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.
