their fifth appendage. Don't even get me started on the 'visuals' they included in the request.
Seriously? Seriously? I'm just curious, do I look like the type of person who might use such a product? Furthermore, do I look like the type of gal who would keep a man around who NEEDS such a product? I don't. I can assure you.
Sorry, couldn't resist.
And, yes, I'm a rookie. I've had a blog for three-ish months. What do I know? I write what I want and about what I like. And in my short stint, I have accumulated a fairly long list of other girlie bloggers who do the same thing. And some of them do it really well. And some of them get paid really well to do it. And some of them earn LOTS OF MONEY for the people and products about whom they CHOOSE to write. But here's the thing. The day they write about something for which they do not have genuine passion, people will stop reading. PERIOD. And parasitic marketers and SEO's (that give the good ones a bad name) will have no place to stalk.
I think this is the first post I've ever written about something I don't like. And remember, very casual, eating an apple, letting my nails dry and all that good stuff.
Here's a crazy thought. Maybe the Internet is like real life. Just maybe. And maybe people aren't stupid. Just maybe. So please take the time to know your audience, and market appropriately. Keep 'stupid' out of my inbox.
Well, I have decided that it is high time I see the real thing.
And it is here:
In Chicago. Too close to not go see.
So the plot begins for a road trip. Girls?
If you're game, I'll get a room here:
At The Drake.
Yep. I will.
And I will bring identical outfits for all of us, composed of these:
The J. Peterman dress, ironically called The Portrait Dress. Though he intended it for portrait sitting, I think he will not mind if we use it, collectively, for portrait viewing. Can't you just see all of us standing, arms crossed, clad in black, nodding in appreciation at the painting? I love it. A portrait of its own.
And, sorry to steal your copy for my own site, Mr. Peterman, but I JUST HAVE to post what you wrote about this dress. . .
"Indian summer in Newport, the two of them alone in the artist’s studio filled with north light.
There’s a somewhat solemn stillness about her as she sits in the wing-backed tapestry chair.
He touches her cheek to turn her head slightly, peers intently at her. He presses her shoulders back, his eyes just inches from hers.
Good, she’s smiling now, and ah, look at that.
He returns to the easel and reaches for a tube of alizaran crimson to capture the faint blush that is emerging."
Seriously, who could resist buying this dress now? I need a fan. And a cold glass of water.
Okay, back to the plan.
And we'll need these:
And, of course, these:
And a few of these—for a punch of color. After all, we must represent.
And like a very well dressed version of Madeline and her classmates, we will traipse our way through the art institute in zig-zag fashion, until we find Breton's painting, and my scythe-wielding counterpart.
And there will most likely, considering my luck lately, be a sign that announces it is on loan in Dayton, Ohio or some other depressing town. But we'll still have fun.
When I was 19 I spent an entire night sitting in an ancient cemetery, talking with a group of Scottish kids in Edinburgh. It was as surreal as it sounds. They were students at the university, but were from the highlands, mostly farm kids. Near dawn, the larks started to sing. I wouldn't have known they were larks if they hadn't told me. Since then, I always recognize their song.
Later that summer, after returning home, I went on a rummage hunt at an antique market in a small farm town in Michigan. I wandered around most of the afternoon and randomly came across this painting. It was sitting in the grass in an old, cracked, wooden frame, leaning against a card table that was riddled with antique farm tools.
I asked the elderly woman sitting at the table, "What's it called?"
"I don't know," she said. "It was my aunt's."
I bought it. I think I thought it was me in the picture. And I wanted to know what she was looking at so intently. Remember, I was 19—the age when you're desperate to set your face in the right direction.
I took it to school that fall and asked a friend in the fine arts department what he knew.
"It's a Breton. Just a print. He was a French Realist painter in the 19th century."
Last night, end of the workday, one of the designers comes up to me with 45 signs to edit. Mind you, we often take on 'pro bono' work for nonprofits. Also, mind you, this is the ONE designer who always busts my chops. This is a culmination of both.
Often, work that is 'pro bono' is less scrutinized by designers and editors. Well, not this time. Don't know why, either, cuz I really wanted to go home.
All 45 signs were sold for a benefit for the price of $450 to parents so they can cheer their children on in a sporting event. All 45 signs said "Good luck Spencer" or "Good luck Gina."
I walked, calmly, with the stack, back to the designer, threw them on his desk and said, "What are you promoting here, a bunch of pint-sized pimps and their harem?" Did I mention this designer always messes with me? Always.
He asks, "Whatdaya mean?"
I say, "I MEAN that you are calling all these kids 'Good luck Charlies' and 'Good luck Lucys.' Meaning, without a comma between their monicker and 'good luck,' it becomes part of their name rather than a message TO them.
The designer looks at the clock and says, "I'm not putting 45 commas in. Get over it."
I say, "Nope."
He says, "Seriously?"
I say, "Honestly, I'm not gonna lie to you. If this project was in any other designer's hands," and here I start giggling, "I would insert the commas. It's a MUST-FIX." I bend in full laughter at this point and grasp my stomach. "But the fact that YOU are the designer DOES make me enjoy it A LOT."
Have spent the last few days looking around my sinking ship, bailed some half-hearted thimbles full of water, and finally harpooned my front lawn with a 'For Sale' sign.
Today, I regrouped. I pulled out my cover letter and resume and looked them over. I am ashamed to say that at one point in the latter (No, that is not intended to read 'letter,' read a book now and again. Really.), I actually used the term 'viable growth.' And I wonder why my ship is sinking in the land of fatally non-creative marketeers. No, I'll not dignify them with that title. They are simply 'marketers' who live and die by PowerPoint and bullet points. I say, "Live by the bullet point—die by the bullet point."
I have rallied. I have stepped off said sinking ship and will build a new raft. And I will give this raft a sail. But this sail of a cover letter will be painted with my true hand and show my colors, rather than that of the generic hues of 'viable growth.' Am feeling very Jerry McGuire right now—minus the gold fish. No dead weight, please.
I am determined to search the high cyber seas for voices that match my own. Have found one such voice IN THE WEST. Check out the copy in this ad for Interactive Copywriter at Publicis In the West.
I know. Right?
Am drafting my newly-hued sail below. Will be boldly honest. Please offer your thoughts, and do the same.
Post script. If any of you apply for this job, I will never speak to you again—until after my nap.
Dearest Publicis In the West,
You have asked if I "Wanna get in," and yes, yes, a thousand times yes—I do. The copy in your job post outshines most of what we are allowed to write for paying clients. So, again, YES. I wanna.
You had me at "It's one part Lewis and Clark" and "surrounded by Starbucks and the rivers, oceans, lakes and mountains."
Have considered forwarding letters of reference to speak on my behalf along with the obligatory bouquet of edible fruit, but have decided to send my driving record in their stead. The speeds registered within will assure you of the unlikely-hood of me driving "55" whilst IN THE WEST.
If it would help, will send mug shots. Kidding. My lawyer has advised that I not.
And, finally, I have included links below to other posts on this site that will illustrate my qualifications.
You have asked for "a super star Interactive Copywriter who’s webified, wired, wireless and well-connected to incorporate copywriting genius in a variety of interactive mediums" as well as "somebody with a sense of humor."
