Proud Mama

Yesterday my three-year-old son walks past me pulling one of these:



Me: Where ya going?
Him: On an advent-yure
Me: Oh. Where to?
Him: I don't know. I told you—it's an ADVENT-YURE
Me: Good point. Whatcha takin'?

He pulls just three things from the wagon for perusal.

A weapon.



A friend.


And entertainment.



Nothing else. Not even a toothbrush. My kinda adventurer!

Wake-Up Call

I had a dream last night that I was a serious business woman. It was so vivid that I awoke inspired. I grabbed the pad and pen on my night table and jotted a list of things I must change in my workday regime:

1) When invited to sit in on serious strategy meetings, do not inquire about the likelihood of snacks being present.
2) When asked my opinion on marketing strategies for major corporations, do not use words like 'blog' or 'YouTube.'
3) And, finally, add articles to wardrobe that clearly say, 'serious business woman,' like shoes with tall, pointy heels that make lots of noise on linoleum floors and announce that I have 'arrived,' and shirts with buttons and collars that require at least a pedestrian familiarity with an iron.

When I left the house this morning, in buttons, freshly-pressed collar and one-inch heels, I was fully optimistic that I had been wise to keep my list short and reasonable. Baby steps.

Unfortunately, it seems, that even baby steps are challenging whilst trying to operate with ankles elevated to new heights, even ONE single inch higher. I believe my feet were suffering from altitude sickness, as there is no other way to explain why they could not perform the simple functions of 'clutch' and 'break' on the morning commute. The shoes lasted only five miles down the road before they were relegated to the passenger seat, where I could keep my eyes on their bewitching powers.

Though you can probably see where this is headed, I'll fill in gaps of the sequence of events that led to my inevitable fall from the 'serious business woman' wagon.

Arrived to work, list still in hand, ready to take on the day.

Checked rearview mirror for mussed hair or rogue breakfast remnants attached to my person.

Got halfway to the building before hot blacktop reminded me that I was still sans heels.

Got halfway BACK to car when president of company pulled into lot—spotting me—sans heels.

Have since restored the natural order to my workday routine and created new list.

1) Will refrain from allowing dreams to leave the bedroom.
2) Will maintain high expectations for snack-endowed meetings.
3) Will roam the office all day long sans heels to remind myself, and everyone else, just who the hell I think I am.

If You Give A Kid An iPhone . . .

You'll never get it back.

First, they'll look at it skeptically. After all, if big people dig it, how cool could it be?


Then they'll find out the secret that all big people have been trying to hide from little people (and their bosses)
the world over—that the term 'phone' is a bit misleading, because when you have an iPhone you'll never have to talk to anyone in the real world ever again.

And then their tiny, innocent little fingers will accidentally brush the dancing array of colorful squares . . . What was I saying? Oh, yeah, they'll find what is known in the big people world as compu-crack.



And then their skeptical look will gloss into the all-powerful iGlaze.



And then it's too late. You'll never see your phone again. Just look at the grin.



Please forward all texts, Twitters, blog comments and emails for Miss Ive to old-fashioned Pony Express, because though she has tried diligently to retrieve said iPhone from said kid on numerous occasions, she has had her hand slapped more times than a Twittaholic refreshes her Twitter (Read: A Lot).

Michigan Film: Take One

Everyone knows about the recent wave of movies that have come to Michigan. Overnight, Detroit has gone from pretty scary to scary pretty, graced with faces like these:







If you read articles like this one from The Ann Arbor News, you'll see how much growth the film tax incentives have brought. "Two months after the bills were signed, the Michigan Film Office had received 49 applications from production companies interested in filming within the state. During all of 2007, it got just three applications."

Now, most of you know that Miss Ive writes A LOT. And some of you know that she is working on her second GO at a screenplay.

What you probably do not know is how much she is not hip to the idea of ever (EVAHHHH) moving to LA. And what you CERTAINLY do not know (possibly because it is absolutely untrue) is that it was all her idea that the movies come to her.

One thing that nobody can argue, is that this news confirms Miss Ive's sneaking suspicion that she leads a charmed life. And her favorite thing about the film business—truth is pretty irrelevant. It's whatever she says it is.

Anyone wanna be in her first film? (VERY SMALL PRINT: must be willing to rollerblade nekkid downtown Detroit in a foot of snow.)

Don't Shoot Your Eye Out

Miss Ive is burnt out from dealing with this since Santa brought the Michigan Militia to her home. So she will keep this very brief.

Nerf guns rock.

Excellent stress reliever.

Just make sure the glasses are on, and all is fair.

iFart

Can't tell you how hard it was to bring myself to title this post with that . . . that . . . you know.

It's not that I don't love a good four-letter word. I'm no prude. But excrement talk is different, right? Unlike other obscenities that can be used to bring home your point, show passion and maybe a little 'Yeah, I said that, what are you gonna do about it?' grit—potty talk just makes you look like a filthy ten-year-old boy.

But here's the dirty truth. I've been wooed by the new addition to an increasingly long list of apps for iPhone.

First there was iBowl.



That was fun for a few minutes.

Then there was UrbanSpoon.



That was great just for shaking the phone and seeing the dials roll like you're in Vegas. But let's face it, it's not that practical.


And then (clouds parting, the angelic sound of Gregorian chants coming from the sky) they gave us iFart.

For the very fair price of 99 cents, you too can experience the sheer pleasure of spinning the wheel, selecting your favorite stinker (Brown Mosquito, Squeezer, Splatter, The Muffler, Butt Socket, Jack the Ripper or, my personal favorite, Bombardier), and then push the big red circle that simply reads "Fart Now"—exhibiting a spartan sensibility that even Ms. Stewart could appreciate. Am I right?

And lest you think this application is for the simple-minded, there are numerous sidebar options that allow you to build a complex algorithm of customized farting. For example, you can record a fart and email it to a friend. You can also select a fart and set the timer, so that the bomb may be dropped at any time, say, in a board meeting, without lifting a finger to give yourself away. Seriously. You could even place it under the boss's chair if you were feeling brazen.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, apparently I am a filthy ten-year-old boy. And I'm loving it.

SNL for GOV

Does anyone remember how I kept hoping Tina Fey was pulling off the hugest SNL skit ever and actually running for VP? I was serious. Though, understandably, since I share her dry wit (pause for patting own back), you may not have realized I was. But I was. She's brilliant and politically savvy and, let's face it, you have to have a sense of humor to take on this mess.

So then I read the headlines today and learned that Stuart Smalley (aka Al Franken) was just elected to the US Senate.



And why wouldn't he be? The state of Minnesota, home of the great Lake Wobegon, has legally declared that he IS good enough. He IS smart enough. And gosh darn it, people DO like him.

Though I know very little about politics, my extensive knowledge of late-night, juvenile comedy may someday qualify me for a senior cabinet post.

One can hope.

She's Baaaaaaaaack!

Raise your hand if you're a little bent out of shape about returning to work today after all the holiday revelry.

Though you can't see it, Miss Ive will have both hands raised all day long.

All coffee intake will be done intravenously.

Watch this clip and remember just how great it was to be a kid. Why—O—why did we want to grow up? Why?



And can anyone guess what Miss Ive got for Christmas? Please be patient while she gets all the boring home videos out of her system. Feel free to nudge her discreetly if she begins to post video seminars on how to fold fitted sheets. Especially considering she does not, in fact, know how to do so properly. Even though she watched that episode of Martha TWENTY CONSECUTIVE TIMES WITH SHEET IN HAND, FOLLOWING HER EVERY STEP. But that's another story for another day.